An open letter to my Children's Coaches

Coaches, I recently read an article written by Chris Sperry about one very famous and respected coach, John Scolinos and his message. You can find the entire article at sperrybaseballlife.com. In it, Sperry spoke about the 52nd annual ABCA convention held at the Opryland Hotel where he and 4,000 other youth league, high school, and college coaches met in 1996 and where John Scolinos was a headliner. Sperry didn’t even know who John Scolinos was at the time.

As the story goes, when the 78 year-old Scolinos shuffled to the stage he was wearing dark pants, a light shirt, and a full-size home plate tied to a string around his neck. He asked a question about the plate, “Do you know how wide home plate is in Little League” and those Little League coaches in attendance answered hesitantly – seventeen inches. He repeated his Q&A for coaches in the room from Babe Ruth, high school, and college, all the way through Minor League and Major League Baseball, each to a more resounding and confident “seventeen inches!”

He spoke about pitching, and a pitcher’s ability to throw strikes. The 78 year-old legend spoke about the harsh reality of baseball “what do they do with a a Big League pitcher who can’t throw the ball over seventeen inches?” (sic) “What they don’t do is this: they don’t say, ‘Ah, that’s okay, Jimmy. You can’t hit a seventeen-inch target? We’ll make it eighteen inches, or nineteen inches.’”

To wrap it up and drive home his point about baseball and life, Coach Scolinos reminded the 4,000 volunteer and professional coaches that “seventeen inches” is about more than baseball, it is about life. The target is constant. It doesn’t matter if the pitcher is twelve and throwing rainbow balls or twenty-seven throwing one hundred mile an hour fast balls against the greatest hitters of the day – the target is seventeen inches. That same target applies to life.

“…what do we do when our best player shows up late to practice? When our team rules forbid facial hair and a guy shows up unshaven? What if he gets caught drinking? Do we hold him accountable? Or do we change the rules to fit him, do we widen home plate?”

To my children’s coaches over the years, thank you. We have had our differences. We have argued. We have celebrated victories together and suffered defeats together. We have disagreed about rules and plays and line-ups, but on the last day of the season after the last game is played, you were the coach, my child was the player, and our family walked away with another gift most people never realize – life lessons.

Coaches, did you know you were teaching my children how to handle success and defeat in life? Did you know you were responsible for how my children successfully navigated relationships with their future bosses and co-workers? Did you know you taught my children how to be as gracious in victory as they are in defeat? Did you know you were teaching young adults how to be responsible to others and accountable to themselves?

I can’t count the number of times our family has had the opportunity to turn a game of baseball or football or soccer or volleyball into a life lesson – all because you, coach, gave us that opportunity. Whether you volunteered to coach youth league, or you were hired and receive a yearly salary for high school ball, you made the lesson possible. Whether we were celebrating a hard-fought victory over Dairy Queen ice cream or working through a stinging loss, you coaches made those lessons possible.

Coaches, you may not realize it, but that time you took after a win to reinforce the lessons of the game and give the losing team a chance to exit before we celebrated – that class you showed registered with my child. And that time you screamed like a madman and threw a fit like a four year-old – that registered with my child too. You made my child work hard for her starting position, and when she made a mistake, you sat her on the bench. You taught her failure has consequence. Then you coached her on the proper mechanics and she never made that mistake again.

You also taught him that motivation must come from within. Players who thrive on extrinsic praise wilted under your barrage, but players who loved the game and the team, players whose intrinsic motivation exceeded your seemingly classless attacks, they learned to emerge unscathed and ready for the next chance. You taught him that sometimes, even his best won’t be good enough. Sometimes, even his hardest try won’t satisfy the most critical of bosses. You taught him that sometimes life will call balls even when his pitch catches the corner. You taught him that, “Coach, I did my best,” sometimes gets answered with, “well, today your best wasn’t good enough.”

I’m reminded of a chance meeting with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, GEN Colin Powell. GEN Powell was speaking to a US Army unity in Kuwait. The unit’s protocol officer was a new Captain whose intent was to impress the Chairman. The unit’s experienced Sergeant Major reluctantly gave control of planning the event to the Captain who mixed up the order and failed to play the required marching music when GEN Powell walked in. Powell made his address and was met by SGM Bellamy who apologized at the foot of the stage for the mix-up. “Our apologies, General. We did our best.”

“Well, Sergeant Major, today your best wasn’t good enough.” – GEN Colin Powell.

I’m also reminded of a smile, wild and untamed hair mussed from battle, and a team with beaming smiles and a State Championship trophy. I’m reminded each time my child takes the court to coach her own team of the lessons in mechanics, gamesmanship, motivation, and mind play you taught and continue to teach. I’m reminded every time he speaks about his college life of the barriers you broke by forcing him to play offense. When he talks of his dreams, he’s never fenced in by fears. And I’m reminded every time he stands up against a bully in school of the strength you helped find within him. His career choice to be a public servant was formed in part by your every action on the field.

So thank you coaches, for teaching my kid how to see the field and cut off the cross-field pass, how to pancake and turn a spike into a volley, and how to go low to gain leverage over a much larger lineman. Thank you for calling her out even though you knew she would never look at you. Thank you for racing to the field after a long day at work, for giving up your Saturdays with your own family, and for pushing through the heat and the rain and the wind.

Thank you for maintaining that seventeen inch target.