Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Bees, Watermelon & Public Nudity



Tales from the Recruiting Trail 
 
July 1st each year indicates the day college track coaches can officially make contact with the soon-to-be senior high school recruits. This usually takes place in the form of home visits. I actually love this part of the job. Sure, you put in crazy hours on the road but you get to see parts of this country you would have never taken the time to see- and most of the families you meet turn out to be terrific. The unique experiences on the recruiting trail almost always deliver to us coaches a tale worth telling. I have quite a few, but here are a couple of unique and very true experiences that come to mind.

Early in my coaching career I had scheduled a long recruiting trip in late July to the Midwest and I was excited about it. Other than connecting with important recruits on this trip, my one big goal was to eat a watermelon. Yes, they had watermelon in Oregon, but nothing like Midwest watermelons. When I was a kid, I couldn’t believe adults, free to spend their own money, weren’t just walking around with watermelons under their arms at all times. We ate huge pieces in the Steele family. We were famous for it. I couldn’t imagine eating SO much watermelon I couldn’t eat another bite. I loved watermelon. And I really, really missed the ones from my childhood. (To illustrate that point, when I sat down to write this particular blog, I couldn’t take my mind off how great one would taste right now. I had to pause so I could drive to the grocery store and buy a watermelon. Yes, really.)


I flew to Chicago, rented a car and began my long meandering journey through three states. It was mid-afternoon and I was on a beautiful two-lane road in rural Indiana when I saw the sign for a farmers market. “Yes!” I said. The watermelons on display were enormous. I looked them over like an uncompromising livestock judge at the state fair. I settled on one so beautiful it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I was deeply happy carrying my melon to the check-out. I was also trying to figure out how I was going to eat it. I figured I could just slam it into something hard to break it open. I grabbed a box of assorted plastic utensils and headed out. 


I got back onto the lazy road, hoping my route would take me past an obvious place to eat my melon. Unfortunately, no such place appeared. I had some extra time but was getting fairly close to my next recruit’s house. I started driving past what looked like a park, only to discover it was a big, beautiful cemetery instead. Hmm… I mean, what’s the difference? 

There were just a couple of cars parked in the big asphalt lot I pulled into. It was just off the two lane road, but the cars on that road were few and far between. I selected a shady spot away from the other cars, popped the trunk and got out. My plan was to smash the watermelon on the ground, eat as much as I could with my plastic fork and go on my way. I was immediately confronted with my wardrobe situation. I almost always wear a suit and tie when I do these visits, and this time was no exception. I was wearing my most expensive suit and was worried about getting watermelon juice on it. I took off the jacket. Not good enough. For this to work I had to spike the melon right at my feet. I imagined exploding chunks all over my pants and shoes. I looked at my beautiful melon sitting in my trunk. Crap… OK, I’m wearing boxer briefs. They could be argued as “shorts” if pressed by the authorities. I took off my shoes and pants. Good enough? A car drove past. I was wearing a light blue dress shirt. Any juice or shrapnel that found its’ way to my shirt would be impossible to hide. Oh boy… Off went the tie and dress shirt. I was now standing in the cemetery parking lot in black socks, black boxer-briefs and a white wife-beater tank. I was ready. 

I grabbed the melon from the trunk and carefully dropped in onto the pavement. It cracked, but not nearly enough. I picked it up again. This time lifting it over my head and slammed it down. Much more effective, but it still only broke halfway. Finally on my third attempt, I had two large, deliciously red, broken pieces. A car pulled into the lot and parked a few spots from me. I’ll go out on a limb and say that 60-something year old woman hadn’t expected to see me smashing a watermelon in my underwear when she left for the cemetery that day. Whatever.

I set one of the broken halves of the watermelon on the rear bumper, held it in place with one hand and scooped out the bites with my plastic fork with the other. The first mouthwatering bite made it all worth it. I was in heaven. I was a bit concerned the old lady might report me, so I practiced my statement while eating more watermelon in one sitting than I’ve ever eaten before. Yep. A personal best. Winning! 

