Before School, After School, and the Myth of Teacher Free Time

The Esports Room Chronicles — Final Entry

There’s a universal truth in teaching that no one bothers to mention in college: if students love your room, they will find you. They will materialize like well‑meaning poltergeists at any hour, under any circumstance, with absolutely zero regard for the concept of “teacher prep time.” And esports kids? They operate on a schedule that suggests they’ve collectively opted out of the laws of time, space, and occasionally physics.

Take the 7:15 A.M. Phenomenon, for example. Every morning, without fail, there was at least one student standing outside my door before I’d even unlocked it. I never figured out how they got there so early. I never figured out why they got there so early. But there they were — sometimes just waiting, sometimes mid‑conversation with someone who wasn’t there yet, and sometimes eating breakfast with the energy of a raccoon who had discovered a treasure chest behind a dumpster. And the moment I opened the door, they slid inside like NPCs programmed with a single objective: Occupy Coach’s Room. Meanwhile, I was still taking off my coat, still trying to remember whether I’d brought my coffee, still attempting to boot up my brain for the day — and they were already booting up a Chromebook to show me a clip from last night’s match.

After school wasn’t any calmer. When the final bell rings, most teachers get a brief moment of peace — a sigh, a reset, a chance to breathe. Not me. My room transformed into The Linger Zone, a mysterious dimension where students with no practice, no homework, and no discernible reason to be present… stayed anyway. They sat. They chatted. They spun in chairs like caffeinated office workers. They asked if they could “just play one round,” which we all know is code for “I will be here until the building closes.” They waited for rides that wouldn’t arrive for another 45 minutes, sometimes longer if the parent in question had lost track of time, the day, or the entire concept of transportation. And there I was, trying to pack up, answer emails, prep for tomorrow, and occasionally remember that I, too, was a human being who needed to go home. In reality it turned out one kid was hiding in the gym even after school with nowhere to go. We found him the day my team visited another school. We came back on the bus and as we were putting all the supplies away, he slipped out of the gym to see who was in the building. I left that one for the athletic director to deal with after making sure she was aware. Once in a while I did love to go home.

People outside education love to imagine that teachers have all this magical “free time” built into the day. Before school? Students. After school? Students. Lunch? Students. Planning period? Students who “didn’t know where else to go.” It’s not free time — it’s borrowed time, stretched like taffy to fit grading, planning, IEP writing, parent communication, and the emotional labor of being the adult who holds everything together. And esports coaching adds its own bonus round: match scheduling, roster decisions, equipment troubleshooting, practice planning, parent questions, and the occasional student meltdown over patch notes that “ruined everything forever.” My room even became filled with students during my planning period. Students that needed a place to go….

But here’s the part I reminded myself on the days when I was tired, hungry, and one question away from turning into a cryptid: they weren’t there to annoy me. They were there because they felt safe. For some kids, the esports room was the only place where they didn’t feel judged. Where they could talk about their interests without being dismissed. Where they could exist quietly without being questioned. Where they could be themselves — fully, loudly, awkwardly, wonderfully. If they showed up before school, after school, and every moment in between, it was because they trusted me. And that’s not a burden. It’s a privilege. A heavy one, yes — but a privilege nonetheless.

And now comes the part that’s harder to write than any IEP, any email, any “please stop spinning in that chair before you launch yourself into orbit” speech. The school year is over, and I’m not coming back next year. The school had to cut funding and the room will go dark, the posters will come down, and the chairs will finally — mercifully — stop spinning. But the kids, my kids, will still need somewhere to land. Somewhere to feel safe. Somewhere to belong. I hope they find it. I hope they find someone who sees them the way I did. I hope they find a room where they can be loud or quiet or chaotic or brilliant or all of the above. A room where they don’t have to apologize for taking up space. I hope they find a new “Coach’s Room.” Not mine — but theirs. (I’m hoping my middle son steps forward. He originally started the esports team and fingers crossed he will take it back)

I’m still learning that I can care deeply and still need boundaries. I’m still learning that “I love you all, but you have to leave now” is a valid sentence. I’m still learning that protecting my time doesn’t make me less supportive — it makes me sustainable. And I’m learning that even when a chapter ends — even when I’m exhausted, even when I’m craving silence, even when I’m mentally drafting a sign that says “Coach is OFFLINE” — I still show up. Because they showed up for me, too, in their own teenage, chaotic, endearing way.

And that’s the part I’ll carry with me.

A Letter to My Esports Kids

Hey team,

If you’re reading this, it means the year is over, the room is packed up, and you’ve probably already stolen at least one of my 3D fidget prints. I know you. I’ve seen your pockets.

I want you to know something important: you made this room what it was. Not the posters, not the Chromebooks, not the Promethean board that only worked when it felt like it — you.

You were the reason the room filled up at 7:15 a.m. You were the reason the chairs spun like a NASA training simulator. You were the reason I stayed late, laughed hard, and occasionally questioned my life choices in the most affectionate way possible.

You showed up — even when you were tired, even when you were stressed, even when you had a track meet, an archery practice, a dentist appointment, a haircut, a sibling’s birthday party, and somehow still tried to squeeze in “just one round.” You showed up for each other, too. You built a team out of mismatched schedules, mismatched personalities, and mismatched skill levels — and you made it work.

I won’t be here next year. That part is real. But here’s what’s also real:

You are still a team. You are still capable. You are still welcome somewhere — even if it’s not in my room anymore.

Find a new space. Find a new coach. Find a new corner of the school where you can be loud or quiet or brilliant or weird or all of the above.

And when you find that place, fill it the way you filled mine: with laughter, with chaos, with kindness, with snacks you definitely weren’t supposed to have, and with the kind of friendship that makes school feel a little less like school.

I’m proud of you. I’m grateful for you. And I hope you keep playing — not just the games, but the bigger game of figuring out who you are and who you want to be.

Take care of each other. Take care of yourselves. And for the love of all things holy, stop spinning in the chairs.

— Coach

Note: I will still writing occasionally about esports. I am also still waiting to hear if the school works out the funding issues. I feel bad for my students and I’m fairly certain they think I just resigned. It’s hard for junior high to understand that funding was an issue…. especially while they are paying tuition to attend. I also when the room would get overly loud would mention to them that I wasn’t paid as much as I spent on the classroom myself and that I had questioned my life’s decisions more than once. We also had multiple discussions about the difference between anger and frustration. I was never angry with them, frustrated though was a yes, frequently type thing. I also remember once in a while after a student would say ‘I’m telling’ I would tell them to please go ahead after times like when I said a bad word when the table leg bandit had struck in my room and a table collapsed (I said please go ahead but get the word right).