Killer Kane Audio Memoir; Chapter 1: The Library

Chapter One: The Library

Nearly forty years after his final football season, Sam Fischer stands alone at the grave of legendary Mount Michael coach Jim “Killer” Kane. He has come prepared to confront the man who promised to find him a place to play—and never did.

But the confrontation does not unfold as expected.

Instead of leaving with an accusation, Sam finds himself examining the moment he stopped fighting for his own opportunity. In the opening chapter of Killer Kane, he introduces a coach who demanded toughness, discipline and loyalty while revealing almost nothing about himself—or what he truly thought of the young men who played for him.

When someone dies, it is said that a library burns. With Kane, the library had always been locked.

This is the beginning of a deeply personal search for answers about ambition, resentment, responsibility and why the judgment of one high school football coach can still matter nearly four decades later.

Transcript

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Welcome to Cowboys Not Eggheads. This is Killer Kane, a special 12 part audio memoir about my 1985 senior football season at Mount Michael and the coach whose influence stayed with me for the next 40 years. Thanks for listening. Chapter one The Library On Sunday, may 29, 2022, at 6.01 in the evening, I stood alone at Jim Kane's grave. It was the day before Memorial Day. The grounds at Mount Michael Benedict and Abbey were impeccably maintained as they always seemed to be. The monastery cemetery sat quietly on the school property, surrounded by the kind of order and care that defined the place. Flowers had been placed around several of the graves. Two simple floral arrangements rested near Cain's marker, and a small pinwheel had been placed nearby. I had thought about visiting him for a long time. I did not go there to pay my respects. I went there attending to curse him out. Nearly forty four decades had passed since I'd played football for coach Jim Killer Kane. He had been dead for almost twenty years. I had been built a career, built a business, spent years in politics and law enforcement, and pushed myself through more than a decade of CrossFit. Yet I still had questions for my high school football coach. Why did you only play your top eleven players? Why did you tell me that if I kept working, you would find me a place to play and then to fail to find one? Where did you rank me on that senior roster? And why, after all these years, did I still care about what you thought? Cain had coached Mount Michael for forty-two years. He won championships, he filled trophy cases. His teams were disciplined, prepared, physical, and difficult to beat. He commanded and demanded respect. He was also an alcoholic. He was inaccessible. He revealed almost nothing about himself. We knew him as a coach, an authority figure, and in many ways a force of nature. We did not know the man behind any of it. He did not explain his decisions to us. He did not invite discussion. Players did not walk into his office and ask why they were not playing. We did not lobby for roles or volunteer suggestions about where we might help the team. Cain decided. We accepted. That was the system. I had played under him for three years. Played is a generous word for my senior year. I participated. I practiced. I dressed. I worked. I appeared briefly in two varsity games. In the final game of my career against Elkhorn, I made a tackle for a five-yard loss and heard the announcer describe it as a fine play by Sam Fisher. But I never received what I considered a meaningful role. I believed then and still believe now that I could have helped that team. The most obvious opportunity would have been special teams, kickoff coverage, kickoff return, extra point protection, and perhaps punt return. Those jobs would not have required Kane to remove one of his established starters from the offense or defense. But reserves rarely practiced with varsity special teams units. Even the starters might work on special teams only once a week. There was no clear development path for a reserve to prove he belonged there. Kane's approach was simple. He trusted his best players and he used them. If I had to guess where I rank myself on the senior roster, I would say approximately 15th. That is only my estimate. I cannot prove it, and I'm not interested in comparing myself player by player with my teammates. But I do not believe I was near the bottom of the roster. I believe I was close enough to the core group to have been useful. The truth, however, was not entirely on Kane. During the first half of our season over against Bennington, I waited for him to put me into the game. Earlier that summer, after watching me execute a block in practice, he had told me that if I kept that up, they would find me a place to play. I did not hear that as a guarantee. I heard it as an open door. Kane didn't make idle promises. At halftime against Bennington, I realized the door had closed. Kane had not played me, and