IT'S YOUR CHOICE

.  Life is simple, really.  It is about making choices.  One always has a choice in every situation.  A common excuse is, “I had no choice.  I had to eat that tub of ice cream.  My mom told me to always eat whatever is in front of me. And there it was, right in front of me” Or, “You gave me no choice.  I simply had to get a new outfit if we are required to go to that reception.”

 In volleyball a coach makes the choice on who plays and who sits.  It seems like the players have no choice.

Ahhh, but they do.

  They can choose what attitude and tact they are going to take in dealing with a situation.  They can snivel and blame others or they can choose to make the best out of any situation.  Emotion has little to do with it.  One can be very angry and disappointed for not playing or being put in an undesirable role, and yet choose the path of determination and positive attitude to get better.  Even in situations we can’t control, we can control the activities in our mind.  In fact, we must if we are to be happy. 

As Shamus Donagan said, “Life ain’t being dealt good hand but playing a poor one well.”  However, we would like to be dealt a good hand and play that one well.  Control the choices of attitude and you control your happiness.

Perseverance and Persistence: Lessons from the “Flying Bird”

These are two values required for success.  As a coach, I always look for real-life examples of the values required to be successful.  Often times my players and staff will role their eyes, suck in one corner of their mouths and shake their heads communicating, “Ho, boy. Here we go again.”  But, hey, I must perpetuate my distinctive eccentricity.

Anyhoo . . . A local sculptor, Peter Bevis, has become a prime example of P and P.  From 1935 to 1968 a ferryboat named the Kalakala was the icon of Seattle long before the Space Needle.  Its sleek, shiny silver art deco design was one of a kind.  It represented elegance yet performed the necessity of transporting vehicles and people across Puget Sound.  When I was a boy in the 50’s and early 60’s I concocted every strategy possible to get to ride on that magical vessel.  There are countless memories, legends, and innovations, surrounding the Kalakala. 

In 1968 she was sidelined.   After years of ramming docks and other vessels, damaging some and sinking others, and not growing bigger while cars were, she was sold to an Alaskan fish processing company.  The old Seattle symbol was unceremoniously towed to Alaska where she served as a fish processor.  A few years later she blew a piston and was beached, abandoned, semi buried, and stripped of her dignity.  It was a sad ending to a beautiful old lady.

And along came Bevis.

Around 1988 Peter saw the Kalakala in its rusted, dilapidated state.  He immediately recognized it as a desecration; an insult.  His first thought: “She needs to go home.”  When Peter shared his dream with others, they laughed.  “No way!”  It seemed impossible: 276 feet long, three decks high.  She was buried in mud, and land fill, with buildings attached, and fish processing plumbing.  Three decks covered with 7 inches of concrete for stability.  The boat had become a building.  Lots of problems: Securing ownership; cleaning out tons of debris; pulling it back off land; making it minimally seaworthy;  money, real big money; and endless rolls of red tape.   And, after all the preparation, what if it turned into a submarine when it hit the water after 30 years? 

One person’s dream. 

It took Peter 10 years of frustration, mastered by perseverance and persistence.  In June 1998 the Kalakala was freed from its grave by the concerted effort of people, bulldozers and tugboats.  Battered inside and out, her 1930’s elegance but a distant memory, the silver lady floated.  After raising just enough money, overcoming many more bureaucratic challenges, Peter and a growing contingent of passionate believers now organized into the Kalakala Foundation, towed her home behind a sea-going tug. They negotiated the threatening waters of the Gulf of Alaska, through the Inside Passage, for a triumphant return into Seattle’s Elliot Bay basked in the early November sunshine.

Peter Bevis has inspired many people, including me, with his perseverance making possible what seemed impossible.  I joined the foundation to help anyway I can.  The legendary vessel needs to be restored to its former glory.  I have an awesome respect for people who are willing to take great risks to accomplish their dreams.  Real demonstrations of perseverance and persistence are uplifting.  This story is ongoing and the final chapter is yet to be written.  It has been, and will be, an extraordinary story of success. 

