Coaching: Thoughts and Ramblings

Parents are subjective; coaches are objective . . . therein lies the major dilemma that has confronted athletes, parents, relatives, and friends of the aforementioned for as long as anyone wishes to consider. 

Commonly these days, I am asked if I miss coaching.  My response is mixed: "Sometimes, yea; sometimes, nah."  To establish a sense of credibility, I coached athletics for thirty-five years including freshman, junior varsity, and varsity basketball; middle school track; and junior high and varsity assistant football. In addition, I observed our two daughters participate in various sports throughout their lives.  Having mentioned those points, I have experienced many situations that have allowed me to feel somewhat credible in making my observations. With that said, here we go:

*Please refer to the first sentence, first paragraph:  Coaches and parents are seldom going to be on the same page.  Parents have watched their kids' involvement in organized sports, perhaps before the kids even began attending school.  From those experiences, those same parents oftentimes have developed a strong belief that their kids are (A) really good; (B) not being treated fairly by their coaches; or (C) average athletes.  I suppose a (D), (E), or (F) could be added, but I will go with my three.  Many parents are former athletes, thus inspiring their kids to emulate them if at all possible; others have never played much organized sports, yet their expertise is still sometimes shared.  Somewhere in the equation, we establish that our kids' performances may have a direct connection to us--if our kids are lazy, then everyone will think we as parents are, too; likewise, if kids perform consistently well, then as parents, we will be viewed in the same positive light. 

As those same kids develop, however, a whole bunch of different scenarios arise--kids center their lives around sports and make their whole identity as athletes, kids continue involvement because they realize sports can be a social magnet helping bring popularity, or kids sometimes continue simply because they love the sports they play; on the other hand, kids run from sports because they tire of the pressure exerted by parents and coaches, kids simply tire of the time commitments, or, most frequently, kids cannot accept their roles on a team.  My point is as the kids grow and mature into high school athletes, so many changes can occur . . . and so often parents refuse to accept what those changes are. As a high school coach, I have had many, many confrontations with parents who have been determined to convince me that I am the reason their children have not been able to achieve the athletic success they envision.  The common refrain, of course, has almost always been that "you never give him a chance."  I have always tried to rationalize that statement, but, unfortunately, I have never been able to do so:  I watch practice every day, I watch the kids compete against each other in drills and live competition, I watch video tape, and I observe nonverbal practice behavior on a daily basis . . . none of which the parents have been able to do. In short, my job as a coach is to remain as objective as I possibly can--I cannot be influenced if a certain kid's parents are my friends or a certain kid has a particular name.  I have to be objective . . .I still recall a parent calling me on the phone accusing me of playing a certain kid--not his--because the other kid's parents were friends of mine; little did that dad realize that just a week earlier I had heard the same comment from the other kid's parent about my not playing his kid for the same reason! My question:  Why would a coach deliberately sabotage a kid?  Fortunately, that is not how it works.  A coach's job involves many aspects, but one of them is certainly not how can I screw this kid over.  I suppose I could repeat that numerous times and many will still not believe me, but my truth, again, is that a coach has many responsibilities . . . but a key one is determining who is going to provide the team the best chance to perform well  . . . objectively, not subjectively.

*Coaching provides a tremendous connection with kids.  Looking back, I can easily say that my greatest satisfaction in coaching has been the relationships that I have created.  Kids can sometimes be frustrating, but, most frequently, they put a smile on my face.  When a team is together as much as a high school sport demands, it is inevitable that a mutual respect will probably emerge--I didn't say that the relationship will always be happy, but the chances of the relationship being enduring are quite strong.  Interacting with kids in ways that a typical classroom environment cannot provide allows coaches to see kids in a world unknown to most teachers . . . and from that both players and coaches know each other much more in-depth.  I would not trade those relationships for anything--winning provides a wonderful feeling, and oftentimes an overripe ego, but the rapport with and memories of those kids mean far more.

