The University of Akron’s Tom Arth has, it seems, bet on himself. Brave man. Got to like his moxie. But, could he be throwing good money after bad?

Apparently being considered for a coaching position on the new staff of friend and former John Carroll University colleague Brandon Staley, whom the Los Angeles Chargers have hired, Arth acknowledged across the top of the Akron Beacon Journal sports section that his heart still belongs to the Zips and he is staying put. I could never seem to do that, despite a lifetime of regret over a move during my formative years that I still believe sixty years later altered my life irreparably.

One day, Arth may prove himself as good a coach in the Football Bowl Subdivision as he was at John Carroll (even if UA is in a Group of Five, for lower-level FBS leagues). He produced a 40-8 record at Division III John Carroll and his Blue Streaks were a regular participant in the playoffs, where his teams showed steady growth, from first round to quarterfinals to semifinals. Yet, when George Thomas, who writes about the Akron athletics, provided some reasons behind the decision, he did not—probably couldn’t—provide details of the job that Arth was considering—quarterbacks coach?—or mention that, given his circumstances, Akron should be reassured that its losing coach is nonetheless admired in his profession.

There are multiple moving parts to this supposition. None of them, however, is the reason I choose to write about Arth’s situation. I do so, because it resembles the one that changed my life. (This is, after all, a blog of personal essays.) There is one big difference why Arth’s decision interests me, more than a desire to see the Zips succeed. I was 15. Arth is 39. He is a full-grown football coach, with an impressive resume, if not a good record beyond Division III. (He backed up quarterback Peyton Manning for a couple of seasons in Indianapolis.) Me, I was just a kid in Nowata, a small town in Oklahoma, struggling through my teenage years and trying to find my place as a football player. (For a fuller version of this, please consider my recently published sixth book, Football, Fast Friends, and Small Towns: A Memoir Straight from a Broken Oklahoma Heart. It’s available on Amazon.com, through bookstores, and at https://stevelovewriter.com).

At 15, I considered myself mature for my age, though again and again, I proved that the opposite was true. Others fueled this shaky belief in my decision-making ability. (At 75, I no longer make such silly claims.) Some seemed to think I was the smartest person in the room—if the room was the size of a closet and no one else was present. When I had to voice an opinion about a family move, I should have been in lockdown due to a rampaging hormones and a shortage of brain cells. It didn’t help that I had no girlfriend. When my parents brought up the idea of a move to California from Oklahoma, the only home I had ever known, the possibilities washed over me and drowned my sensibility.

As best I can remember I was not all in. I was smart enough to realize that no matter what I said, this was not my decision. Daddy, a veterinarian who had left his private practice for the opportunity presented by—and security of—a position with the U.S. Department of Agriculture, had dangling before him an attractive track to advancement. I did not realize how much a loss I would feel leaving lifelong friends whom I literally loved. Then, I met a new girl in our school (see book for sad details). I ended up broken. The thought of leaving Nowata—bad enough—had been compounded and complicated.

Needless to say, I did not and still have not handled my situation as well as Arth seems to have dealt with his. As I did my five-mile walk today around The Chapel in Green, where others pray, I talk to myself and my dead friends from Nowata. During my cogitation it became clear that my burning hamstring was not all that was torturing me. Arth professed his love for the University of Akron and a desire to complete the job he started two years ago (now 1-17, after 0-12 and a pandemic 1-5 season). “I want to do it for all the people who say it can’t be done,” he told Thomas. That would include me.

I was by Gerry Faust’s side, following from the inside his football program, in 1986 when he took over the Zips with a mandate to lift them from Division I-A to Division I. For much of the next 10 years as he struggled with a jump that was unique and might restore his reputation after failing to make his own great personal leap—from championship high school coach at Cincinnati Moeller to the University of Notre Dame. (You can read details of how that worked out in my first book, The Golden Dream.)

Faust was the Pied Piper of recruiting. He could sell not only players—often overlooked—but also their families, especially the mamas, on Akron. He had zip to work with compared with the mystique of the Fighting Irish and their legendary success. His team’s name fit the situation and interest level: They were the Zips. They still are, mostly. Faust won over players like future Pro Football Hall of Famer Jason Taylor with honesty and sincerity.  But despite an occasional interlude of success after which the winning UA coach would move on to a better job, no one has been able to build a program the equal of its built-up facilities. Not Faust. Not his former assistant Terry Bowden, who won an NCAA championship at Auburn. John Heisman, who coached Buchtel College long before it became the University of Akron, could rise from the dead and return to the sideline and he probably would lose, too. That’s what Arth faces.

As he attempts to build a program as upright and good as he appears to be, as I know Faust was, because his “heart is with making the biggest impact on the lives of the people around me,” Arth has his wife, children, his parents and hers by his side. He grew up in Northeast Ohio. It is home, and that is a reason to stay put in your place.

I returned not once but twice to Oklahoma to live and work. Each time, however, I found a reason, as I explain in my memoir, to climb back on my “high horse of ambition” and leave. In the end, my ambition exceeded my ability. I admire Arth’s faith in himself and his decision to stay at the University of Akron, even at a time when at least some of the faculty would prefer no costly football program exist to compete for limited funds.

I’ve begun reading a book by Scott Russell Sanders appropriately titled Staying Put: Making a Home in a Restless World. Maybe it’s a life map. Hope Tom Arth read his right. I sure didn’t.