*****


I’ve never had a problem with bees. 
My brother, on the other hand, is famous for his hilarious, animated fear of them. My wife has a genuine phobia over them, turning into the Tasmanian Devil whenever any flying insect comes near. But not me. The bees and I have always been simpatico.   

So it was a sweltering day in mid-July and I was I was on the road visiting a few more Midwestern blue chip recruits. The first visit had gone well, but I had to overcome some minor embarrassment when my remote PowerPoint clicker ran out of juice half-way through my presentation. I had some extra time before my next visit, so I pulled into a Walgreens to replace the dead batteries.  

Shortly after walking into the store- OUCH!!! I felt something sharp and really painful right in the side of my butt. “HEY!” I yelled, turning around to see nothing. I quickly reached back and felt the area of pain. Nothing. What the heck? I thought. I shook my head and took a few more steps. OUCH!!! “HEY!” I yelled again, looking behind me and seeing nothing. Again I reached back and felt my pants. What IS that? I pictured something like a rose thorn stuck under my pants, but I didn’t feel anything. Shaken, I took a couple more steps, still grabbing all over for the source of my pain. Then- OUCH!!! And I knew. Something was in my pants either stinging or biting me. 

My first reaction was just to drop my pants and end this madness. I started smacking my butt all over with both hands, looking around frantically for a bathroom. From the middle of the store I spotted a guy behind a cash register. “Hey!” I yelled, startling him. I was grabbing, smacking and pinching the backside of my pants. “I need a place to take off my pants! I think I got a bee!” He looked back, very confused and visibly concerned. “What?” he asked. My annoyance at his lack of urgency was quickly turning to anger. Now, with the loud and exaggerated enunciation of a frustrated wife, I yelled, “I think I have a bee down my pants. I’m going to take them off right HERE (pointing straight down) unless you can point out a bathroom!” His eyes got big and he understood. “Oh… NO!” He pointed wildly to the rear of the store with his own mild panic and yelled, “Back there, back there!” I turned and walked/jogged to the bathroom, all the while smacking my butt like a lunatic.

My suit jacket was almost off when I violently shoved the door open with one hand. I threw down the coat, loosened my belt and dropped my pants. Immediately, a very agitated Yellow Jacket emerged from my pants, flew past me and up to the ceiling. I felt a kind of rage towards that bee I’ve rarely felt in my life. There might be more, I thought. I stripped off everything but my black socks- on the off chance it wasn’t acting alone…  Nope. I was dealing with a single.  

I looked up and focused my eyes at the Yellow Jacket that had caused me such unprovoked pain and suffering. I clapped my hands together and said, “Let’s dance, (EXPLETIVE)!” I picked up a shoe and accidentally caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The ridiculous nature of this scene- me furious, naked except for my socks & wielding a shoe as a weapon- wasn’t lost on me. I didn’t care. I jumped up and swung the shoe at the bee. I hit the ceiling hard, but missed. He flew to the plastic cover protecting the fluorescent light. I jumped, swung and loudly missed again. “Come on!” I yelled in frustration. Finally on my third maniacal swing I nailed him. He landed lifeless on the ground... I swung again. And again. Then I got on all fours and pressed that shoe into what was left of that evil SOB as hard as I could, twisting the shoe back and forth as I pressed. “Tell your friends, (EXPLETIVE)!”

If someone would have walked into the bathroom in that moment, they would have needed a team of therapists to work through their PTSD from the scene.  

I stood up and put my suit back on. The cashier was clearly distraught when he rang up my batteries, but he didn’t ask any questions and I gave no report or explanation. He’d have to draw his own conclusions from the smashed Yellow Jacket on the bathroom floor and the sweat pouring down my face.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Believing in Superheroes



Bruce Jenner, 1976 Olympic Decathlon Champ
When I was seven years old, my twin brother, Darrin and I watched every second of the 1976 Olympic decathlon. I still remember the two of us on the floor in front of the TV, watching a man named Bruce Jenner break the world record en route to his Olympic gold medal. Like thousands of people around the world, Bruce was like a superhero to us. Without question, he was my first real hero. He inspired in me a love for the decathlon and Olympic Games that remains to this day.

