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.
*******
In response to inquiries, if any reader has missed my postings, the collection may be found at the following: michaelagunther.blogspot.com. Responses may also be sent to my email at mag.gunther@gmail.com or guntherm@roadrunner.com.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Living on a Prayer
Growing up as a kid, I never anticipated the life I would eventually lead; I hoped for much, but like everyone, I simply followed a path--how that path unfolded had smooth zones for sure, but it definitely had major bumps. Today is the story of a "bump," revealing yet perhaps another side of this writer. While teaching high school, I always taught my students that the best writing is that which comes from the soul--what follows is from the deep soul, my friends.
Like most kids, I had what I would consider a strong upbringing; as described in earlier blogs, my family certainly was nowhere near wealthy, but we survived on strong caring and love. Friends were many, memories were plentiful, and smiles were rampant . . . until our lives changed.
In 1961, my mother entered the Cleveland Clinic for what was then a rare surgery--she was getting a heart valve replaced with what I remember as being a pig valve. Being six, I really had little understanding of what that entailed; all I knew was that my sister and I were shipped out to relatives' and friends' houses for about a month because my dad was either with my mom or he was working. Occasionally, we saw him, but those times were sparse. After a month, my mom returned home, but my sister and I had no idea that she was arriving. I clearly recall opening the back door of my dad's Mercury and seeing my mom lying on the back seat, so thrilled to be home yet so tired that she immediately went inside on the bed and went to sleep. For the next several months, she recovered and ultimately led a healthy life. As this story unfolds, this is an important event.
Life moved on for decades; however, on the day before Thanksgiving 1977 as I arrived home from college, my dad met me as I pulled my car into the driveway. That greeting was quite strange, but I soon discovered that what he was sharing was to be a life-altering experience for my family. He explained that the company he worked for (U.S. Concrete in Uhrichsville) had announced the day before that it would be closing at year's end. Shocking, yes, but he went on to explain that when he had told my mom the news, almost an immediate change had occurred in her. That was my introduction to dealing with the ravages of mental illness.
I certainly am not an expert on any facet of the disease, but I can emphatically state that I have a first-hand understanding of its terror. Selfishly, I will confess that after witnessing my mom's deterioration, I was glad I had been adopted--that gene would not be part of my life. In the years that followed, I saw behavior from my mom I never would have imagined. From incessant talking to dark periods of depression to erratic acts to sudden flips of emotion, I witnessed a sad downward spiral interrupted by periods of occasional normalcy. The trip to her ultimate passing many years later is not one I recall with enthusiasm; in truth, I would like to forget that it ever happened, but I know it is too ingrained to ever forget.
Any time a writer reveals a personal side, the wonder is why . . . why would he or she reveal such a private part of life? My answer is quite simple: If my revelation can align with others' situations, then I, at the least, am helping them cope. You see, when mental illness hit my home, I was embarrassed, embarrassed because I had no knowledge of what it was, afraid that others would laugh and ridicule me--I simply was operating in a fog with no knowledge. As with most situations in my life, however, I realized my key to understanding was to read what I could find and to learn as much as possible about this illness. What I learned is that mental illness is far more rampant and misunderstood than most people will ever acknowledge. It is a disease. In the case of my mother, it was brought about by a cocktail of occurrences: the shock of the major breadwinner losing his job, the female's chemical reactions to menopause, and, evidently, a "predisposal to strange brain activity."
You recall my story of the heart valve replacement mentioned earlier? Well, as time unfolded, the family secret was finally told to my sister and me. Following my mom's surgery in '61, she had experienced a mental breakdown--what caused that I have no idea, but what I learned when the "secret" was revealed was that she had dealt with a mental irregularity in '61. In short, a "predisposal to strange brain activity" had reared its head previously . . . and it had returned.