It is the attitude I want my staff and players to have.  If we must be completely committed to our dreams and goals and be absolutely willing to persevere, then we can accomplish anything.   The Kalakala  (“Flying Bird” in the Chinook Jargon of the Salish Native American People) is an enduring symbol of the critical values of attaining great dreams.

     

THE INSTANT OF COMPETITION

By Bill Neville

Your team's success or failure is dependent on That Instant when your performance determines the outcome.

The preparation for an unknown future moment is what practice and training should be all about.  Athletes, surgeons, soldiers, firefighters, high steel workers, policemen, airline pilots, hydroplane drivers, and a lengthy list of others, train for future moments when their performance will determine success or failure.

When I see young players fritter away practices knowing that they cannot bank “time” for later use, it makes me twitch.  Somehow, if coaches and trainers can get across the message of why competitive intense practices lead to performing successfully when it matters; the learning curve would arc higher.  There is a guiding cliché:  “You will play like you practice.”  It is absolutely true.  Too often the youthful affliction of “I 'm a game player” overrides the truth.

Several years ago I was talking sports and philosophy with a very good friend and colleague, Jeff Clarke.  At the time Jeff was the Head Coach of the Montana State University cross-country ski team and a member of the USA national team staff. I said, “Jeff, if you lined up 10,000 Lycra-clad, quad-bulging, zero body-fat, skiers I couldn’t pick who would win from the skier who will finish long after the spring melt.” 

They all have the same sinewy physiques.  Jeff mulled this over and said,

“The consistent winners have big engines. (Read: efficient cardiovascular machinery). But there also are many of those. The winners know when to vaporize their opponents.”

Vaporize?  There is an image you can see and feel.

“They know when to explode by a tiring skier.”  Jeff continued, “They motivate themselves while demoralizing the opponent in one instant.”

The instant of competition.

Think about it.  In virtually every activity where performance under pressure determines winning or losing, success or failure, there is always someone who stands out and produces.

PAGE TWO

The Instant of Competition

By Bill Neville

The exciting thing about life is that we never know when we have to come up with the key performance.  It should be reviewed in every practice and training session.  In sports there are many players who will seldom get playing time whose roles are that of stable ponies to the thoroughbreds.  Then, circumstances intervene and the seldom-used player is called upon.  Have they prepared themselves for this moment in time?  They will regret

it if they didn’t?  Preparation doesn’t guarantee success but it does guarantee the best chance at success.

 

An example of the instant of competition I find fascinating was the defense of the southernmost flank of the Union army at Gettysburg near a forgettable landmark called Little Round Top.  The officer in charge was a relatively obscure Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain.  He was a former professor of rhetoric at Bowdoin College in Maine. He was a philosopher, a scholar and fluent in many languages.  He had no military background or anything in his past that indicated a proficiency in military affairs.

As a learned scholar he was aware of the politics and history that led to the War Between the States.  He felt he had to contribute to the Union cause.  His family, colleagues and friends were appalled when he joined.

But when he made the commitment Chamberlain studied and trained for what was coming.  For a couple of years he toiled in seemingly meaningless drill and duty.

But, during the months leading up to the decisive moments at Gettysburg circumstances moved Chamberlain to the head of the 20th Maine, a unit decimated at the Battle of Fredericksburg.

Decisions by Union command placed the 20^th Maine at the end of the Federal line.  The thinking was that the Confederate Army would not focus its attack at that point.

Wrong.

The Confederates hammered the position.  The battle raged most of the day in very, humid, hot conditions.  There was virtually no water to quench the appalling thirst of both sides.  The 15^th Alabama charged repeatedly up the hill at the Maine. 

Chamberlain was very aware that if the Confederate troops could move around the flank they would get between the Union Army and Washington D.C. and likely win the war.

One more charge was coming.  Chamberlain had to make a decision that could modify modern history.  His exhausted, outnumbered troops were nearly out of ammunition.

PAGE THREE

The Instant of Competition

By Bill Neville

He could hear the Gray troops moving up through the trees. All of his senses were on full alert. The wails of the severely wounded blended with the distant gunfire on other Gettysburg battle sites.  The smell of death mingled with sweat and gunpowder.  The humid heat was stifling and exacerbated by full woolen uniforms.  His mouth felt like everyone else's, full of cotton and sand.