I have been fortunate in my life to have met a good number of famous people. Some have been kind and some of been jerks.  I once met one of my greatest athletic heroes who rolled his eyes when I told him what a big fan I was, and asked him for an autograph. I very conspicuously tossed the autographed piece of paper into the trash as I walked away, crushed. 


And then there was Bruce Jenner. In 1995 I emerged on the scene as a rookie, national class decathlete. In 1990, Visa became the signature sponsor of the US decathlon, sponsoring the top ten US decathletes each year. It was an amazing partnership, connecting current decathletes with the greats of the past. I finished 5th at the ’95 US Championships and was named to the Visa USA Decathlon Team. The morning of the ’95 team announcement I stepped into an elevator that Bruce was in. I’d like to say I introduced myself in that moment and finally met my childhood hero. Instead, I was transported back in time, a seven year old, too star-struck to say a word to his hero.  Through the Visa sponsorship I did eventually meet him, along with all the other living US decathlon gold medalists. I found Bruce easy to talk with and genuine. In fact, I am very happy to say they were all great, great guys. 

Bruce Jenner
One year later I was in my Atlanta high rise hotel room the night before the 1996 Olympic Trials. It was after midnight and I was too keyed up to sleep. I decided to take a walk. I remember riding down an enormous escalator and seeing Bruce all by himself in the lobby. He saw me as I stepped off the escalator, smiled and walked up to me. He correctly assumed I couldn’t sleep and asked how I was feeling about my chances of finishing top three. I played it cool, but was thrilled to run into him. Then, in one of the most surreal moments of my life, he told me a story. He told me how he had been in the Quad Cities (where I grew up) a couple of weeks earlier for an appearance. He said he was at a media event where local reporters were asking him questions. “One of the reporters asked me if I thought you had a chance to make the Olympic team in the decathlon,” he told me. “I told them, You know, I just watched him compete, and that guy’s pretty darn good. I said, Yes, I think he’s got a real shot.” His words just hung in the air. Here I was in front of my childhood hero, and he was telling ME a story about a reporter asking HIM a question about me. And he knew me well enough to answer the question. I remember very distinctly thinking to myself that I have no idea what it feels like to “make it,” but this was good enough for me. Bruce didn’t have to share that story with me. I wasn’t a star of any kind, and he had been around long enough to know that I would never be one. The generosity he showed me in that moment has always stayed with me. My first hero in life was worthy of my admiration. 

Through the years it has pained me to see and hear the ridicule directed at Bruce Jenner. I’ve always been quick to defend him. I have watched the Kardashians, and my opinion of Bruce hasn’t changed. Even on the show I find him kind and generous. I see him as the voice of reason. This past year the rumors regarding his gender identity have been frequent. Selfishly, I’ve not accepted any of it. “It’s for the show,” I’d say. “Nope. No way.” I am accepting this is a very real issue thousands of people (millions?) must deal with. But Bruce Jenner was my hero. I just couldn’t accept that someone so influential to me was somebody else.



Ashton Eaton Winning the 2012 Olympic Decathlon
This weekend I brought my athletes to the Drake Relays. My famous former athlete, Ashton Eaton and his coach, Harry Marra were there as well. I’ve known Harry since 1995- he was instrumental in the Visa partnership and is a personal friend of mine, and of Bruce. A more decent man- more committed to the decathlon, you’ll never meet. Friday evening Harry and I ran into each other outside of Drake stadium, right around the time of the Bruce Jenner, Diane Sawyer interview. We discussed Bruce and our take on this- both wishing we were watching the interview instead of waiting for the hotel shuttle. We casually explored ulterior motives and possible explanations outside of face value. Finally, Harry said, “You know, I don’t know what the truth is, Dan. But I consider Bruce a friend. I’ll always consider him a friend.” And that pretty much summed it up. I can’t personally say he’s a friend because I don’t know him that way. But I can say he always was and always will be my hero.

