Growing up, basketball wasn’t just a game to me—it was a way of life.
As a kid, I could shoot hoops for hours, feeling nothing but the leather ball in my hands and hearing the satisfying swish of the net.
I was a standout player, a young star in the making—until puberty hit, and suddenly, I wasn’t the best on the court anymore.
But that’s not the heart of my story.
Back then, I had a coach, a stern, no-nonsense man with a booming voice that could silence a gym. His coaching style was tough, grueling even, and it seemed his favorite hobby was critiquing me.
Every dribble, every pass, every shot—I could feel his eyes drilling into me, always expecting more.
“Shawn!” he would bark, every mistake magnified. “Your form is off. Pay attention!”
His relentless critiques chipped away at me. I felt singled out, harassed.
I grew resentful. Wasn’t I one of the best on the team? Why was he so hard on me, yet lenient with others?
One particularly rough practice, after missing what should have been an easy layup, I heard Coach whistle sharply. “Time!” he yelled, signaling me over. The gym fell silent. Heat flushed my cheeks as I braced myself for another scolding.
“Why are you always on my case?” I snapped, my voice echoing off the walls, a mix of frustration and desperation. “Why can’t you just back off?”
Coach looked at me, his expression softening for the first time in what seemed like forever. The gym held its breath.
“Shawn,” he said quietly, ensuring the words carried weight. “The day I stop pushing you is the day I’ve given up on you.
I ride you hard because I see your potential, not just to be good, but to be great. If I didn’t believe in your ability to grow, I wouldn’t waste my breath.”
I was taken aback. His words, though stern, weren’t filled with disappointment but with a fierce kind of hope. It was a turning point for me, not just in basketball, but in life.
Years have passed since those days on the court. Now, as I manage my team at work, I find Coach’s lessons guiding me.
When I push my employees, challenge them, and refuse to let them settle, it’s not out of displeasure but from a deep-seated belief in their potential. Because when I stop caring, when I stop demanding the best—they’ll know, and that will be the real failure.
I think about Coach every week, grateful for his relentless belief in a stubborn kid who thought he knew everything. His voice, once the sound of my challenges, now echoes as the reminder of my responsibility—to never give up on those who have the potential to be better.
And in this way, Coach is still teaching me, long after the echoes of bouncing basketballs have faded.