An open letter to the coach I love the most

I see you after football games. Your mood oftentimes a direct reflection of the numbers on the scoreboard. You know you’re about to have to face parents and those conversations may good or bad but the parents are what make or break you more times than not. 

Sometimes you’re told you’re the worst coach ever and anyone could call a better play than that. 

Of course you could, from the stands. We all could. 

You stay at the school hours after everyone else has gone home, drawing up plays and making lists. Those are the same plays and lists I find on scraps of napkins as I turn out pockets to do the wash. 

On days when you feel defeated, both on the field and off, I want you to remember for whom you coach.

It’s so easy for you to believe that you’re coaching for the administration that hired you.

But that's not why you coach. 

It can sometimes feel like you coach for the parents--ever so careful you don’t say anything that might upset them. Might make them think you’re pushing their child too hard or being too unfair. 

That’s not why you coach. 

You don’t coach to ensure their child gets the same amount of playing time as everyone else.

That’s not why you coach. 

You can even think you coach for a school, a mascot, colors on a banner, or another coach. 

None of that is why you coach.  

You coach to ensure their child understands that their playing time is a direct reflection of what they do in their off time. 

You coach for the group of boys that show up to school an hour early, smaller and younger than everyone else but lifting heavier weights than some seniors. 

You coach for the college freshman that texts you every single holiday to tell you how much he appreciates all you did for him his senior year. 

You coach for the college freshman that looks into the stadium seats to find you. Because he knows you’re there whether he steps onto the field or not. 

You coach for the player that runs into your room to show you camp letters, college letters, and recruitment texts. 

You coach for the players that find you in Wal-Mart as we’re out shopping to tell you how much they love you. 

You coach for the babies that wanted a Pee-wee football team. 

You coach for the Okra Campers that needed someone as enthusiastic and goofy as you as their leader. 

You coach for the elementary kids that walked up to you at church and said “hey, Coach” with a deep Southern drawl. 

You coach for the cafeteria workers that always slipped you extra snacks “for Coach.” 

You coach for the little boy still inside you that stood on the sidelines all through elementary school watching the big boys play football. 

You coach for the little boy that said, “Throw the ball, Daddy,” when he was still learning to run well. 

You coach for your own little girl who asks every Friday, “Are we going to see Daddy’s game?” 

You even coach for me. 

And most importantly, you coach because it’s what God made you to do. You coach because He gave you a passion. A fire. A true gift to be a light to every player you come across. To show them what humble looks like. To show them what Christ’s love looks like. To show that God never gives up on them and neither does their coach. 

There will be wins and losses. That’s life and football. Hopefully, there will be more wins but I pray we have enough losses to appreciate the wins when they come. 

But as I see you come home and drop your soaking wet shoes at the door, hang your whistle and hat on the wall, and love on our daughter with tired eyes I’m just grateful--along with hundreds of others. 

I’m so grateful that you coach.

            

This column first appeared in The Bolivar Commercial. 

Teachers and the things they say

I went out to dinner with my family the other night and my mind started to wander. For some reason, within a few minutes I was back in high school math classroom talking to a friend about my first date. 

I was 16 years old and was asked to eat supper with a boy in my grade. I was so excited. We went to a local wings place where we ate, talked, and mutually decided we would like to remain friends. It was one of those dates that wasn't bad, but was very clear by the end of the evening. 

The next day, a classmate asked how the date went. 

Let me back up and set the scene here. 

Class was over. Students were chatting and waiting for the bell. The teacher was at the front of the room. 

I told her that it was nice, but we decided not to go out on another date for various reasons, mainly that our choices of extracurricular activities didn't exactly match up. We spoke quietly when suddenly the teacher, we'll call her Mrs. Smith, said in front of the entire class, "Courtney, you need to stop. I'm sure that he didn't want to date you and you're fabricating things. All of the faculty know you're a liar."

I was stunned. I was 16. She said this in front of every single one of my classmates. Another student sat down behind me and said, "Oh my gosh. I can't believe you didn't say anything. Or leave." 

At the time, with a mouth like I had, I'm sure I had plenty to say but now as a teacher, I know why I didn't. She was my teacher. I really liked her and considered her "safe." But when she said that, and basically told me the other teachers I admired talked badly of me outside of the classroom, I was devastated. I felt unwanted. 

I'm 30 years old and still remember that. I could even tell you what she was wearing and where everyone sat. 

What that teacher said mattered and stayed with me long after graduation. 

Years later, I sat in my senior writing or poetry class in undergrad. I loved writing and was so excited to take a writing class from someone I thought highly of because of their position at the university. 

Unfortunately, he did not think so highly of me, for reasons I'll genuinely never quite grasp. However, I do remember listening and taking notes one day only to have him ask me a question I couldn't answer. "I'm not sure," I replied. He asked me what I was doing on my computer and implied I wasn't attentive. 

"I'm taking notes. I'm listening. That doesn't mean I know the answer to your question." 

That was the beginning of a tough semester. 

A few weeks later, I entered the classroom and felt a familiar pressure on my chest as the anxiety of being in this room and feeling inadequate and disliked settled over me. Nervously, I chewed my nails and watched the clock, waiting for class to be over with the understanding that it was one step closer to graduation.

Looking straight at me from across the circle of desks, he said, “I was once told that when a person chews their nails they are essentially chewing on the dead skin cells they’ve scratched from their body. Chewing your nails is a disgusting habit.” 

The entire class was silent. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. 

It wasn’t until two years later, after my acceptance into an amazing children’s literature graduate program when a published and award-winning author and professor sat me down in her office once summer that I realized the impact these comments had on me. 

“Who did this to you?” She asked over her cup of tea. 

Many years after that I received a letter from that same undergraduate teacher applauding one of my columns and my teaching in general. I saved it--this was the first time I’d ever heard something positive from him in regards to anything I’d done. 

What we say to our students matters. It stays with them years after they leave our classrooms. What if every comment we made about something appeared on their skin somewhere? How would what we say about those we lead define them? I told my husband the story of the high school teacher and he was shocked. “Why haven’t you told me that before? And why are you thinking of it now?”

I didn't know why I was thinking of it at dinner in a Mexican restaurant but the point was that it was on my mind. 

I want to be on my student's mind. But I want to be on their minds because of the good things I’ve said to them. I want them to remember the costumes, the glitter, the books, and the hot pink microphone. 

What have you said to those around you lately that they will remember?

This column first appeared in The Bolivar Commercial.