Baby Carriers and the Wing-T

I’m sitting in the front lobby of Carolina Forest High School near Myrtle Beach, SC. They were looking for a new head football coach, and (inexplicably) they called me for an interview. I was amazed, as my resume was not that deep at that point. It was 2013, and at that point, I had been an assistant coach for five years and an offensive coordinator for one. I had some head coaching experience with Varsity Wrestling, and my one year as an O.C. was a doozy (we won eleven games and played for a state championship), but other than that, my experience was not great enough to give me consideration for this, a gigantic school in the top division of our state (even if their program was down). Yet, here I was, ready to interview for the biggest opportunity of my life, hoping for the best.

Spoiler warning: I didn’t get the job. They were super nice, and the principal called me personally and told me how great I came across in the interview, but no. I didn’t get it. They ended up hiring a proven commodity from out of state who came in, changed the program around, and did great for them. Now they’re in the playoffs year after year. Clearly, they hired the right guy. Regardless, this is a life-changing opportunity for me, and I’m essentially throwing a professional “Hail Mary” and hoping for a lucky break.

The assistant principal comes into the lobby, big smile, big used-car salesman energy. He shakes my hand, thanks me for being there, invites me through the big door. I smile back, thank him for the opportunity, and I bend down and pick up my giant milk crate. I can see his eyebrow twitch; he attempts a stoic poker face, but clearly seeing me drag in a large milk crate full of materials was confusing, off-putting.

Year-six of my coaching career, I started applying to every open head coaching vacancy that would take my application. I had this personal goal of being a head coach before I hit the age of thirty, and the march of time was moving for me. For every ten applications, I would maybe get into an interview room. Now I’m six-foot-seven and huge, so I make an impression when I walk into a room. I always considered that a good thing, but I added one more thing that stuck out to interview panels: I was the MILK CRATE COACH.

I walk into the large interview room at Carolina Forest. There was a huge panel, suitable for hiring the man that’ll lead a huge program moving forward: there was the principal, an assistant principal, a curriculum admin, the athletic director, a board member, booster club president, student body president— the panel was gargantuan. Bigger than anything I’d been a part of to that point. I smiled, sat my milk crate down, and reached inside. Inside the crate were hiring packets for each panel member, filled with my life story and examples of how I planned on leading their program to greatness moving forward. But there were still several other things left in the crate, and deep into the interview, everyone’s eyes kept peering at it. Through the course of their questions, it was revealed that I was an offensive coach. The follow-up question everyone could see from miles away.

“Well, Coach, what offense would you bring to the football program here?”

I smiled. Checkmate. I reached inside my crate and pulled out six hulking binders and slapped them onto the panel’s center table. Each had a cover with the school’s logo and a name. One said “Spread.” One said “Pro-I”. One said “Flexbone Triple.” One said “Wing-T”. One said “Near/Far Single Wing.” One said “Pistol Read.” In each binder was a different offensive playbook out of a different scheme, something I do as a hobby on the side because I’m weird.

“Well,” I started, more pretentious than I intended to sound, “It would be unfair to answer that question immediately. The first thing I would do is meet with the players, analyze game film from last season, and determine the skill sets we have coming back. Only then can I choose the offense that is best tailored to the players we have running it.”

The playbooks in the crate… that was my move. My flex. That was the trump card that told hiring committees “Yes, I know I’m young, but I’m smart, experienced, and I know better than to name one offense.”

I name them all.

I’ve found the same is true for parenting. Scan the aisles of any bookstore for parenting manuals. They exist, and there’s plenty of them. Many different and varied systems that will absolutely… well, theoretically… help you mold your child into whatever shape you want them to fit. Some work; others do not. Regardless, everyone is certain that their system is the most, end-all-be-all system guaranteed to make this screaming, crying potato of yours into the next Albert Einstein or Tom Brady. But the best advice?

Do what’s right for you.

In my garage, right now, there is, minimum, three various baby-carriers collecting dust in boxes. My wife, God bless her, had only one form of baby transportation in-mind once we got pregnant, and that was baby-wearing. Who needs a fancy-schmancy carseat with a pull-out bucket to carry sleeping babies around in? Not Anna; she wanted to wear her baby. She had read all these articles about the psychological and physiological benefits of holding babies close, so much so that she insisted that I take time to get bare-chested and hold the boys to my chest when they were infants. Clearly, we read different parenting articles. But for those and many other reasons, Anna insisted that we experiment with one baby-wearing apparatus after the next. Even after the doctor informed us that our baby was now plural, she doubled-down (pardon the pun) on baby-wearing.