This writing is not a sympathy plea--no way. Rather, it is an attempt at providing understanding for something few of us truly understand. It is heartbreaking, for sure, but it becomes a true test of one's character. When I began to understand the illness, the effects, and the confusion, I became a better person simply because instead of ignoring or occasionally laughing at those who could not help themselves, I understood the impact it could have. At various times, I visited my mom in the mental ward at Union Hospital, in the emergency room where she was strapped to a table, in our home where she sat with a flat demeanor staring straight ahead never acknowledging anyone's presence but for an occasional smile. Like so many others suffering from this illness, she was fighting a battle she would never have dreamed.
(Not wanting to belabor the readers with more stories, I will provide the ending: my mother lived for several years with her illness. At times, she was so strong--particularly during my sister's battle and demise with cancer--but the illness consumed her until her death from congestive heart failure.)
Here is my teaching point: As we venture through life, we never know the path we will take. In my case, I became exposed to mental illness. I educated myself about it, I saw and heard much I would like to forget, but I developed an appreciation for its power, and, most of all, I became so much more understanding of the battles others face. It is funny how the old clichés that I have heard numerous time throughout my life continue to resurface, but so many are spot on: Don't ever criticize others until you have walked a mile in their shoes. This boy learned that lesson the hard way, but, oh, what a lesson it was.
Like most kids, I had what I would consider a strong upbringing; as described in earlier blogs, my family certainly was nowhere near wealthy, but we survived on strong caring and love. Friends were many, memories were plentiful, and smiles were rampant . . . until our lives changed.
In 1961, my mother entered the Cleveland Clinic for what was then a rare surgery--she was getting a heart valve replaced with what I remember as being a pig valve. Being six, I really had little understanding of what that entailed; all I knew was that my sister and I were shipped out to relatives' and friends' houses for about a month because my dad was either with my mom or he was working. Occasionally, we saw him, but those times were sparse. After a month, my mom returned home, but my sister and I had no idea that she was arriving. I clearly recall opening the back door of my dad's Mercury and seeing my mom lying on the back seat, so thrilled to be home yet so tired that she immediately went inside on the bed and went to sleep. For the next several months, she recovered and ultimately led a healthy life. As this story unfolds, this is an important event.
Life moved on for decades; however, on the day before Thanksgiving 1977 as I arrived home from college, my dad met me as I pulled my car into the driveway. That greeting was quite strange, but I soon discovered that what he was sharing was to be a life-altering experience for my family. He explained that the company he worked for (U.S. Concrete in Uhrichsville) had announced the day before that it would be closing at year's end. Shocking, yes, but he went on to explain that when he had told my mom the news, almost an immediate change had occurred in her. That was my introduction to dealing with the ravages of mental illness.
I certainly am not an expert on any facet of the disease, but I can emphatically state that I have a first-hand understanding of its terror. Selfishly, I will confess that after witnessing my mom's deterioration, I was glad I had been adopted--that gene would not be part of my life. In the years that followed, I saw behavior from my mom I never would have imagined. From incessant talking to dark periods of depression to erratic acts to sudden flips of emotion, I witnessed a sad downward spiral interrupted by periods of occasional normalcy. The trip to her ultimate passing many years later is not one I recall with enthusiasm; in truth, I would like to forget that it ever happened, but I know it is too ingrained to ever forget.
Any time a writer reveals a personal side, the wonder is why . . . why would he or she reveal such a private part of life? My answer is quite simple: If my revelation can align with others' situations, then I, at the least, am helping them cope. You see, when mental illness hit my home, I was embarrassed, embarrassed because I had no knowledge of what it was, afraid that others would laugh and ridicule me--I simply was operating in a fog with no knowledge. As with most situations in my life, however, I realized my key to understanding was to read what I could find and to learn as much as possible about this illness. What I learned is that mental illness is far more rampant and misunderstood than most people will ever acknowledge. It is a disease. In the case of my mother, it was brought about by a cocktail of occurrences: the shock of the major breadwinner losing his job, the female's chemical reactions to menopause, and, evidently, a "predisposal to strange brain activity."
You recall my story of the heart valve replacement mentioned earlier? Well, as time unfolded, the family secret was finally told to my sister and me. Following my mom's surgery in '61, she had experienced a mental breakdown--what caused that I have no idea, but what I learned when the "secret" was revealed was that she had dealt with a mental irregularity in '61. In short, a "predisposal to strange brain activity" had reared its head previously . . . and it had returned.