Libby, Ashton and Derek at the 2015 Drake Relays
The next day I was able to watch Ashton interact with fans. I’ve known Ashton since he was a high school senior and I am proud of whatever role I played in his assent to becoming the world’s greatest athlete. I swell with pride watching the kindness and generosity he shows to a young athlete I currently coach who says Ashton is his hero. Just last week I told Ashton’s mom, Roz that I was more proud of the man Ashton’s become than I am the athlete. Of course, she concurred. Watching Ashton with his fans is surreal. I see myself with Bruce and sit in awe at the incredible connection between the seven year old I was, Bruce, Ashton and the current generation that sees Ashton as a hero. 

I got home last night from the Drake Relays and the first thing I did this morning was watch the entire interview of Bruce on Hula Plus. Maybe I’m naïve, but I didn’t see any ulterior motives. I saw my childhood hero, bravely telling a story that most of us would be terrified to tell. I take him at his word. Clearly, I know very little about the transgender community, but I have great compassion for anyone trying to navigate this life with a gender identity different than their gender assignment. I can’t imagine the courage it takes to go public with this. As if life isn’t challenging enough. 


So as it turns out, the man I idolized in childhood, (in his words) “has the soul of a woman.” At the age of 65, Bruce Jenner is courageously telling his story because he can’t live a lie anymore. And so begins his brave new authentic life as a woman. He aspires to change the world by bringing front page awareness to the transgender community. And I am forced to come to terms with the following truth: The man I saw as a superhero in childhood turns out to be a genuine, bonafide superhero. Who knew? And how lucky am I?    
 



Monday, December 15, 2014

The Holidays & My Second Chance at Life

The holiday season always makes me nostalgic and grateful. I like to honestly assess my life, past and present, and soak up the things around me I’m grateful for. And never far from my mind is the knowledge I shouldn’t be here to see any of it. And then I smile in disbelief at my unlikely life.
-

On July 1st, 1998 I had a bad day. I was a couple months into decathlon training after taking almost two years off to pursue the sport of bobsledding. I was single, 28 years old and I had been training as a post-collegiate athlete in Eugene, Oregon since graduating from Eastern Illinois University. I was having serious doubts about whether or not to continue. There are thousands of Olympic hopefuls who take their own version of the road I was on. I had some accomplishments of note, but at some point I knew I would have to retire. I had experienced years when I was both, well below the poverty line and dangerously close to homelessness, and years I was financially comfortable. The uncertainty of it all was a calculated risk and very little of it deterred me. It wasn't about failure. I hate losing but I've never feared it. It was really just that black cloud of my uncertain future and the pressure I felt to transition into a more predictable life. Olympic hopefuls live their lives in four-year increments. After each Olympics, most take some time to reassess where they are in their life and career, what they want to do and what they believe they can do. As a summer and winter sport athlete, I assessed every two years.  The 2000 Sydney Games were only two years away, but at some point I had to walk away from athletics. Was I at that point? On July 1st, 1998, I was deep in my personal assessment.

My practice that day was nearly done. I was wrapping up in the Hayward Field weight room, doing some hanging leg lifts when I suffered a very minor abdominal strain. It was type of injury that would take less than a week to recover from, but with my current doubts, I didn’t handle it well. I drove home to my apartment and stared at the ceiling, thinking a million thoughts. One thought that went through my head was about a waterfall. Two weeks earlier I had driven to one of my favorite places in the Cascade mountain range.  Highway 242 is one of the most scenic drives you’ll ever take. The byway winds you from the edge of the Willamette Valley up into the Cascades, through the lava fields and eventually to Sisters, Oregon. Because of the deep snows in the higher elevations, sections of 242 are only open during the summer months. I drove in as far as I could, eventually coming to a barricade just past the Linton Lake trail-head. I had never seen Linton Lake, so I pulled in and started to hike. After about 30 minutes, I came to the beautiful mountain lake. It was bigger than I expected. I noticed across the lake, up into the mountain there was a beautiful waterfall. It was quite a distance from where I was, so I made a mental note that one day I would return to hike to the waterfall. The only clear thing in my head as I was staring at my ceiling was I was going to return to Linton Lake the next day and hike the falls.

