Dan Woog, a Soccer America contributor since 1975 and the executive editor of SAÆs Youth Soccer Letter, is also a longtime coach. A former player of his, Scott Coleman, was among the victims of the attack on the World Trade Center. In his Westport (Conn.) News column, ôWoogÆs World,ö Woog remembers Scott Coleman. BY DAN WOOG Five thousand people lost their lives last week. Five thousand human beings gone, all senselessly, brutally and tragically. Five thousand murdered men and women is too enormous a number to comprehend. So let me tell you about one of them. Fifteen years ago, Scott Coleman was a boy adults loved and loved to hate. He was a 1980sÆ version of Huck Finn: adventurous, fun-loving, anti-authority and sharp as a tack. He was clever, witty, and possessed of a remarkable ability to push every envelope further than it had ever been designed to bulge. Even more amazingly, Scott knew just when to stop pushing so the envelope never broke. For four years I was ScottÆs soccer coach. Our first team was the Warriors, a Westport Soccer Association-sponsored team back in the day when travel soccer was as far as you could go. We went pretty far, all the way to the Eastern U.S. regional tournament, plus a summer tour of Europe. I also coached Scott when he joined the Staples High School freshman team. Those four years spanned ages 12 to 16. Anyone who knows an adolescent, or has been one himself, realizes those are not the easiest years for even the most level-headed youngster. And ScottÆs closest friends — the dozens of them — would never describe him that way. Which may be one reason why, in between bouts of going crazy over his antics, I joined the long list of people who were charmed by Scott Coleman. Two stories describe best what IÆm trying to say. The scene for both was Europe. Scott and his teammates were 15 years old. We were in transit from Sweden. After traveling by bus for a while we stopped in Denmark for dinner, before catching a train for the long ride to Luxembourg. We left the restaurant for a quick walk to the station. Time was short. Suddenly someone said, ôDan, whereÆs Scott?ö I did a quick count; he was indeed missing. I was furious. He had broken so many rules: wandered off alone, did not tell us where he was going, put the entire group in jeopardy. As we broke into small groups to search for Scott, one boy asked, ôWhat are you gonna do?ö I wanted the players to know how furious I was. ôWeÆll leave without him!ö I lied. ôHe probably doesnÆt even know what country heÆs in!ö Ten minutes later, Scott rounded the corner. His face was ashen; he knew heÆd screwed up big-time. I was more relieved than anyone, but as the players hugged him and peppered him with questions (just as we were leaving heÆd gone to the bathroom, but told no one), I maintained my coachÆs face. ôScott,ö I said sharply. ôDo you know what country youÆre in?ö His eyes grew wide. He knew this was an important question, one heÆd better get right. He thought hard. I could almost see his brain synapses firing. He looked at me earnestly. ôCopenhagen?ö he asked. ôThatÆs good enough,ö I said. And then I smiled. No one could stay mad at Scott for long. Just a few hours later, we settled into our train compartments. Night had fallen, but for the boys a new adventure had just begun. My main worry was that they might be too loud for the other passengers, but as I passed ScottÆs compartment I had a new fear. The window was wide open, and ScottÆs head and upper body were way outside. He wanted an up-close-and-personal view of the German countryside. I raced in, and yanked his body back. I asked what he was doing, using language not fit for a community newspaper. Scott looked at me blankly. I drove my point home. ôLook!ö I yelled, pointing to the warnings against putting oneÆs head out the window. They were there in six languages. Unfortunately, not one of those languages was English. ôHow am I supposed to know what they say?ö Scott asked. He knew he was wrong; he knew I knew he was wrong; he also knew he was the only one on the team who could say that, and get away with it. I tried not to laugh. I did not succeed. I thought of those two stories last week when I heard the devastating news that Scott Coleman worked with his brother Keith at Cantor Fitzgerald, and that both their offices were on the 104th floor of the World Trade Center. They, and 700 of their colleagues, never had a chance. After leaving Staples for private school, Scott had gone on to Colgate University. He settled down a bit, turning his sharp mind away from mischief and toward the business world. Before Cantor Fitzgerald, he worked for HBO. His jobs were in sales; it was a natural position for someone so gifted with people. He grew up, but he retained his adventurous spirit. He grew up, but his spirit never got old. Now, because of the unfathomable acts of a few madmen, Scott will never get a chance to grow old. As news about Scott spread, his friends gathered in New York. I was there in spirit; my first obligation was to be here in Westport, with the current Staples soccer team where I am the assistant coach. But I thought about Scott often, including when someone asked if I agreed with the decision to play the opening game of the season as scheduled, just two days after the terrorists struck. There is no right or wrong answer to that question, yet my answer was firm. I said that a young man I had once coached had just been killed, and that his friends were honoring his memory by remembering all the great times they had shared. They were talking about games won and games lost, and everything they did together off the field as well (some of those tales, I am sure, would be news to me). ScottÆs friends, I said, were not recalling algebra classes or social studies tests; what bonded them so closely during those crucial adolescent years was the time they spent as young soccer players training, playing, running, laughing and, of course, plotting behind the coach’s back. So yes, I said, the high school soccer season should begin as scheduled. It was time for the 2001 Staples team to begin forming their own bonds, making their own memories, strengthening their own lives. In fact, there was not a moment to waste. The friendships teenagers develop on athletic fields can last a lifetime. How devastatingly sad that Scott ColemanÆs lifetime was so short. Yet how joyful I am that I shared a small part of his with him. Reprinted courtesy of Dan Woog