he was not beginning to work reserves into the game. That was when I emotionally gave up. My withdrawal did not cause Kane's original decision not to play me. His decision came first. But my response may have cost him whatever opportunities might have come later. I continued to attend practiced, I continued to complete the drills, I continued to do what was required, but internally I had quit. And that was the part I carried with me. I arrived at Cain's grave prepared to hold him responsible for what he had failed to give me. Instead, standing in front of his marker, I found myself thinking about what I had failed to do. I said nothing out loud. There was no confrontation, no speech, no dramatic release. The thought remained inside me. I came here today to curse you out, but I'm standing here realizing that I failed to do what you taught me. You taught us to work hard and never give up. I gave up, and I am sorry. That realization did not erase Kane's responsibility. I still believe he made a mistake by failing to find a way to use me. I still believe a good coach would develop more than eleven players. I still wanted to know where I stood in his mind. But another truth stood beside it. He had failed to use me. He had failed to keep fighting. I had failed to keep fighting. Both could be true. I did not leave the cemetery transformed. I did not experience some overwhelming sense of peace or forgiveness. I felt satisfaction that I finally made the visit, but I left with more questions than answers. The central question was no longer simply why Cain had not played me, it was why a man who had been dead for nearly two decades still possessed enough authority to change my entire purpose of my visit. I had arrived to accuse him. I left examining myself. Even when the man was alive, I did not have access to the library. I knew what he demanded, I knew what he valued, I knew the sound of his voice, the force of his demonstrations and the standards he imposed. I knew he despised weakness, wasted effort, and quitting. I knew that players across several decades credited him with shaping their lives. I did not know what he thought about me. That was the question underneath every other question. Not whether he liked me, not whether he remembered every play or every practice, not whether he would apologize for failing to use me. I wanted to know where I was ranked. Years later, during a podcast conversation with my former teammate Tom Lewis, we both recognized that something neither of us had said plainly before. We were still seeking affirmation from that guy. That realization might sound foolish. We were grown men discussing a coach from our teenage years. We had lived full lives outside of Mount Michael. We had succeeded and failed, married, worked, raised families, built businesses, faced hardships far greater than a high school football season. But Cain's judgment still mattered. That was his power. When I think about Cain now, two feelings rise first. Respect and curiosity. I respect what he had demanded from us, toughness, discipline, the willingness to endure discomfort and keep going when quitting would be easier. That influence is most visible in my life through CrossFit. I have trained in CrossFit for 11 years. As I've grown older, I have not simply continued showing up and repeating the same routine. I have changed my training dramatically, accepted new weaknesses, learned new movements, and continued placing myself in situations where I have to suffer. I do not hear Kane's voice during a workout. I do not imagine him standing in the gym or quarter ordering me to finish. The connection is something I recognize when I step back and examine the man I became. Kane valued toughness. He valued the willingness to suffer. Above all, he valued refusing to quit. Those are the parts of my CrossFit life I believe he would respect. I am curious because Kane himself remained largely unknowable. I do not know what he thought of the career I built. I do not know whether he believed I could have helped his team. I do not know whether he respected me. I believe he probably did. I returned every year. I worked, I followed instructions, I did not challenge him. I did not quit the team. I completed three full seasons under one of the most demanding coaches I would ever know. But belief is not knowledge. Kane took the answers with him. I have not returned to his grave since that evening in May 2022. I feel no need to go back. The visit accomplished what it was going to accomplish. Maybe I will return if this story becomes a successful book or movie. If it makes money to compensate me for all the time I've spent trying to understand him, maybe I'll stand over his grave one more time. Then I might say something out loud. Hey, I profited off you, buddy boy. Thanks for listening. Follow Cowboys Not Eggheads on Instagram and visit cowboysnot eggheads.com to join the conversation. If you played for Coach Kane, I'm sure you have your own stories, and you may think I've gotten some of this wrong. Weigh in, I'm all ears.