“Fix bayonets!  We are going to charge!”  Chamberlain ordered.  His officers and troops were stunned to immobility for a moment.  They did as ordered.  On the command ‘Charge!’ they rolled into the equally stunned Alabamians.  It was a calculated, unpredictable, move in dire circumstances.

A decision made and action taken in an instant.  The Instant of Competition.

The Confederate troops turned and ran for their lives.  Many were captured.  They were tough, battle-hardened troops.  But at that instant they were stunned and defeated by a risky, bold, decision.

It has been speculated but, of course, impossible to prove, that if the 20th Maine did not hold that flank and the South had won, there would have been two countries in what is the United States and we would have lost World War II.

Throughout the war Chamberlain had many more instances to perform and he did very well.  But he wasn’t lucky. He was prepared.

Think on many glorious instances in sports and who came through for the victory.  The famous poem about “Casey at the Bat” is a classic example of the Instant of Competition.

The poem focuses on Casey failing at the instant. What about the pitcher who struck him out at that crucial moment? He did perform. Of course, Casey wouldn’t have even been the subject of the poem if he hadn’t performed in many prior situations.

The preparation for these life moments is in practice.  The older we get the more we appreciate these opportunities to get better. Wouldn’t it be great if we could convince our young players of this concept?

                                                          

CONTINUING EDUCATION

I humbly admit that I think I learn more from the young players that I teach than they absorb from me.  Again this summer we presented our Junkyard Dawgs satellite team camps in forms designed for the specific needs of each program.  Once again my son, Ramsey, was my Administrative Assistant and great traveling companion while my wife, Barbara, ran the business from home base.  We did camps in Washington, Oregon, Montana, and Alaska.  We had the opportunity to work with a boatload of great people.

It is always inspiring to me to work with high school coaches who put in extra hours during the school year, and a chunk of their summers, to work on their volleyball programs to make them better.  Their primary reward is the satisfaction of providing quality educational experiences for their charges. 

The following are some highlights and continuing educational opportunities:

Top five Quotes

“I shave my arms.  Do you shave yours?  They tan better that way.”

-          one player to another during a drill right after I emphasized the importance of

concentrating on every contact.

“My eyes and mind dug the ball.  My body just didn’t follow.”

-          a player explaining the reason she did not pursue a ball in a defensive drill.

“I wasn’t near a pen, pencil, or piece of paper.”

-          a player explaining why she didn’t do an overnight assignment that all of her teammates did, all of whom apparently were near the required implements.

“She should be pretty good on the junior varsity.”

-          a senior commenting to another senior about a freshman who was clearly the

best player in the gym.  She should have removed the word ‘junior’ and ‘pretty’ from her comment and it would have been accurate.

“Does jumping matter if I am hitting?”

-          a player’s query during a hitting drill.

Worth Pondering:  “MY BAD!”

After hearing this current oft-used statement as an excuse for virtually anything I began thinking. . . always a semi-dangerous phenomena.  Why is it easier and accepted to talk in negative terms in what should be a very positive activity? (sports) 

To wit: “Don’t (or never) give up!”  Why not, “Keep fighting!”

           

“My bad!”  Does anyone ever say (with equal enthusiasm) “My Good!”?

           

When I asked players to explain what something is (IE. “Explain the overlap rule.) Virtually every player started by saying what it wasn’t.  I would interrupt:

“I asked what it is, not, what it isn’t.”  

I wonder why we are conditioned to explain or comment in the negative.  It seems there is a great concern about being viewed as confident and positive about one’s self.  The concern is that others will view another as arrogant, cocky, or superior.  Also, I think, if one sets a standard of a “My good” attitude he or she must continually live up to it.  It is much easier to be mediocre than to be great.  Somehow immediately apologizing in one form or another sends the message that one recognizes mistakes and is exonerated from further responsibility.

During the course of the summer I decided to add to camp a reminder.  If I heard a player say “My Bad!” she owed me (and herself) a “My Good!” said with equal enthusiasm after a good effort.  Also, I trained them to say “sorry” in a more positive way.  For example, if a setter set a ball too low and/or too tight she should say what she was going to do next time: “Next time I will get that set higher and deeper.”  The setter now has said two things:  (1) The last set wasn’t where it should have been; and (2) I am committing to my next effort.

