Tales From a Dad With a Whistle

So, the Italians derived a term, the title “prima donna,” in the late 17th century. It was a term used to refer to the premier, most talented opera singer in an opera company. Typically, this was a female soprano, the best of the best. From this title, two centuries later, the term “diva” was born. Diva is an Italian term for a female deity, or a “goddess”, and the implication was that these prima donnas were so talented and so popular that they were goddesses compared to other singers in the opera company. It was a supreme compliment.

Nowadays, if you hear of someone being a diva, it is rarely a good thing. In modern circles, “diva” is used to describe someone who THINKS they are better than everyone else and, as a result, they ACT like they are better than everyone else. It is an easy way to get slapped down by life, being so prideful and full of yourself that you act like you’re better than everyone else. In sports circles, it is the athletes that think they walk on water, those that can do no wrong and receive no blame. Oftentimes, these are the athletes that genuinely are the best players on the team, and the only problem is that they know this, and they want to be treated as such.

I’ve always enjoyed coaching athletes at smaller schools because you mean more to those kids. I’m not just the wide receivers’ coach; I’m O-line coach, running game coordinator, strength coach, physical therapist, actual therapist, surrogate Dad, surrogate judgemental uncle who talks trash all the time. My favorite, most memorable stops have been at small schools where I wear a number of hats to accomplish the same goals. When I was in high school, my senior superlative was “Best Future Dad,” and I guess that translates to coaching in smaller schools where I’m less “Coach” and more “Dad with a whistle.”

The main problem with coaching at these schools is the divas, because they know how much we as coaches need them. At a bigger school, the divas aren’t singular, but plural; there might be five or six superstars on a large high school’s roster. More importantly, that superstar knows that if he doesn’t play like a star, there’s two or three young guys behind them ready to take their fame and their playing time away. These divas have to compete constantly, because there's always a rotating cycle, a “next man up” mentality. For smaller schools, one player can make or break a roster. They know that if they decide to show out one day, or if they draw a hard line in the sand one day, we as coaches don’t have a choice. Not playing them will lose you games. Losing games will lose you jobs.

So where do you draw a line in the sand?

With your own kids, you may have to deal with some diva mentailities. My twins, Logan and Lucas, could not be more different. Luke is obstinate, defiant, petty, mean… but he’s also sweet, empathetic, considerate, even cuddly. He’s the smaller of the two boys, and I always joke that when they get older, Luke will start fights and then tag his bigger brother in to finish them. You see behind the oceans in his eyes this intelligence, this depth, like the gears are always turning in some respect.

But Logan? Logan is a diva.

Logan doesn’t stir the pot like Luke does. He doesn’t start fights. He isn’t aggressive. He isn’t likely to run up and punch you in the groin like Luke might. But Logan is a diva, nevertheless. Anna says he’s “sensitive”, but I like my descriptor better. He is easily offended, will pout about anything, gets frustrated when people don’t pay attention to him, and he has a long memory and will hold a grudge. A few weeks ago, Logan went to the bathroom and forgot to lock the door. In that time, Luke barged in several times. He screamed for Luke to leave him alone. Finally, he didn’t have any toilet paper, so he screamed for his brother to come, which (clearly) Lukie ignored. After finally getting his paper, and his privacy, and finishing his constitutions, Logan stomped into the hallway to face me and Anna who were sitting on the couch watching television. He balled up his little six-year-old fists and yelled “I’m having a really bad day in the bathroom!” After a long pause, and with no context leading up to this exclamation, Anna and I started laughing uncontrollably. Logan got really mad and stomped off into the bedroom. He poked his bottom lip out and stared daggers through us for the rest of the day.

We knew this was coming. My favorite Logan story, one that I will wait patiently for the day to come where I can regale his prom date with it, came when Logan was three. We lived in a house on a hill, and the boys liked to push their big wheels up the forty-five degree driveway and race them down. One fine day, Luke attempted to do this without shoes on. At the bottom of that driveway, he realized that braking was going to be a problem without shoes. The crash didn’t hurt him much, but he did scrape up his toes and feet trying to come to a stop.