I woke up the next morning and without saying a word to anyone, grabbed my camera and ultralight rod and reel, jumped in my car and started the gorgeous 1.5 hour drive. I parked my old Ford at the trail-head, foolishly walked right past the trail map and free wilderness permits and started my adventure. It took almost two hours to hike to where the stream from the falls fed into the lake. There was a clear trail heading up the mountain I was sure would lead me to the falls.

Lower Linton Falls (the smaller falls)
The hike was a lot more difficult than I had anticipated, with trees and thick vegetation hiding most of the stream from the trail. The sound of the falls grew louder and louder as I climbed. Finally I reached a place where the falls were in full view. They were spectacular. I quickly made my way through the wet moss and ferns to reach the bottom of the falls. The mist was thick and I was surprised by the intensity of the sound. My adrenaline was flowing. I snapped off a couple pictures and decided I wanted to see the view from the top. I made my way back through the moss and ferns to the trail but saw it had all but disappeared where I was standing. I headed up anyway. Once again, my view of the falls was obstructed, but I was confident I could find my way to the top. I finally came to a clearing where I could see the water, but I had inadvertently climbed past the top of the falls. I turned to head back, but higher up the mountain I heard the faint sound of what I thought must be another waterfall. There was no way I was going to turn back without seeing it, so I continued my climb. At this point the hike was extremely difficult and at times, treacherous. But the sound above me was growing more and more powerful. It was exhilarating. I kept climbing and then, there it was. Wow… This waterfall was massive. Much bigger than the lower one. Once again I made my way through the wet marsh and vegetation. I was slipping on mossy rocks and mud but my eyes were fixed on the falls. When I finally arrived at the bottom, the spray was so strong it seemed to be raining sideways. The sound was deafening. I was filled with anxiety and adrenaline. I threw up my arms and screamed like a maniac. It’s hard to put into words, but I couldn’t stay there long because of the enormity of it all. It was too intense, too close to fully enjoy. I still hadn’t gotten my picture from the top, so I turned back and started to walk. I was surprised at how far I had actually walked through all the wetness. I looked around for an alternative route. I saw a rock face to my right and walked to it. It was a huge cliff- 80-100’, but looked like really easy climbing. It looked like I only needed to climb 20-25’ to get to a place I could exit the cliff and return down the mountain. I was feeling great and without a second thought, started climbing. I was right about the ease of it all. The hand holds were plentiful and the risk was small. I was climbing like a pro and gaining confidence. I made a couple of big moves, but most of them were easy.

I reached the place on the cliff I had seen from the bottom and reasoned I could exit. Well, whatever I had seen from the ground wasn’t there now and I couldn’t get off. Going back down was the obvious choice, but the descent was difficult because of the big moves I had made. There was nothing but rocks waiting for me at the bottom and a fall from this height would be a serious one. I looked up and saw the face of the cliff seemed pretty constant all the way up. I’m not an experienced rock climber, but I was an athlete and the climb up until this point had been easy and fun. I found the decision to keep climbing an exciting one, so I took a deep breath and continued my climb. I was all in now. I was covering a lot of ground, climbing fast and having the time of my life. I was about ¾ up the rock face now. Then everything changed. The face surface that had been so accommodating changed. Significantly. What had been smooth and hard rock turned to something like sand stone. I checked it and realized I could actually scratch right into the surface. Above me there was a large stone sticking out from the wall. I reached up and pulled at it. It seemed solid. I reached up again and started pulling myself up. I was eye level with it when it gave way and pulled out of the cliff. I started falling. My hands and feet clawed frantically at the wall. I fell 2-3’ when my right toe grabbed and stopped my fall. The stone immediately hit me on the head, breaking in two. One piece fell behind me but the other came to rest between my chest and the cliff. I was teetering on the toe of my boot with neither hand having a hold. I didn’t know which direction I would fall. I didn't want to so much as breathe. Finally, I contorted my chest inward and was able to release the stone. I leaned in to the cliff, acutely aware of how long it took to hear the sound of the stone hit the ground.