It is too easy to apologize and it really doesn’t matter.  Commitment and great effort matters. No need to apologize.

Worth pondering, eh?

Exciting things coming up.  I wish all of the programs and players with whom I have worked with a great Fall season.  Likewise, to all of my colleagues on the threshold of another campaign:  may satisfaction and success come your way.  I love teaching and seeing all the players from many teams but I do miss game time and the related preparation.

Have a great week. 

Matching Wits with Rosemary

Over the Christmas Holidays we got a dog.  We found her on the Internet.  We saw her photo and description, collectively made the "awww . . ." sound, reserved for cute human babies and puppies, and fetched her.  She was a stray saved by one of the region's many excellent animal rescue missions.

Given the name "Rosemary Song" she quickly adopted her new family.  Like new players on a team, she needed to test the boundaries of what behaviors are acceptable and those that aren’t.

Working with an outstanding trainer (who trains both the owner and canine) is very educational. We all are learning through this experience.

Now, I can take virtually anything and parlay it into an analogy or parable related to coaching.  This is one of them.

The bone of contention, so to speak, is the outside kennel.  We want to have an outside place where she can bask in the NW winter rain and sun-breaks. I purchased a pre-designed chain-link, put-it-together-yourself special. It is pure doggy luxury. If a player, child or spouse, made the statement, "I am in the doghouse", and this baby was what they were referring to, it would be like announcing, "I am going on vacation!"  Not so, for Miz Rosemary.

The kennel is well appointed. It is spacious.  It has a nice tarp that covers three quarters of the kennel, keeping out the rain, but allowing an area to enjoy the sun.  It has its own doghouse for privacy.  Plenty of bones, balls, chew toys, and other accoutrements for her pleasure.  It is a five-star establishment.

In her first stay she ignored the playthings and went to work on demolition.  I do not know how long it took her but she unleashed her teeth, paws, and jaws on the chain-link, opened a hole and was free. When we returned she was on the porch with, what I am convinced was a smug look.  Oddly, I wasn't irritated, but reveled at the challenge. "Okay, Rosemary, let's get it on." 

"Say when."  Her face told me.

I reinforced: Put in patio blocks on the inside perimeter to prevent digging, centered the doghouse so it couldn't be used as a launch pad to jump the fence, and re-wired the damage with serious gauge wire.

"Try that, doggy-do." 

"Don' throw me in dat Briar Patch, Oh! NO!", Her look chuckled. 

I put her in and spied on her.  I was in awe at how fast she found the weakness.  Rosemary put her paws through the lower links and dug on the outside of the chain-link, pulled the connectors off the frame and, with echoing laughter, escaped.  My respect for her grew.  Intelligent, determined, persistent, competitive.  All ingredients I want on my team.

I went back to work putting patio blocks on the outside perimeter.  I buried close knit chicken wire.  I attached 2X10's all around the chain-link base.

Rosemary came out and examined my work.  She smirked, slowly shaking her head. 

"Lesson time." She said, "Let me in so I can get out."

 With gritted teeth I did.  And she did, finding a weak spot in the door.  This dog is a winner, thinks I.  But I have opposable thumbs and a marginal human brain.

The kennel is now like a five-star fortress.  I hung a sign that states, "Da'fense Against the Dark Arts." 

She can't escape now.  (Or, it will take her getting an engineering degree and a fine set of tools. Not impossible . . .) Of course, I want Rosemary to like her kennel; to know we always comeback; that we care for her.

But, for now, she is learning that I AM the Alpha Male, doggone it!

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE DAYS

I was doing my season-end janitorial duties.  Washing the floor, repairing, general cleaning.  I had a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon at 1:30 PM up in Edmonds.  I’d leave at 12:30.  Plenty of time.  I get into the car, turn on the radio to get the traffic and it began.

“There is a multiple car pile up near 160^th on I 405.  The back up is now about ¾ a mile.”