Anna and I ran to his rescue, and in that singular moment, we doted upon him. All of our love. All of our attention. Mommy rocked him, Daddy wiped away his tears. Mommy sang softly to him. Daddy wiped the blood off his feet, padded them dry, wrapped them with gauze and colorful bandages. My boy Lucas needed love, and we rained it down upon him. And Logan watched.

Oh, boy, did he watch.

He stood at the entrance to the kitchen, seeing his brother get all the attention and love and adoration, and he waddled his little self into the carpeted living room that we transformed into their play room. And all of a sudden, as we nuzzled Luke and got him calmed down, we heard a noise. I looked at Anna, and she at me. It sounded like a cry of some sort, but it was strange. Something wasn’t quite right about it. It sounded… fake. I stood and walked into the playroom, and there was Logan, toddling around in circles, limping forcefully as he went, screaming “My toes! My toes!” and pretending to wail out in pain. You see, my little guy learned something in that moment: if you were hurt, you got all the love and attention. And he learned that he didn’t like seeing his brother getting all the attention. So now he was gonna be hurt too. And, just like with his bad day in the bathroom, I laughed at him. He plopped his butt down on the padded carpet and stared at me, dejected.

And yes, I picked the boy up and loved on him so he didn’t feel like he was getting left out.

Unfortunately, people don’t really think about the fine line that these moments represent, though. I want my sons to feel loved and supported, no doubt. So when Lucas hurt himself, we were there to kiss his boo-boos and let him know that everything was going to be alright. And when little three-year-old Logan thought that faking an injury was the best way to get the attention that he craved, I gave in and gave him the attention. This is all fine and dandy for three-year-olds. But you also want to curb-stomp any idea in their minds that suggests that acting bad is a viable way to get what you want. So you have to balance things, to help them know that you’re there for support but you’re not going to hold them up forever.

As a coach, as a teacher, as a father, and as a man, I don’t want to present a world to my charges that isn’t indicative of the real world they’ll face when I’m not around any more. For the vast majority of the players I coach, they won’t go on to play college sports. Their athletic careers end at the finish of their senior season. For my students, you’ve got four years to make the most of me, and then the real world beckons. For my sons, they’re kids now, but one day far sooner than I want, they’ll be men. And in all of those scenarios, if I treat them in a way that the world will not reciprocate, then what good am I doing them? Many of my diva athletes will end up being the most athletic men to ever work that second-shift factory line. How many touchdowns they scored when they were seventeen won’t mean a dang thing then.

The world is not a happy place. It is filled with dangers, obstacles, and people who want to tear you down to build themselves back up. If you’re prepared for it, then you can make the most of the adult world. But I starkly remember turning eighteen years old, waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat asking, “How do I do my taxes?” I feel how ridiculous that is now, but then? I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready for a great deal of things in my adult life. To be perfectly frank, one of the greatest things that appealed to me about Anna was that she seemed like she was ready to be an adult, and at my age now, I’m still not certain. She assures me that she was just as unprepared, that she was simply good at figuring things out as she went.

My big takeaway: there is a canyon of difference between the expectation of being a young person versus the expectations that come with being an adult. There is a clear delineation between the two. The time between the two, time meant for mistakes and experimentation: it is not forgiving. So my job as a mentor, teacher, coach… my job as a father… is to protect and nurture where I can, and where I can’t, I have to teach. And that teaching can be mean sometimes; it doesn’t afford me the opportunity to put up with you being a diva. I will burst your bubble with a smile in my heart.

My first opportunity to be a head coach came suddenly. I was interim head coach for a school that played for a state title the year before, and the incoming senior quarterback was a stud, undoubtedly all-region, maybe the best in the division. He asked for jersey number one, and I gave it to him. I gave him the keys to the kingdom, because at the time, he earned that trust. After a few articles in the newspaper, his pictures on the walls at the school, signing autographs for the elementary school kids, he started feeling himself a little bit. He was the star, and he knew it. First game of the season, we’re getting smacked around by a much bigger school that we had no reason to be playing, and he goes down in the third. Turf toe. He goes to the doctor, doctor tells him he’s out for two weeks. I get his back-up ready, and I tell him that he still needs to be at practice because he needs to do his rehab, get his ice, and he needs to help coach up his back-up. He rolls his eyes and “alright’s” me, and I think nothing more on it.