This writing is not a sympathy plea--no way. Rather, it is an attempt at providing understanding for something few of us truly understand. It is heartbreaking, for sure, but it becomes a true test of one's character. When I began to understand the illness, the effects, and the confusion, I became a better person simply because instead of ignoring or occasionally laughing at those who could not help themselves, I understood the impact it could have. At various times, I visited my mom in the mental ward at Union Hospital, in the emergency room where she was strapped to a table, in our home where she sat with a flat demeanor staring straight ahead never acknowledging anyone's presence but for an occasional smile. Like so many others suffering from this illness, she was fighting a battle she would never have dreamed.
(Not wanting to belabor the readers with more stories, I will provide the ending: my mother lived for several years with her illness. At times, she was so strong--particularly during my sister's battle and demise with cancer--but the illness consumed her until her death from congestive heart failure.)
Here is my teaching point: As we venture through life, we never know the path we will take. In my case, I became exposed to mental illness. I educated myself about it, I saw and heard much I would like to forget, but I developed an appreciation for its power, and, most of all, I became so much more understanding of the battles others face. It is funny how the old clichés that I have heard numerous time throughout my life continue to resurface, but so many are spot on: Don't ever criticize others until you have walked a mile in their shoes. This boy learned that lesson the hard way, but, oh, what a lesson it was.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Integrity in Pro Football? Come on, man!
Where does it all end?
Adult male slaps his wife in an elevator . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult male beats his kid with a stick . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult male defies league orders and wears gold spikes . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult male catches touchdown pass and simulates pooping the ball . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult males willingly engage in a professional sport, certainly aware of its risks and its rewards, and then sue the league for causing delayed brain trauma . . . fix it, Roger, but remember we were once star athletes.
To be blunt, I am perplexed. I enjoy watching professional football (National Football League--NFL) as much as most men my age, but I must admit to being overwhelmed with its current state. No, I am not upset about the game; I am upset about the men who play the game. Note that I began my first four sentences with "Adult male(s)" for a specific reason--all involved are adults and probably dads, responsible for their own actions. Somehow, someway, however, as irritating as those actions are, the commissioner, Roger Goodell, is the man to whom the wrath of many Americans is directed. How did that happen?
I suppose I could jump on the bandwagon and agree with those individuals calling for Goodell's head, but I just cannot bring myself to do it. The ever-increasing need for controversy, heavily influenced by ESPN's often overly aggressive "investigating," seems to be a key catalyst for stirring the pot. As I have stated in a previous blog, we have a tendency to start believing the "loudest voice in the room"; whether that voice is the most logical seems to have become irrelevant. If we hear something often enough and loudly enough, we tend to believe it. That is where my problem begins.
What we seem to be asking the NFL commissioner to do is to be a policeman; if he reacts too quickly (as many said he did in the wife-beating incident), the criticism flies because he did not know all the facts and gather all the evidence. If he delays his reaction as he is currently being accused of in the "Deflategate" dilemma (a matter I consider to be completely overblown and irrelevant), he gets accused of not being accessible to the public and the media. In short, he cannot win in the public's eyes at this point.
The question is this: Why is all this venom being directed toward him? From my seat, it is because he is in the position of authority. Combine jealousy over his salary with not following what many may desire with statements that are based on hearsay as opposed to facts with a resentment of his leadership position and the answer becomes clear: He's not like "us," so, therefore, we don't like him. Hey, sounds eerily similar to how many feel toward school superintendents, doesn't it?
My point should be clear: I don't think any of us are surprised about the off-field shenanigans of professional athletes. Unless we are still caught up in hero adoration, most of us accept that many--certainly not all--athletes playing professionally are not mental giants, are not people of high character, are not sincere contributors to most of their communities, and, in many ways, they could be labeled as arrogant clowns. Please keep in mind that these words are being written by someone who loves the competition in sports, yet someone who is growing increasingly tired of the players' shenanigans. I'm sick of it, to be quite honest.