I have an end around strategy through the neighborhood to avoid freeway back ups that should still give me time.  Every traffic light conspired against me.  I grumbled and felt the first pangs of anxiety.  I had to wait through two lights at 124^th.  A truck pulling a trailer lumbers up the hill.  “Come on. . . Come ON!”  Finally, he is turning.  I check the time.  Once the truck turns I get around him accelerating.  Too much in the first 100 yards.  I look in the rearview mirror to enjoy the light show on a police car.  I was convinced it was festooned  with several extra banks of colorful lights.  Nice.  I pull over.

“Good afternoon. (yupper).  You were going 41 mph in a 25 mph zone.” (My Prius?  Went to 41 in less than a football field? Nice! I had the fleeting thought. Very fleeting.)  I had plenty of sniveling excuses but I was GUILTY.  He handed me my ticket ($195!) and wished me a better afternoon.  Nice guy.  I puttered off continuing my end run, now a stroll.  I checked time and it looked like I might make it. 

I rolled in at 1:25.  Plenty of time. I hustle to the reception counter.  “Hi, I’m Bill Neville and  I have an appointment at 1:30.”   The receptionist thumbed through the files.  She couldn’t find my file.  Why?

My appointment is next week.

What a doofus.

SUMMER GONE

Growing up as a kid in West Seattle summer was the best of times.  Camp Coleman was the exclusive summer camp of the Fauntleroy YMCA.  (Today along with Camp Orkila it is available to all Y’s n the Puget Sound area.)  We felt like it was our own, private, summer sanctuary and Orkila was a rival, though I don’t why.  Kid’s stuff, I guess.  Camp was the highlight of July along with extended backpacks in the Olympics and Cascades, and water skiing in Fauntleroy cove.

But it was all like opening bands before the headliner.  That was on the first weekend of August when the Seafair Race was held.  Of course, in the 50’s and 60’s it meant the battle of Detroit and Seattle for the Gold Cup.  Those thunderous hydroplanes powered by WW II fighter plane engines were sound-candy to young boys’ ears. Qualifying was held the full week before and each attempt was televised. Those boats, drivers, and owners were our heroes.  The boats’ names and colors were magic:  The Slo Mo Shuns IV & V; Miss Thriftway; Hawaii Kai; Miss Bardahl (The Green Dragon); the Miss Wahoo; and many more including those evil doers from the east who would invade trying to steal the Gold Cup:  The Gales IV, V, and VI, The Miss U.S., Such Crust III, The (ugly) Miss Pepsi; among others.  The drivers, most dead now either by natural causes and far too many at the wheels of their respective hydros completed the hero worship.

At the end of Sunday’s race with hundreds of thousands of like minded, sun burned Seattleites walking to their cars or the busses it was like the end of Christmas day after the presents were opened and dinner was done.  Great memories but kind of a letdown.  There was the exciting build up full of anticipation  and then it was over.  It felt like real summer was gone and we had to face the reality of getting ready for school even though we still had a month.

I think it still works that way.  The Seafair race may be the highlight for some; certainly not as many as there used to be.   Now the summer-gone feeling may be the first commercial for back-to-school sales, the final family vacation, the Evergreen State Fair, Taste of Edmonds, or a myriad of other community celebrations.  Whatever it is most people take a deep breath and sigh, “Where did the summer go?”

Actually summer is not over until September 21 even though it feels like it feels like the middle of fall.

All that to write this:  We are constantly in hurry-up mode.  We must prepare for tomorrow.  Parents want their kids to “play up” with older, more experienced players, big stores have their Christmas product conventions in the summer, New year car models are out in early fall – of the previous year, we try to organize our next program months before it would be unveiled. 

Last June my son and I planned on a backpack and a long bike ride this summer.  Neither happened.  And as he was preparing to leave for studies and an internship in London he said, “Well we never got to what we said we were going to do.”  I responded, “Well.  Maybe someday.”  Just like last year and the year before. 

When does someday come?  Today is yesterday’s tomorrow.  It was “someday” once a while ago. We are conditioned to speed through life. We seem rarely think about today unless some culminating event occurs.  Is this good?  Or should we take each day as it comes and make the most of it?