Monday comes, and he’s not at practice. I confront him about it, and he says he got his ice, did his rehab, and went home. I reminded him that he was a senior captain, that we had a sophomore quarterback who has never taken a varsity snap before, and that he needed to be at practice to help get his team ready. Tuesday comes, and he’s not there. One of his buddies told me that he was doing his rehab and going to see his girlfriend play at the home volleyball match. I told my assistants to keep practice going, and I stomped up into the gym. Sure enough, crowded gym and a match in full swing, and at the bottom of the bleachers, my quarterback with his crutches propped up on the stands.

“There is no way I could have made myself clearer. You need to be at practice with us.”

“Man, I’m injured. There ain’t no reason I need to be out there if I’m injured.”

“Well, you ain’t dead, so you can be as much help as you want to be. You’re the senior captain for this team. Your teammates need to see you out there getting them ready, and they need to see you working to get yourself better like you really care. Right now, it looks like you quit on them. Like you don’t care.”

“I don’t care. I care about getting this foot better.”

“You can do that. In an ice bath. On the field. While you’re coaching your boy up.”

“I’m not coming out there. I’m watching my girl play volleyball, and I’m going home to rest my foot.”

“You can do that if you want, but if you’re not on that field in the next twenty minutes, I’ll clean out your locker myself tonight.”

I turned and walked to the practice field. Now, I’m not going to pretend like this was my big moment, nor am I going to pretend that I wasn’t freaking out internally that my star quarterback might call my bluff and I’d have to live up to my big boy threats. Twenty minutes came and went, then thirty. Practice ended, and QB1 never showed. By the time that night came, text messages and social media had spread the word that I had given him an ultimatum and that he didn’t show. The next morning came, and I could feel everyone looking at me to see how I would react. When practice time came, QB1 walked to the locker room, and outside the door was a cardboard box with all the contents of his locker in it. His pads were taken up, his locker was empty, and his back-up was already informed that the team was his now. Practice that day went off without a hitch.

The next day, I got called into the athletic director’s office. Then the principal’s office. Then down to the district office. To the superintendent’s office. All of them had the same question: why? I wasn’t the full-time head coach; I was the interim head coach, meaning I was coaching, more or less, for my job. Why would I sabotage myself by kicking the star quarterback off my team? My answer was simple and consistent: I can’t let the player run the program. One player, no matter how good, cannot dictate how a team is run. He had a choice and he made it. It didn’t matter that he was the star, nor did it matter that he was a Senior. What my team needed to see was me fairly enforcing my rules. Kicking the star off the team for such a direct showing of insubordination was the coaching equivalent of knocking out the bully on the playground: the bully was gone and the rest of the schoolyard knew how things would work from now on.

Eventually, the superintendent stepped in and demanded, for the sake of the athlete’s senior year, that he be reinstated. I relented (this is my big boss, mind you) but I held firm that he could return, but not at quarterback. My defensive coordinator requested his help at linebacker, and there he went. He finished the season as our leading tackler and an all-region selection, and he was our third leading rusher when he started taking snaps as a wingback.

I don’t know if he learned anything that season, as he never threw a ball for me again. And undoubtedly, I didn’t learn anything of value, because with all the waves I made with that move, the superintendent never removed the interim tag, and at the end of the season, they went a “different direction.” But I held true to my convictions. We finished the season strong, placed second in the region, went two rounds deep in the playoffs that year, and every athlete on that team followed my lead, knowing that I was a man of my word. I can hang my hat on that.

I cannot say, with absolute assurance, that I handled everything as best I could have with that situation. I could have not given him that ultimatum. I could have suspended him instead of kicking him off the team. I could have let him earn his way back to quarterback. I could have done things differently, and to this day, I’m not 100% sold on how I handled that. But I do know this: the athletes followed my lead to what was ultimately a successful year. The coaches on my staff supported me completely, and they were more successful in what they did because they knew I had the fortitude to back them on everything they were doing. And as for QB1? I know that I was the first person to show him a glimpse of the real world.

