When I was in 9th grade, I decided to tryout for the high school soccer team. I had played once before. I think it was 3rd grade and our jerseys were blue. I know I wasn’t very good at the time, but as was the case with many things, I lacked self-confidence—and a keen understanding of what a little hard work and time could afford me. At least six-years had passed since then, and soccer was new to our high school. Weighing risk vs. reward, I surely wouldn’t be the only girl who didn’t know what she was doing. With the only other option being our well-established volleyball program—soccer was my best bet.
Now to level-set, in rural Ohio American football was king. Soccer, well, those who have never played this sport and probably also live under rocks might say it was a game for kids who couldn’t hack it. Pansies, wimps and weirdos. You often heard it from the football players and some of their parents about the kids who played. In the early stages of our soccer program, there was an invisible line between “us” and “them.”
Did I mention I was new to the game and I had no idea what I was doing? Quite literally. The summer before Freshman year, there was an open practice for any kids who wanted to join the team. I talked my friend Matt into coming over and showing me how to kick the soccer ball my mom had bought me years ago and was currently collecting dust in the garage. He showed me the basics, gave me a pep talk and off I went in the hopes that I wouldn’t completely make a fool out of myself. A few weeks later, I was officially on the team. It should also be mentioned that no one got cut.
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I was one of the lucky kids whose parents made it to every home game. Even during middle school basketball away games, they did their best to make it. Both of my parents—being the incredible athletes that they were in baseball and tennis—had supported and encouraged both my brother and I when it came to sports. From second grade on, I spent summers on the ball field and winters on the basketball court. I fell in love with both games.
I was the shortstop on an undefeated softball team—two years in a row. And while I was arguably more comfortable playing street ball with the boys in my neighborhood, I earned a spot as both point and shooting guards on my 7th and 8th grade basketball teams. The key was, my coaches in both sports knew how to build up my skills and my confidence and they gave me the opportunity to do both at practice and during games.
High school soccer however, didn’t work that way. I didn’t play much at all those first couple of seasons. While it was hard to stand on the sidelines more than run around on the field, I was resigned to it. Truth-be-told, I knew plainly that I wasn’t any good. I was learning and desperately wanted to improve and I was okay earning my place over time. I remember a few of the older girls who made it look so easy. They moved with grace and finesse on the field in a way I coveted. I wanted what they had. I wanted to put in the work and needed to be patient. I offered to play on the JV team my sophomore and junior year as much as I could, just to get the experience. I was determined not to quit.
My story ended like all the good ones do. I earned my time in the spotlight in all three sports I played. I shot a 3-pointer on the buzzer to a roaring crowd. I nabbed a line drive at shortstop from the most perfect diving catch anyone could imagine—and I had enough time to throw down to 1st base and get a double play. And my senior year, I was captain of the soccer team and 1st Team All Ohio. I earned my redemption and I can with all honesty say, it was nothing more than solid grit, determination and opportunity. What I didn’t realize was how much the time on the sidelines took a toll on my mom.
Essayist and journalist Elizabeth Stone once wrote, “One of my favorite sayings about having children is it’s like having your heart walking around outside your body.” A few years after I had graduated, my mom finally told me how much it hurt to watch me sit on the bench and not play. In one instance, she told me she actually left the stands and went to cry in her car for fear that others would see her.
As a young 20-something, I didn’t know what it felt like to truly have your heart break on behalf of someone else. But, as the mom of an 8th grade boy going through the same thing today, I most certainly understand now.
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I have coached both of my children in basketball, softball and soccer at different stages and aptitudes. I have done my absolute best to build teams where every player has a unique set of skills that can be leveraged for the team at any time. In the early years, I had a strict rule to make sure each kid got equal playing time. Those who got less in one game, balanced it out in the next. It’s a delicate dance, but it’s doable if a coach is thoughtful and takes their time.
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Last year, I had my biggest challenge coaching middle school boys basketball with players who knew more about the game than I did. I shared my anxiety about failing the boys with a friend at the gym who tried to enlist the help of a seasoned coach. He agreed to meet me for coffee and came prepared with a file folder full of notes and game concepts. His first question to me was, “Do you know what a transitional offense is?” You can guess my answer to that. I sat with him for an hour and at the end of our time, invited him to a practice.