 Maybe I will figure that out . . . someday.                                                                                                                                

IT WAS ONLY YESTERDAY

It was a rare snow day.  The Puget Sound Area may get a good snow once or twice every other year.  Because of the wet, mild climate in the Winter when it snows its bad drivin’ and good sleddin’.   The snow is generally heavy and wet.  It packs well for igloos, snow balls, snow forts, and sledding hills.

And there are hills.  Many hills and steep.  Roads are barricaded. Schools are closed. It is time to play.

The father took his three year old boy out in the snow to sled a great hill in the neighborhood park.  The boy had rarely seen or been in snow so it was a special treat.  The father regaled the son with memories of his childhood growing up in the Puget Sound area during snow days.  As they headed for the park with sled in tow throwing snowballs at each other and laughing with the joy of the moment.

They joined other kids and parents at the hill. They were sliding down on anything that slid:  inner tubes, disks, cardboard sheets, varieties of plastic sleds and faux toboggans.  The father and boy climbed up to the top of the hill and waited their turn.  The hill looked like a cliff to the little boy.  But, he was with his Dad who always took care of him.  He trusted him and felt secure.  When it was their turn the Dad sat in the back and the boy sat in front tucked in between his legs, with big arms holding him tight.  Off they went streaking down the hill, the boy squealing in sheer delight.  Before they stopped the boy turned around with wide smile and bright eyes and asked, “Dad! Can we go again?” 

“Of course!”  And they did each time an exhilarating rush occasionally highlighted with crash that elicited much laughter. 

After a few runs they once again waited in line at the top of the hill.  Just prior to their next run the boy turned to his Dad and asked, “Can I go by myself?”

His Dad said, “Sure.”, a he helped the boy settle in the middle of the sled.  The bright smile never left the boy’s face.  There may have been a hint of impending terror in his eyes – but not much. As his Dad released him the boy looked back to confirm he was still there.

Suddenly a lump came to the Dad’s throat.  It was the first time his boy wanted to go it alone.  It symbolized that being together father and son was not always going to be.  As his son slid further way and his image got smaller the future unveiled itself.  Time goes very fast and what is today doesn’t mean it is the same as tomorrow.  Everyone needs to enjoy the moment.  Today. Now.  The Dad felt a mixture of pride and sadness as he enjoyed his son’s courage and sense of adventure yet realized that it was the beginning of separation.

DAD FINALLY GETS IT

As a writer I wish I wrote this. But am happy that I found it and read it.

-       Bill Neville

In the faint light of the attic, an old man, tall and stooped, bent his great frame and made his way to a stack of boxes that sat near one of the little half-windows. Brushing aside a wisp of cobwebs, he tilted the top box toward the light and began to carefully lift out one old photograph album after another. Eyes once bright but now dim searched longingly for the source that had drawn him here.

It began with the fond recollection of the love of his life, long gone, and somewhere in these albums was a photo of her he hoped to rediscover. Silent as a mouse, he patiently opened the long buried treasures and soon was lost in a sea of memories. Although his world had not stopped spinning when his wife left it, the past was more alive in his heart than his present aloneness.

Setting aside one of the dusty albums, he pulled from the box what appeared to be a journal from his grown son's childhood. He could not recall ever having seen it before, or that his son had ever kept a journal. Why did Elizabeth always save the children's old junk? he wondered, shaking his white head.

Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced over a short reading, and his lips curved in an unconscious smile. Even his eyes brightened as he read the words that spoke clear and sweet to his soul. It was the voice of the little boy who had grown up far too fast in this very house, and whose voice had grown fainter and fainter over the years. In the utter silence of the attic, the words of a guileless six-year-old worked their magic and carried the old man back to a time almost totally forgotten.

Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hunger in his heart like the longing a gardener feels in the winter for the fragrance of spring flowers. But it was accompanied by the painful memory that his son's simple recollections of those days were far different from his own. But how different?

Reminded that he had kept a daily journal of his business activities over the years, he closed his son's journal and turned to leave, having forgotten the cherished photo that originally triggered his search. Hunched over to keep from bumping his head on the rafters, the old man stepped to the wooden stairway and made his descent, then headed down a carpeted stairway that led to the den.