The truth in coaching is that we are a microcosm of what the real world will present to you outside of the school setting. Teaching is similar, but with all the restrictions in education, that is becoming less and less true. But it’s still true in athletics: we will show you truths about this world that adolescence hides from you. If you’re confident and hard-working, you will be successful. If you stand out and show leadership skills, people will take notice. If you sacrifice hard enough, there will be dividends. If people see you sacrifice hard enough, they will follow your lead. These things, and so much more, are lessons that athletics will teach you. And in this specific situation, my students learn that while school may shelter you and protect you from yourself, the world does not and will not care. If you try to make it all about yourself, the world will humble you.

Sometimes, the lessons that hurt the most are the ones you most need to hear.

In my experience, the wrestlers that I’ve coached have left marks on me, especially when it comes to the growth that these student-athletes show. Deon, one of my linemen and three-year captain of my Varsity Wrestling team, came from one of the most challenging backgrounds I’ve ever witnessed personally. Yet he persevered, made good grades, and fought his way into a role in the military, because he knew that was his way out (and his way to best help his family). That man, at age 16, was more mature than I was when I coached him right outside of college. Matthew, one of the funniest clowns I’ve ever had the joy to coach, took nothing seriously. That is: until he graduated and became a police officer. Now he’s married to a beautiful woman and starting what will certainly be a beautiful family.

The greatest lesson in humility I have learned from my athletes was from Ediberto. He was also a three-year captain for me, and he had every reason to be that diva archetype that I feared. He did an incredible job, was a state qualifier, and led our team so admirably that we nicknamed him “El Capitan”, something that I am now realizing was a little racially insensitive. At the end of his high school journey, he received a full scholarship offer for Cross Country running, the sport that was near and dear to his heart. The following wrestling season, he returned to see his favorite team compete, and I asked him how college was treating him.

“Naw, Coach,” he responded, “I had to drop out. Things got busy.”

I was dumbfounded. “But you had a full ride. How could you let that go?”

“I had to. I had things to do.”

“There’s no way, Eddi. What could possibly have come up that you had to throw your future away?”

Eddi could tell I was devastated, but he handled it like he handled everything else in his life, “Had to. Dad got sick, couldn’t work. I got brothers and sisters at home. Someone has to work, so I’m taking some time off to help them out.”

“But this is your future, man. You have to look out for yourself. College has to be a priority. You can help them out more later on after you get your education”

“No offense, Coach,” he said, looking a little more than angry at my judgment, “but that’s a really white thing to say.”

I was offended, to say the least, “What does that mean?”

“White people have a different way of looking at things than my people do. In your culture, you have to worry about yourself, make yourself stronger and better so you can make your family stronger later. And that’s all fine and good. But my people put family first. My daddy breaks his back to provide for our family. Now he can’t. So now I have to. I’ll worry about me when they’re taken care of.”

I’m a bit ashamed to say that I stood there staring at him for a minute, trying to wrap my head around what he just told me. And I thought back on how many times I had to fight to get mine, so to speak, without thinking of anyone in return. How I left my mother behind when I went to college because it was my time now, not hers. And I was fine with my decision then and my mother didn’t begrudge my choice. But with Eddi, putting his family first had to have been the hardest decision he’d ever have to make, and he did it without hesitation.

At that moment, he was more of a man than I’ve ever been.

I told him he was right. I told him I was sorry. I told him how proud of him I was, and how proud his family must be of him. Eleven years later, I keep in touch with him on social media. He’s married to a beautiful, athletic woman. They have a gorgeous baby girl together. He runs marathons, something that is still his passion. And he coaches, having coached a high school Cross Country team for the past five years. I hope he teaches them in the same way he taught me.

That’s my job as a teacher, as a coach, and as a father: learn everything I can about this world, take those lessons, and teach it to those who seek my guidance. As much as I love my students and my athletes, no student will mean more to me than Lucas and Logan. And I can love them and protect them and shelter them from this terrible world, but ultimately, they will have to live in it. I want to teach them confidence. I want them to feel, to know, that Daddy thinks they’re the greatest things to ever walk on two legs. But I have to teach them the essential truths first. The way the world is. What they have to do to overcome it.

Sometimes, that first truth is humility.