*One of the hardest parts of coaching is the disciplining that often must be done.  Like parents who must keep their children in line, so do coaches.  While in-home discipline can often be kept within the family, coaching discipline is often played out in public and frequently discussed among the locals. Every coach has to draw a proverbial line in the sand, but that same coach realizes that each kid is different; I am convinced that many observers believe that all rules must be enforced exactly as they are written, to the letter . . . sounds good, but good luck with that.  Each kid is wired differently--one may be high strung, one may be able to accept criticism, one may be threatened by any criticism, one may need an arm around his shoulder, one may need explanation away from his teammates . . . the list goes on, but my point should be clear.  It is easy from a distance to say this or that should have been done, but understanding each situation and reacting accordingly is the key.  Coaching is teaching, in the event that is forgotten.  When we teach, we must accept that kids are not all the same, and neither are they in coaching.  However, sometimes discipline must be enforced, and when that happens, most frequently the reaction will be split:  some will say it was fair, some will say the kid is being picked on, and some will say that the punishment should have been more severe.  Bottom line is that the coach has to make a decision, accepting that his choice is going to be met with polarized responses.

*To be a coach, one prerequisite is to have thick skin, realizing that being criticized is part of the game--deserved or not.  Our society takes sports quite seriously, and, as a result, we coaches must accept that others are going to frequently have different views than we do.  Over the years, I have learned to keep my thoughts guarded, to do my job the way I feel it should be done, to "keep my friends close and my enemies even closer." Coaching has cost me friendships--while it is not an everyday occurrence, I certainly have encountered people who will turn their backs to me when they see me, who will refuse to respond when I say hello, and who will simply refuse to even look at me.  While today I laugh at the pettiness of those reactions, I realize that most of the time those individuals have targeted me as the cause of their kids' lack of success or their kids' lack of talent. In short, they have someone to blame; if that person happens to be me, so be it. 

*The responsibility of being a coach is immense--coaches frequently become a "face" in a community, good or bad.  Recognizing and accepting this is important because we become visible to a whole bunch of people, whether we realize it or not.  Establishing a reputation is part of the spinoff from coaching--people notice us, providing yet another opportunity for opinions to be made.  It is easy to describe coaches as arrogant, and many of us are, but the truth is that most coaches are guarded, as described previously.  I have always prided myself on staying away from parents, for example, because I realize that at some point I am going to make them mad.  Thus, when I walk into Buehler's or WalMart, I try my best to get what I need and get out of there--getting cornered to discuss why a kid is not playing in a basketball game is not what I envision when I enter a grocery store, but I know that it might happen.  In addition, many times people just want to get to know us--they see us coaching but do not know us beyond that arena.  Those conversations are quite welcomed--I have learned that coaches must appreciate their elevated roles within a school.

*A beauty of coaching is "connecting the dots"; just like someone putting together a puzzle, coaches welcome the challenge of matching their players' strengths and weaknesses, combining them into a finished product.  When the pieces fit, the picture often is what we would describe as "beautiful"--we cut, paste, and refine the parts until we get the product we desire--I do really miss that, I must confess.

*Time to bring all these ramblings together:  Coaching is an extremely rewarding profession that dominates a person's life.  The emotional ups and downs that accompany it provide a stress that can easily age someone before his or her time; the rewards of winning and building relationships are immeasurable; the gut-wrenching stab of losing can lower one's self-esteem, make the coach question his or her priorities, and often lead to physical health issues.  So, in answer to the question of "Do I miss coaching?" my response is actually quite simple:  My life is much more peaceful these days because I am no longer on the emotional roller coaster of coaching; I miss the camaraderie with fellow coaches/players and the competition, but I am sleeping full nights without much interruption.  When I see former players, I am greeted by handshakes and hugs . . . what those kids don't really appreciate just yet is that those gestures have made it all worthwhile . . . that was the true beauty of coaching for me. 

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In response to inquiries, if any reader has missed my postings, the collection may be found at the following:  michaelagunther.blogspot.com

A Revelation

Paul Fromm

St. Ann's Hospital for Women
Columbus, Ohio

September 10, 1955

 

Do you know that guy?  He's a handsome dude; colorful--sometimes a bit off-color; some like him, some don't; some think he's wrapped pretty solidly, others think the "butter dun slid off his biscuits."  Again, do you know him?
 

The answer is that boy--with the exception of the "handsome dude" comment--is me, Mike Gunther.  I am an adopted child.  In February 1956, my parents chose me to be their son.  Two years previously they had chosen my soon-to-be sister from the same hospital/orphanage to be their daughter.  To many, I assume that revelation is somewhat of a shock . . . to this boy, that adoption was my life. 