I didn’t have time to process what just happened because it was still happening. I looked above me and saw the soft rock face. I looked to my left and saw nowhere to go. I looked to my right and saw a dead tree that had grown out of the cliff about eight feet away. The base of the tree was about eye level and looked to be 1-2” thick. Not an option. I looked back up. Nothing. Back to the left. Nothing. Back to the tree. “It’s dead.” I thought. “It will either break right off or pull out of the rock.” I looked around again. I was trying hard not to panic. I would start to give in to it, then rage against it. But the truth of my situation was impossible to ignore. I did almost die a minute ago. That happened. My only hope was that skinny dead tree and if it didn’t hold, this day would be my last.
Linton Falls above Linton Lake

I stared at the tree, knowing it was my only chance. I tried to build myself up. “You can do this! Lesser men have done more. You’re an elite athlete. You can do this!” I knew what had to be done but I was in no hurry to do it. When my right calf started to cramp, the moment of truth had arrived. I let myself slowly lean to the right and started to fall. I pushed off my right toe and lunged in the direction of the tree. With both hands I grabbed the base and my body swung violently underneath. The tree more than held. It felt like a piece of iron. It took every ounce of strength in my body to pull myself all the way up. I put one foot between the tree and the cliff. For the moment I was alive.

I looked around to assess my situation. The good news was the rock face before me was hard again. The bad news was it was smooth with virtually no hand-holds.  I contemplated waiting for a rescue team. I could maybe fold myself over the base of this tree and bed down for the night. Maybe tomorrow someone would come. That was when I remembered I hadn’t told anyone where I was going. I also hadn’t filled out the hiking permit, required for just such a contingency. I had been reckless enough to cost me my life. Even if I was lucky enough for someone to realize I was missing and they found my car- even if I was lucky enough for someone to think maybe I would try to hike across Linton Lake and up to the lower falls; the odds that anyone would assume I would hike above those falls- after the trail ended, to a hidden waterfall most recreational hikers didn’t even know existed, was ridiculously remote. This climb was going to end in one of two ways. I was either climbing out on my own or falling to my death.

About five feet above me there appeared to be a soft ledge. The tree that saved me rose above this ledge, but it wasn’t the kind of tree you could climb. Even though the base was like hickory, the branches were very brittle. I could break them with little effort. I stared at the ledge. The rock face wasn’t an option. I looked at the tree. If it was thicker I could climb it like a rope. But how could it hold me further up where it was even thinner? I decided to just test it. I reached up (breaking branches) and gripped the tree with both hands. I slowly pulled myself up a few inches. It held.  I pulled a little more. When it held the second time something in me snapped and I started climbing up, right through the dead branches as fast as I could. With one final pull I let go of the tree and grabbed the ledge. It was an out of body experience and I still don’t fully understand how it happened.

I sat on the ledge and tried to process what had just happened. I looked around to see I was sitting in a crevice. Above me was a massive rock ceiling protruding well out from the rest of the cliff. My ledge seemed to be forming a 45 degree angle with the ceiling. It was like sitting on the roof of a house. This crevice looked about 20’ long and if I could cross it, I could exit the cliff. I realized quickly this would be no simple task. God knows how many years of erosion had created a ledge surface like deep pea gravel. One move in the direction I needed to go caused an avalanche of rock to cascade off the ledge. There was no other way, though. On my back, I slid as deep into the crevice as I could go, putting the back of my head against the floor and my forehead against the ceiling. I slid my right hand and right foot over about a foot and dug them both as deep as I could into the loose rock. The sound of the cascading pebbles was terrifying. I slid my left hand and left foot over a foot and dug them in. Then I slowly slid my body to the right. I repeated that move, all the while hearing the smooth rock pour over the cliff. Foot by foot I moved like a crab across that rocky crevice. Slowly, deliberately, I made my way. Ten feet to go...  Five feet to go… One foot; and it was over.

