Taking One For The Team

Players spikes shuffled on the terrazzo floor of the locker room. They were beginning to cloister around the writing board near the towel hamper. The coach was scanning the room like radar; and took note that a player was just entering the picture ten minutes after the posted practice time. Outside, the heat still hung in the air like an oppressive blanket saturated with warm water.

"You're ten minutes late," said the coach in a measured-but-sardonic tone. "Practice starts at four, not ten after. You don't show much respect for your teammates, for our program or for me when you show up late." The player made an attempt: "I'm sorry ... I had to walk today." Unmoved, the coach replied, "Well, I'll tell you what. Be on the practice field at six tomorrow morning, and I'll meet you at six thirty, 'kay?"

It was the third week in August in those days that hang dead between seasons; too late to be Summer, too early to be Fall. Football players know them as "two-a-days" where practices are divided between early morning hours and late afternoons so the steaming August heat can at least be tempered. Regardless of the level of play -- from college and pro players to aspiring prep candidates -- late August is not for fun. It's a time where pretenders drift away or are cut, and intrepid players stick it out. Like military boot camp, terms are unconditional. It's in these first weeks that a team's commitment is made or its absence exposed. In these weeks the core of a team is built and even people who in everyday life wouldn't say hello to each other become bonded in a cause (however trivial this seems to the outside world).

So, arriving even a minute late is frowned upon and the consequence obvious. The following morning, the player quietly exited the back door and made his way to old Fancher Field. He was there in the dawn light at six jogging, stretching and waiting. Six thirty, seven, and still no coach (he must have misunderstood or perhaps something had come up). At seven thirty other players began to report for the eight o'clock practice and everyone gathered for the morning routine; the day's practice objectives and assignments meted-out like a military briefing.

As the coach approached the familiar circle his gaze went right to the player's; the quarterback's time in the barrel not yet finished. "Were you on the practice field this morning at six?"

"Yes coach, I was there."

"Well, did you see me there?" the coach inquired. The player shook his head.

"See, I wasn't there because I didn't care enough to get up and be there after all. It wasn't important enough to me. Now, I'd like you to be there again tomorrow at the same time. I may or may not show up, depending ..."

Other coaches have no doubt used variations of this object lesson over countless seasons. It happened a long time ago. The coach was my father, the player was me. The lesson was forever.

*This chapter from Tim's book The Motivator is an August tradition, reprinted by request.