 

At birth, I was given the name of Paul Fromm; anyone born prior to 1964 has the right to purchase for a nominal fee his or her original birth certificate, so after being married and realizing that my wife and I wanted to have children, we decided that it was in our best interests to try finding out my health history.  Therefore, the documents I received from the State of Ohio were hoped to be helpful--they weren't, at least regarding my health history, which simply stated "Normal."  What I did learn was that my mother's last name was Fromm and she lived in Columbus.  My father's name was nowhere to be found.  To inject a bit of humor into this conversation, whenever anyone would refer to me as a bastard--which certainly has happened in my teaching/coaching background--I would reply, "How did you know that?" It usually stopped the conversation immediately.  (Anyway, I apologize to anyone I may have offended with that last comment.) In simple terms, I have a mother's name, but I have no record of a father's name . . . and I really don't care about either one.

 

The question of whether to pursue my original birth parents has never been an overwhelming desire.  Yes, as an adult, I have been curious, but not enough to want to pursue a search.  Nearly twenty years ago, when I was staying at a Columbus-area hotel for a weekend, I went through the phone book just to see; encountering a whole slew of Fromms, I closed the book and abandoned my search.  Since that time, I have taken no steps to ever find out anything more.  Again, yes, the curiosity is still there, but I really don't know what discovering my actual birth mother would achieve if I even knew other than to perhaps bring disappointment to another family, something I am not willing to do.

 

So, the issue is simple:  Why am I even writing this?  The answer is because it seems to me to be a topic others might want to read about . . . perhaps many readers have a similar background.  With that said, let me share a few other tidbits about this situation.  When I was probably six, I was in the backyard shooting baskets on my eight-foot basket when my parents called both my sister and me into the kitchen.  I distinctly remember their formally seating us at the green kitchen table--which even had a pull-out tray, bigtime stuff!--and their telling us that they wanted to share something with us.  Having no idea what this was about, my sister Carol and I sat there waiting . . . and they told us we were adopted--we both had different parents (Carol, FYI, was not my blood sister).  A magical moment in retrospect, but at that time, I asked what that meant.  My dad told us that they had gotten us in Columbus but they--Marge and Jack, my parents--were not our "real" parents.  Carol and I looked at each other, said, "so," and then asked if we could go outside and play again.  That was the impact the announcement had on us . . . nothing.  The reasons were simple:  We were loved, cared for, and encouraged--we didn't need anything else.

 

As my life unfolded, nothing changed.  Yes, I had the proverbial shout-outs with my dad because my hair was too long (imagine that), I was lippy, and I didn't listen--with the exception of the hair, all the aforementioned were true.  However, my mother soothed the waters, thus creating a happy home where being adopted meant absolutely nothing.  A typical home in typical small-town America, Gnadenhutten provided a wonderful upbringing . . . safe, fun, and conservative.  I suppose Peyton Place moments occurred, but growing up I had no knowledge of that side of life.  What I did know is that I was secure with what I didn't know!  We took care of our own little world, and that was enough for us. My friends and I were no altar boys, by any stretch--got caught doing stupid stunts . . . got away with far more than we should have . . . always knew right from wrong, whether we followed the proper path or not . . . tried to appear as innocent although anyone who really knew us understood we tried to get away with whatever we could--sound like kids today? In simple terms, my friends and I were ornery, but we were certainly respectful.  The reason had so much to do with the way we were raised: I suppose we were afraid we would "get a paddlin'" when we got home, but, truthfully, I had already had enough of those to last a lifetime--I'm not so sure fear of my dad's scorn scared me that much.  What really kept me in line was the anticipated disappointment my mother would point my way . . . no way did I want her to see me negatively . . . the ol' man, I guess he probably expected my behavior just because I was a boy. 

You see how it all comes together?  No excuses offered--strong family, strong values, caring community--those were the keys.  Oh yeah, we had our supposed heathens, but even those kids weren't bad--perhaps different circumstances influenced their lives, but they weren't bad kids.  We all wanted attention, recognition, love . . . didn't matter what home we came from because at our core we had the same desires.  (Here's a hint about a future blog:  Kids today aren't as different as we from our generation think.)

What that adoption did for me was give me a life, one I have cherished for a lifetime.  As stated, I was and am not any kind of angelic figure . . . trust me on that.  What I learned is that Paul Fromm is eternally grateful that he became Mike Gunther, the son of Jack and Marge and brother to Carol . . .it's a ride that I owe to them, my buddies, and my hometown . . . what a great way to live!