no rewards, only consequences
Like many elementary and middle school athletes, I had the same coach through different sports a couple of years in a row. My coach was an athletic renaissance man who knew a lot about many things, especially sports. Most of his teachings were through stories that may or may not have been true about his athletic past, and he was a master at using metaphors.
Regardless of the sport, he spent very little time on strategy and a lot of time on the basics. Every playbook was handwritten and photo-copied on the back of unused math assignments. His coaching philosophy was to make us masters of the fundamentals before we try to get “fancy” in our game-time performance.
While under his supervision as a football, basketball, and baseball player, we went 6 for 6 in league championship games.
His message was simple, and his delivery was concise. “There will be no punishments or rewards handed out this season….”
Staring at us, he would take a long pause and let what he said sink in, arms folded to let him barely rest his chin on his right hand. After his signature pause, he took a deep breath and elaborated.
“In nature, there are no rewards or punishments…only consequences.” Another pause.
“When you work hard in practice, improve every day, and give your all in the game, there is a consequence. You will find out what that consequence is when you do that.”
“If you show up late, delaying the start of practice and the improvement of your teammates, there is a consequence.”
He looked at me—I gulped. I was late to the meeting and would soon find out the consequence of being late. I was not amused to see my lunch for the second time that day.
“Do your job well and execute the game plan— there is a consequence. Get to bed early, eat right, drink water, and pay attention in class —there is a consequence.”
Win or lose, he did not move far from his baseline behavior. Though we won far more often than we lost, and when we did experience defeat, he would remark on the things we did well. We would discuss what we did not do well without being emotionally hijacked, sarcastic, or condescending. The field was his classroom—there was no need for excuses from us, and he did not need to sugarcoat anyone’s performance.
“Last thing, there is only one rule —protect the team. You protect the team by getting your work done in the classroom, respecting your parents and teachers, and not being an idiot on the weekends.”
That was the whole speech, given at the beginning of the season of every sport, every year. He didn’t need to say a lot, making it easier to follow through with anything he did speak to us.
We all respected him very much. When you got a smile from him, it helped you find an extra gear of energy you were previously unaware of. I lived for him to look at me after a game or during a time out and hear something like You did your job, Leath — well done.
He would raise his voice, then drop to a whisper, the team leaning in so we wouldn't miss anything. Years later, I was awarded a coaching award, and he somehow found out about it. As I left the stage after my acceptance speech, he was standing in the shadows with a tear in his eye.
He was much older than I remembered but still in good shape. While we hugged, he whispered, "I am proud of you.”
It was one of the most memorable days of my life, much more than any championship we won.
