It has been a great privilege to play for, work for, and work with some tremendous coaches. From Garin Brockman at St. John’s School (RIP, Coach Brockman) to Steve Gleaves, David Balderrama, and Wayne Jones at The Kinkaid School to Charlie Boggess at Alamo Heights High School, I was so fortunate to play for a lot of great coaches; and once I started coaching, I was equally blessed to learn from another crew of terrific coaches. When considering all the basketball I’ve absorbed over the years, 3 non-basketball-related coaching lessons stand out perhaps more than any basketball-related coaching lessons I’ve ever learned.
In the Summer of 1993, my family moved from Houston to Alamo Heights in San Antonio. Considering that this was the Summer before what was to be my senior year, it’s easy to imagine that these circumstances were somewhat less than ideal. I will never, ever forget getting a phone call a few weeks after the move from David Balderrama, my basketball coach at The Kinkaid School in Houston. He was calling just to check in on me, to see how I was doing. Coach B was a classic players’ coach- we loved playing for him- but I was nevertheless a bit surprised to hear from him. We chatted for a while, and he said he’d call back to check up in another couple of weeks- and he did. And he kept calling. Like clockwork. Every couple of weeks. And then, when Kinkaid was in San Antonio playing in their conference tournament, Coach B brought the whole team to see Alamo Heights play. Coaches, let me just tell you, the way Coach B treated me after we relocated to San Antonio moved me to the core of my soul, and it still does. There was no reason on the planet for him to stay in touch, but he did, and that, to me, defines a coach, and it’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten. Simply put, if you really only take an interest in your players’ lives during the time they’re athletically useful to you, YOU ARE NOT A COACH, at least not in my eyes.
In the Summer of 1995, my boss (and good friend) Rob Shapiro and I worked basketball camps all over the US. One of our favorite stops was Providence College-the crew who worked that camp annually was special, and as Texans, Rob and I enjoyed the back-and-forth banter with the New Englanders, particularly after an adult beverage or two. Speaking of adult beverages, there was a pub just across from PC called Bradfield’s (Brad’s for short) that the coaches would visit after putting the campers to bed. During one of the weeks we were working, a high school coach named Tom Mastaloni was working the camp, too. I will never forget that Tom absolutely would not allow me to pay for any drinks at Brad’s. After several free rounds, I protested that I was earning a check that week and would be happy to pay for my own drinks, but Tom wouldn’t hear of it. I then offered, “Come on, Coach, you’re a high school teacher- you’re not exactly wealthy.” And he replied, “Yes, but you’re a college kid, so I’m a helluva lot wealthier than you.” Which he was. But I kept pestering him on the topic, so he finally schooled me- “Pete, you pay me back by buying the next young coach a drink once you’re drawing a steady paycheck. That’s the way this works- in coaching, the poor shall pay for the very poor.” Tom, brother, that’s a BIG TIME sentiment, and it’s one I’ve lived by ever since. And if you’re one of those six-figure-salaried assistant coaches who never takes care of the managers or the GA’s, YOU ARE NOT A COACH, at least not in my eyes.
In the Summer of 2000, I was headed into my first year as a football offensive coordinator, which was more than a little intimidating. The head coach and I were looking for the perfect x’s and o’s to fit our personnel, and the more we discussed it, the more a single-wing approach made sense. Well, considering that we were coaching in Dallas, and that Coach Eddie Robinson helped pioneer that formation just a few hours East on I-20, I decided to give Coach Robinson a call. Grambling had already forced Coach Robinson to retire (perhaps the greatest injustice in the history of forced coaching changes), so I called 411 and asked for an Eddie or Edward Robinson in Grambling, Louisiana. The operator said she saw no such listing, but offered that there was an E.G. Robinson, so I asked her to connect us. The phone rang, and the voice of an elderly lady answered. I asked to speak to Coach Robinson, and she said he’d be back in an hour. I still can’t believe that a legend like Coach Robinson was listed in the phone book, but I was ecstatic that we had found a way to touch base. So, an hour later, she answered the phone again, and this time she put Coach Robinson on the line. For the next 90 minutes, I furiously scribbled notes as Coach Robinson educated me on everything from the footwork of the offensive line to the importance of carrying out fakes (“1 good fake is worth 2 good blocks!!”). But the remarkable thing to me was not that his football mind was as sharp as any I have encountered before or since- it was that the entire time he was teaching me, his attitude was as though I was the one doing him a favor. I get emotional when I tell this story, and I’m emotional as I write it. But to Eddie Robinson, I gave him a chance to do what he loved most- mentoring young people. And that’s the purest essence of coaching. There was absolutely no reason for a giant to spend so much time trying to help a nobody, but that’s what coaches do- because if we don’t spend time to mentor and train the next generation of coaches, who will? And if you’re in the profession but aren’t making much (if any) time to help younger coaches, then YOU ARE NOT A COACH, at least not in my eyes.
Thanks so much for reading, and thanks to Coach Rav for allowing me to share.
Coaches, please keep in mind that coaching is less about x’s and o’s and more about relationships and mentoring- and if you change one life, you change the world.