To shift the blame to the commissioner--an intelligent, moral, paid-his-dues leader--seems to be such a copout, yet I am not at all shocked. We look for scapegoats, particularly leaders; . . . if the loudest voices say that the commissioner is incompetent, then, hey, he must be--damn the logic, let's just blame somebody. And while we're doing that, we might want to consider that a leader's position is to try to effectively control those he leads . . . sounds simple, doesn't it? Just as a subtle reminder, I will conclude with these two so important remarks made by a highly-paid Super Bowl-playing athlete, reflective of just what this commissioner has to deal with:
"I'm just here so I don't get fined."
"You know why I'm here."
Put the pieces together, my friends--maybe the people lacking character are not the ones in charge!
Adult male slaps his wife in an elevator . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult male beats his kid with a stick . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult male defies league orders and wears gold spikes . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult male catches touchdown pass and simulates pooping the ball . . . fix it, Roger, but remember I'm a star athlete.
Adult males willingly engage in a professional sport, certainly aware of its risks and its rewards, and then sue the league for causing delayed brain trauma . . . fix it, Roger, but remember we were once star athletes.
To be blunt, I am perplexed. I enjoy watching professional football (National Football League--NFL) as much as most men my age, but I must admit to being overwhelmed with its current state. No, I am not upset about the game; I am upset about the men who play the game. Note that I began my first four sentences with "Adult male(s)" for a specific reason--all involved are adults and probably dads, responsible for their own actions. Somehow, someway, however, as irritating as those actions are, the commissioner, Roger Goodell, is the man to whom the wrath of many Americans is directed. How did that happen?
I suppose I could jump on the bandwagon and agree with those individuals calling for Goodell's head, but I just cannot bring myself to do it. The ever-increasing need for controversy, heavily influenced by ESPN's often overly aggressive "investigating," seems to be a key catalyst for stirring the pot. As I have stated in a previous blog, we have a tendency to start believing the "loudest voice in the room"; whether that voice is the most logical seems to have become irrelevant. If we hear something often enough and loudly enough, we tend to believe it. That is where my problem begins.
What we seem to be asking the NFL commissioner to do is to be a policeman; if he reacts too quickly (as many said he did in the wife-beating incident), the criticism flies because he did not know all the facts and gather all the evidence. If he delays his reaction as he is currently being accused of in the "Deflategate" dilemma (a matter I consider to be completely overblown and irrelevant), he gets accused of not being accessible to the public and the media. In short, he cannot win in the public's eyes at this point.
The question is this: Why is all this venom being directed toward him? From my seat, it is because he is in the position of authority. Combine jealousy over his salary with not following what many may desire with statements that are based on hearsay as opposed to facts with a resentment of his leadership position and the answer becomes clear: He's not like "us," so, therefore, we don't like him. Hey, sounds eerily similar to how many feel toward school superintendents, doesn't it?
My point should be clear: I don't think any of us are surprised about the off-field shenanigans of professional athletes. Unless we are still caught up in hero adoration, most of us accept that many--certainly not all--athletes playing professionally are not mental giants, are not people of high character, are not sincere contributors to most of their communities, and, in many ways, they could be labeled as arrogant clowns. Please keep in mind that these words are being written by someone who loves the competition in sports, yet someone who is growing increasingly tired of the players' shenanigans. I'm sick of it, to be quite honest.
To shift the blame to the commissioner--an intelligent, moral, paid-his-dues leader--seems to be such a copout, yet I am not at all shocked. We look for scapegoats, particularly leaders; . . . if the loudest voices say that the commissioner is incompetent, then, hey, he must be--damn the logic, let's just blame somebody. And while we're doing that, we might want to consider that a leader's position is to try to effectively control those he leads . . . sounds simple, doesn't it? Just as a subtle reminder, I will conclude with these two so important remarks made by a highly-paid Super Bowl-playing athlete, reflective of just what this commissioner has to deal with:
"I'm just here so I don't get fined."
"You know why I'm here."
Put the pieces together, my friends--maybe the people lacking character are not the ones in charge!
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