I let the boys and parents know that he would be attending our next practice. I wasn’t sure what the end-game would be, but I felt for certain it looked something like him taking over as head coach and me absorbing as much knowledge from him during the season. He ran that practice like a drill sergeant. No smiling. No fun. All business. I watched as he ran drills and my memory was jogged from 20-years prior. He may not have taken the same approach as I did, but he knew what the heck he was doing and I didn’t.
As practice continued, I started to pay close attention to the looks on the boy’s faces. One in particular was extremely unhappy and flat out uncooperative at times. That didn’t bode well for him with my guest coach and he made sure that boy paid for it. The others looked tired, confused and ready to be done about 20-minutes in. But the one that most intrigued me was a boy with special needs. He was my most eager of team players. It was always a more difficult to give him instructions, but even the other boys wanted him to do well and would take the time to show him what to do when I needed it. “Celebrity coach” took a different tactic. He simply ignored him.
At first, I gave him the benefit of the doubt—hoping within minutes he would swap out the players and let him participate. But as time went on, I realized that was never going to happen. And let’s just say, I got mama-bear angry. I pulled the boy over to another basket and worked with him individually until the end of practice. I had learned all I needed to know. I was going to step up and lead the team. I didn’t need his help.
We didn’t win all of our games last season. In fact, we didn’t win half of them. But, we did improve. That is without question. I will never forget the last game of the season, the way each individual player leveled-up and came very close to beating a team who crushed us earlier in the year. I don’t know how to explain the feeling, but it’s something akin to “having your heart walk outside of your body.”
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I write a letter at the beginning of each coaching season to set expectations with the parents. At such young ages, we have the luxury of not needing to win every game, but when we do it’s a bonus. I explain that if the team doesn’t make marked progress with each individual improving by the last game, then I haven’t done my job. My number one goal beyond improving is for every kid to have fun and when they do, their parents do too. It’s a time commitment for everyone, so it’s important to make sure it’s well-worth it.
As I reflect back on my own athletic career through the eyes of a sideline parent today, I’m realizing that maybe I had that wrong. No. If I were to write a letter today, I think it might look something like this:
Dear parents,
I’m so grateful to be able to spend time working with each of your children this season. Thank you for entrusting me with them.
A little about me. I grew up playing three sports. I have been on both winning and losing teams. I’ve felt the joy of victory and the crushing pain of defeat in games that came down to the wire. I have had my experience with all sorts of coaches and I can—in hindsight—recall why some were better than others. And although I didn’t like all of them equally, I do have equal amounts of respect for their time and effort taken.
That said, there are a handful of coaches that I hold dear to my heart because they were successful at doing one simple thing. They saw me. Not as a strategy for winning or a pawn on a proverbial chessboard. Because they really saw me.
There are four coaches I specifically remember who went over and above to make me feel they cared about me. My first tee ball coach who gave me a piece of candy after I had mistakenly ran the bases backwards and thought I’d scored. A soccer coach from Britain who came back each summer to work with us for a few weeks, and pulled me aside to say he noticed how deliberately I read the field because strategy was sometimes the most important thing. My winningest softball coach, who when I joined the team and didn’t know what I was doing, put me in at “rover” instead of sitting me on the bench so I could actually practice what he was preaching. And an 8th grade basketball coach–Ms. B–whom at one point I was terrified of, but 4-years later remembered me enough to come to my graduation party. She had spent her younger years traveling the world and was both a coach and a social studies teacher.
She approached my party quietly and in true Ms. B fashion, asked for a word away from the crowd. In her hand was a small wooden box she had brought back from one of the countries she had visited years ago. Then she said to me, “As you go through life, I want you to take this with you and inside it keep your hopes and dreams. Don’t forget who you are and where you came from. I’m so grateful for the time I spent being your coach. I can’t wait to see what you do next.” I still have that box and it reminds me each time I see it of her.
After this season is over, I don’t expect your kiddos to remember me, but I want you to know that I will remember them. And I will learn from them. I promise to honor and care for them the way you would expect me to. I promise to really see each of them for the unique gifts they are. We are all in this together. I won’t let you down.
Oh, and let’s kick some serious butt too. Deal?
Love and Light,
Coach Ev