I’d love to say I celebrated like a hero and said something cool about cheating death, but I didn’t. I just dropped to my knees and cried. I stayed there on the ground with my heart racing, trying to wrap my brain around it all. I was shaking, terrified. I saw an unremarkable seedling growing next to me and I stared at it for several minutes. How close I had come to never seeing it. Eventually I calmed down, rose to my feet and started the long hike home. Nothing on that walk back to my car escaped my gaze. I kept saying, “I shouldn’t be seeing that flower. I shouldn’t be seeing that bird, that tree, that snow-capped mountain…”  My fear was quickly turning to joy. I hiked and thought about my life, but this time from the perspective of a man granted a second chance at that life. Whenever the trail allowed it, I would smile and break into a run. Things were so much clearer now. Of course I would keep training. Why wouldn’t I? I was healthy and loved competing. I loved pursuing big, impossible dreams. I was going all-in with my decathlon training. I loved my complicated and uncertain life. For better or worse these were my choices, my successes and failures. And all of it was a priceless gift.  

I’m happy to say I’ve never stopped being a man given a second chance at life. The change that came over me on my hike home was permanent. It takes a lot to upset me these days. I look at all the amazing things I've experienced since that day. The best decathlon year of my life came one year later in 1999 when I finished eighth at the World Championships. The 2000 Olympic Trials were supposed to be where I finally made that life-long dream of competing in the Summer Olympics come true. Instead I finished 5th and watched the 2000 Games from home. I would fall in love and have my heart broken. Against all odds I would win an Olympic medal in Bobsledding. I would walk away from a lucrative business career just for the opportunity to be a low paid assistant track and field coach. I would fall in love again, start a family and discover a world I love more than anything I dreamed possible. My assessment as I look around me is this; I'm lucky beyond belief for every second of this difficult, wonderful, heartbreaking, loving and thrilling life of mine. Perspective is a beautiful thing.

This holiday season, I’ll once again think about the cliff and remind myself that every single thing I have in my life- good and bad, is a priceless gift. I'll soak it up. And then I'll smile.  
-




Tuesday, November 25, 2014

The Coaching Compass


I originally started writing this article as a helpful guide for the young coaches I worked with. It is the kind of guide I wish I had been given when I started out. But once I started putting these ideas down on paper, I realized they could benefit not only my direct reports, but probably many other beginning coaches. And while I do not consider myself a leading authority on coaching, I do feel I have learned – both instinctively and experientially, some fundamental teaching principles. This coaching guide is my attempt to share those principles.

Keep it Fun
Above all else, keep sports fun. This isn’t life and death here. It’s just sports and sports are supposed to be fun! If you are a coach who thinks you motivate kids by yelling at them and offering frequent and harsh criticism with very little praise; please get out of coaching now. No great coaches teach this way. Great should be in coaching.
coaches LOVE kids. They love the teaching process. If you experience great joy when a pupil finally "gets" what you are teaching, then you are probably the kind of person who
Find the positives. Build on their strengths and encourage them at every opportunity. Be rigid in your expectations, but compassionate to their ability level and training age. Try to offer at least a 5-1 ratio of praise to criticism. Let’s face it; there is a lot about training and learning that isn’t fun. This truth should be balanced out by celebrating the improvements, cultivating team camaraderie and sharing loads of laughs. Get creative and figure it out or you’ll turn some good kids off and lose them before you even find out they were the kinds of kids you’ve always dreamed of working with. Remember, if the coach is having fun, you can bet the athletes are having fun too.

The Fundamentals of Training
One of the most important criterion for being a good coach is having a rock-solid command of the fundamentals of the sport you coach. It sounds simple, I know, but you would be surprised by the number of coaches who don’t have a solid grasp on the fundamentals of the sport or event area they are teaching. There is no excuse for this, as it is merely a matter of effort. There are numerous publications and clinics available and easily accessible for improving knowledge in any sport you coach. If you teach kids the basics, they will be far ahead of the game. Very few beginning coaches or athletes need to work beyond the basics because it takes considerable time and commitment to become fundamentally sound in any sport. Most athletes actually never get there. Fundamentals can and should be worked into all areas of training. The warm-up routine is a wonderful opportunity to work on fundamentals and should be based on actively working through them. This takes discipline from the coaches and athletes but pays big dividends.
Note: Even with a solid understanding of fundamentals, there are going to be some things you will be unclear on as a new coach. That is normal. When in doubt, keep it fun and model the best in the world (not the best on your team or in your conference).