Do you know how unbelievably silly it is to be a man my size wearing a baby on each side of my protruding gut? For Anna, it was worse because she is literally a third of my size, so watching this tiny little woman wearing two babies simultaneously was a sight to behold. After much experimentation, we found the system: Lucas had to see Mommy’s eyes at all times, whereas Logan was perfectly comfortable riding on Mommy’s back like she was a camel and he was one of the wise men. So there she was, Anna, in all her five-foot glory, wandering the grocery store with two babies strapped to her like bombs at all times, enjoying the stares that followed her up and down the diaper aisle (twins, especially newborn twins, always garner attention, especially if they’re strapped to you like you’re hiking Kilimanjaro). Most of the attention was positive, but you can tell there were some critical eyes, too, people who thought she should have been doing something different. Something better. THEIR way.

We got the same strange looks when they were toddlers and we were at family night at the Tex-Mex burrito joint down the road; as it turns out, our two year olds both loved spicy food and would drink the salsa right from the plastic cup, if we let them (and we did). They got their fruits and vegetables, we got good parent-sized meals, everyone went home happy. This may not be in every parent’s playbook, but it worked well for our boys. It was our system.

As a coach, I’m an offensive guy. Every coach, offense or defense, will proudly declare what system they belong to. What they rep. What they claim to be experts in. Me? I’m a Flexbone guy. Now I could write for days on the subject, but I’ll keep this brief: a Flexbone is a precursor to the spread that uses a lot of movement to set itself up for whatever it wants to do. Nine times out of ten, a flexbone is designed to run the triple option, where the QB can give it, keep it, or pitch it outside. It’s great for keeping defenses honest, because it makes them have to defend the dive, the keep, and the pitch equally, which is no easy task.

I’m really trying hard not to do a full TedTalk on the flexbone here. You should appreciate this.

I came across this system coming to McCormick High School in 2012. The head coach was hiring me to run his offense, and he asked me if I knew how to run the flexbone; I assured him that I could run it in my sleep. Then I got off the phone with him and immediately Googled what a flexbone was. After just a little research, I was hooked. And my head coach was correct in that he wanted me to run the offense that he knew would best suit our offensive needs, best serve the talent we had.

Two years prior at the school I was at, a new head coach was hired who came in and immediately told us to throw out the playbook we were using. He declared himself to be a “Wing-T” guy and said we would be running his system and nothing else. Now, the Wing-T is a perfectly fine offense, great for smaller schools with smaller linemen. We were a giant school with giant linemen, so the Wing-T would not be a good fit for our school. He wouldn’t listen; two years later, the school fired that man and looked for a coach who knew how to spread it out.

You see, that coach made the number one mistake that these coaches make: you can’t be a system coach. If you’re stuck on a system and not the kids that run that system, then you’re not going to have the right fit, and things will implode around you. You can’t have more loyalty to a system than you do your players; build the system that is right for your talent and stick to that. I don’t know what answer that interview panel wanted when they asked me what offense I would bring to the table, but I was confident that my answer was the right one.

One time, a friend of mine was the head coach at a small school close to my home; he asked if I would come run his offense, and I didn’t think twice. When I went to his office to talk about it, I brought my milk crate and, knowing how much of a shill I was to the flexbone, I put that one on top of the rest of the playbooks. I lobbied for the flexbone, and maybe the Pro-I, and at the very least, that dreaded Wing-T; being the smaller school that it was, these were the offenses that brought the most potential for success.

“I want to run the spread,” he declared. He’d known I had four successful years running the spread at other, bigger schools. “You got a playbook for that?”

Not wanting to disappoint my friend and new boss, I conceded and gave him the playbook. That summer, we lost our first two potential quarterbacks to injury and discipline and eventually had to start our Right Tackle at QB, as he was the only one with a big enough arm who was smart enough to run the system. We got knocked down to one viable receiver and a freshman runningback, and the system fell to pieces. It was undoubtedly the greatest misstep of my career; it ended up being the most satisfying teaching job I’ve ever had, but easily my most challenging coaching stop for a multitude of reasons. My tenure there was rocky, at best, but it all boils down to this: to run a spread offense, you need big linemen with good hips and fast feet, a number of receivers who can stretch the field, and a quarterback with a big arm, fast legs, and a solid head on his shoulders. We had none of those things. We had talent, but not in those specific combinations. We could run a Wing-T, or a Pro-I, or a Wishbone; we had that personnel. But you can’t come in, demand a system that isn’t right for your kids, and then expect results.

Not the good results, in any case.

When we ran into similar problems as parents, Anna and I turned to each other. I think that is the key to finding the system that’s best for our kids, and that system was “us”. You see, I love my boys. And I know Anna loves our boys. So we have equal skin in the game. She and I don’t agree with everything, but we both agree that what’s best for our kids is the both of us, together. You see, I was a product of divorce. When it happened, I was old enough to work through it. Anna, too, was a product of a broken family. For her, it was much earlier and much harder. When we sat down and planned our lives together, we agreed: divorce was not an option for us. When we felt the time was right to have kids, we doubled down with some actual introspective reflection. We were not going to raise children in a broken home. It’s not easy, I’ll admit (and I’m sure Anna would agree, given what she puts up with me).

So step one in our system: US. End of sentence. Not me. Not her. It has to be US. Sometimes that means making up when you don’t want to, apologizing when you don’t really think you’re wrong, doing what you need to do instead of what you want to do. Protect the marriage at all costs, because my kids need food and medicine and education and this, that, and the other. But what they need the most is a mom and a dad at home. That means the marriage has to be a priority. Selflessness is necessary when you become a parent; everyone knows that. It is equally important when trying to preserve a marriage, because that partnership is more beneficial to your child than any other singular item you could provide them.

On a related note: Anna and I make a concerted effort to not disagree about things in front of the kids. We’re a united front on EVERYTHING. In the moment, we will always side with the person laying down the law. If I’m bursting at the seams and I’m about to break all their technology and set it on fire in the front lawn, Anna will side with me. If she’s raging and about to bring the whole house crashing to the ground, I will always be on her side. If I disagree with her or her with me, we leave the room and discuss it away from the boys. I’ll tell her to calm down, or she’ll tell me to bring it down a few notches, and we come to a consensus together. The boys will never know who compromised where; they only know that Daddy was losing it, Mommy and Daddy disappeared for a while, and now instead of setting our tablets on fire, we’re just grounded for a few days.

There is a certain level of infallibility necessary in any leadership role; you don’t want to think that the decision-makers running our world are prone to making mistakes, right? Presidents, governors, other politicians: they don’t make mistakes, do they? Clearly, you can hear the giant lump in my throat, but the truth is that we still trust leaders who don’t show a history of making mistakes, or at least owning up to them. The same is true for Mommy and Daddy. I will overreact. I will blow up over nothing. I will let a bad day affect the way I come at my kids when they mess up. Anna will do the same. But that is another reason why the partnership is so important. I will always say that the thing I love about my wife is that she compensates for all the areas in my life where I am weak, and hopefully, I do the same for her. Together, as God intended, we are one, and we are a strong one. So when I mess up, the kids can’t see that. When Anna messes up, they can’t know. I may make mistakes, and Anna may make mistakes, but together, we don’t.

That’s it. No more steps. That’s our system. We are stronger together than we are apart.

I don’t know what the perfect offensive system is. I’ve done a lot of research and I have a ton of experience, but when asked directly, I don’t know. When people ask what the best way to transport a baby is, I don’t know that either. Does the baby need to be close to you? Is the baby actually babies, plural? That’s important information. What’s the best system to raise a child, or children, even? I don’t know if I have the right to answer that question. Here’s my answer: try a little bit of everything. When something doesn’t work, throw it out. When it does, hold onto those convictions. Do what is right for you, your partner, and your child; only you can determine that. Do the research, don’t be afraid to try new things, don’t get discouraged when things don’t work the way you want them to, and don’t worry what others think about you. Your system is the perfect system. You just need to determine what that system is.

One spring day, I was walking through the halls of a school where I had just been named offensive coordinator days prior. As I’m passing through the gym and through the exercise equipment, I come across a young man who has since become very special to me. He was the C-Team quarterback, a freshman, likely the man who would be my varsity quarterback the next year. He was young, underdeveloped, but he had a cocky swagger about him that I respected, and it gave him an ethos that made him seem years older than he actually was. I knew of him, and he knew of me, but we hadn’t yet met. Doing my due diligence, I had read his transcript: all honors classes, wonderful grades, a few discipline issues here and there, but nothing significant. All-around, he was the kind of kid you’d be proud to raise.

I had an idea that he would be my starting quarterback for the next three years, so I walked into the room to introduce myself. He was playfully working out with a few friends, nothing major. I said hello, told him who I was, and started a conversation just to lay the groundwork of a relationship that I still value to this very day.

“Well,” I stated my purpose, “I’m looking for a new quarterback next year. We’re moving to a different system, and both our QB’s this year are graduating. I know you ran the show on C-Team, so I wanted to talk with you and make sure you were ready to compete for that spot this Spring.”

He gave me his elevator pitch, talking about his strong arm, his footwork, his ability to read a defense.

I stopped him, “Okay, okay, I get it. Are you smart?”

“Huh?”

“Are you smart?” It’s a tough question. Nobody is going to admit to being dumb, but what does that have to do with anything? Plus, I knew the answer to that question already, and I’m sure he knew that, so the answer to this question had a lot of rhetorical weight. He stumbled through his answer, not knowing what I was looking for. I continued, “There’s a lot of kids in this school who can throw a ball. Lots of kids with legs. I can teach how to throw, when to run, what to look for. What I can’t coach is brains. I need a kid who’s smart, who’s coachable, who can run a huddle and tell me what he sees on the field. To run any system, I need a kid who’s smart.”

“I’m smart, Coach.” He smiled, that same self-confident, cocky smile that drew people to him. And he was; for the next three years, he was the one constant on the field at any given time, capable of doing anything I asked him to do.

I could build a system around that.