Coaching is Teaching
This is really the essence of what we do. Conversely, if you can’t teach, you can’t coach. It doesn’t matter what you know if you can’t convey it to someone trying to learn it. All good coaches are creative problem solvers. This is a critical point because many of the problems you’ll face as a coach will not be found in a textbook or clinic. Remember, these aren’t computers we are programming. They are young people who learn and apply their skills in unique ways. There is a pervasive myth within our profession that most good or great athletes will also make good coaches. There is absolutely no empirical evidence to support this. Bei
ng a former athlete gives you many wonderful tools for the coaching toolbox, but you still have to know how and when to apply them. A great mechanic isn’t great because of his mastery of tools. He is great because of his mastery of problem solving.
The problems of bad technique, little ability, poor fitness, lack of confidence and countless others are all yours to solve. Having a clear picture of proper technique means nothing without the ability to help an athlete overcome the myriad obstacles hindering their mastery of that technique. It isn’t enough for a coach to have an understanding of the fundamentals or even to have world-class experience as an athlete. You also have to understand (among countless other things) the prioritization of skill acquisition and application, the role of fear, physical limits and opportunities for improvement of an athlete – and then apply creative problem solving skills to that understanding.
Unfortunately, there are many examples of terrible coaches who are rarely – if ever, held accountable. They stand above criticism simply because they were good or great athletes. Most of us have experienced a brilliant teacher or professor who simply couldn’t teach. You know they know their stuff, so it is extremely frustrating. You know they know how to do it. But you also figure out pretty quickly, this individual- credentialed or not, can’t teach you what they know, or more importantly, what you desire to learn. We seem to live in a society that incorrectly equates subject knowledge and technical expertise with teaching ability. And while subject knowledge is extremely important, it is only one piece of the coaching puzzle.

Competing on Fresh Legs
Over-training is one of the most common mistakes we all make at ALL levels. As long as the kids are fit, err on the side of rest and recovery. This is particularly effective with speed/power athletes (fast twitch athletes). A really hard practice or competition can exhaust the nervous system. It takes about 48 hours for the nervous system to fully recover, so two days of active rest is often necessary. When the speed athletes I work with compete on Saturday, I will rest them on Sunday and give them a light day on Monday. By Tuesday they are ready to go hard again. On the other hand, the slower twitch athletes usually feel flat after two days of rest. In most cases you just have to know your athletes and pay attention to how they are moving and feeling after competitions and/or hard work days. Some go flat with rest and some thrive.
You should never train an athlete hard when they are physically "off". Their body is talking to them and the coach should always listen. These are moments that athlete is very susceptible to injury. Never be afraid to throw out the play book. You can write the perfect training program, but the kids might not respond the way you expect. We never really know how much sleep they’re getting, what they’ve eaten, how their boyfriend or girlfriend made them feel or countless other variables that can have major affects on their training and performance. All we can really do is pay close attention and make appropriate adjustments as needed.

Know Your Horse
All good coaches study the athletes they work with individually to better understand what makes them tick. It is how we connect with them. Motivating athletes is an essential part of the coaching job. If you don’t know what drives them, how can you best motivate them? Remember, an athlete will rarely succeed beyond the level they believe themselves to be. Raising that level is our job. Helping an athlete redefine himself as something better is not always easy, but it is part of the job. Once you’ve connected with an athlete, the coaching becomes a lot easier. Work together for a common goal, and that goal not only becomes more attainable, it also becomes more meaningful. Once you know your athlete, you’ll better understand when to over-coach (for example; when they’re freaking out and their brain stops working) and when to get out of their way and let them achieve their athletic destiny.

Make a Difference
If you are a coach worth your salt, your life is better for the experience. When you’re old and gray and looking back on what you left behind – one thing that will come to mind will be the time you spent working with these kids. So make a meaningful difference. We serve as role models for our athletes- most likely having one of the largest influences of any adult in their lives. So present the value of fun and the lessons of a battle well-fought and a life well-lived. Teach and coach in ways that will make you proud when you’re old enough to have proper perspective on winning and losing. Promote good sportsmanship, character and resilience. Produce better athletes, better citizens and better people. Let them know you care about them and you will make a positive impact on their lives. That should make you very proud. And above all else, keep it fun!