Opening a glass cabinet door, he reached in and pulled out an old business journal. Turning, he sat down at his desk and placed the two journals beside each other. His was leather-bound and engraved neatly with his name in gold, while his son's was tattered and the name Jimmy had been nearly scuffed from its surface. He ran a long skinny finger over the letters, as though he could restore what had been worn away with time and use.

As he opened his journal, the old man's eyes fell upon an inscription that stood out because it was so brief in comparison to other days. In his own neat handwriting were these words:

Wasted the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn't catch a thing.

With a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy's journal and found the boy's entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters, pressed deeply into the paper, read:

Went fishing with my Dad. Best day of my life.

Today’s Athlete?

“. . . Remember that most of the students that you work with have been reared in an environment where self-esteem has been preserved at the sacrifice of the recognition of truly exceptional performance.  To some extent K – 8 education has been watered down to the least common denominator so that all can be successful and the positive peer pressure that high performing students exert on each other, is non-existent.

The educators and parents don’t really want to recognize the talented kids because it may hurt the self-esteem of the regular kids.   The result is a large population of parents and young people that really don’t know what high performance looks like, has never been asked to produce it, and yet believe they have achieved it.

All I can tell you is that you may have a huge number of students that have been spoon fed their education and wouldn’t know what real effort and achievement looks like.  Our generation of parents has supported that approach as they have coddled their children and “wished” for high levels of achievement.

These are the main reasons that we do JO VB with the girls as usually truly high performance is recognized. You wouldn’t believe the numbers of trophies that the kids have for just participating at various sports tournaments. The youth of today wouldn’t know if they really won or just showed up.  I understand how things got this way, but I think things went too far.  Self-esteem is one thing, but know how to dig deep to achieve at the next level is just as important.”

                                                            Cindy Sellin-Viren

                                                            Minnesota Veterinarian

Learning happens when there is a need to know.

Winning happens when there is a need to win.

The SOUNDS of SUMMER

As Winter is refusing to let go and the unstable weather lingers like a bad cold my thoughts turn to the hopes of Summer.  Further, as I close in on another birthday and reflect on how fast time goes by, I selfishly share an article of my fondest summer and childhood memory that I hope triggers any reader to think about the great things you have experienced. This is my other passion. . .

The Innocent Days. . .

Summer time in Seattle, the first week of August. Seafair Week.  Nary a cloud in the sky, a slight breeze mixing a balmy 75 degrees. Around 10:30 AM the Robins and Chickadees flit about among the evergreens, alders, and maples above the little creek snaking its way through a backyard in the Fauntleroy community to Puget Sound.  Two 11 year-old boys are climbing in an old Weeping Willow hanging over the creek.  They are intent on their climbing and dreams of building a tree house.

Then they hear it.  Talk stops.  The climbing halted.  The boys in unison look east, eyes squinting slightly, heads cocked to urge the ears to hear.  Mouths are half-open in anticipation.

IT IS THE SOUND.  The ultimate sound that defined a Seattle Summer in the 50's and 60's.  Wafting on the light breeze, muted by the hills and evergreens fading in an out like a far-off  station heard on a car radio during a long, late night drive. The source is never in doubt.  It came from the east.  Guttural. Cavating.  Undulating:  up and down without rhythm, but music to the ears.   “He’s coming out of the south turn now!”, one boy said as much to himself as to the other.

The boys scrambled down from their perch and sprinted for the house and into the living room.  Of course, the TV was already on.  It was always on during qualifying week: Broadcasting soaps and game shows nobody watched.  The Television was turned on for these moments.

“We interrupt this regularly scheduled program to take you LIVE to the shores of Lake Washington.”

No need to explain why.  Everyone in Seattle knew: One of the Unlimiteds was on the course preparing for a three-lap qualifying attempt for the upcoming weekend race.  But, which one?  The boys would always make their guesses based on the unmistakable sound that drifted over the hills. Which one of the huge, temperamental, WWII fighter plane engines that powered the beautiful, high riding 3 point hydros was uttering its intent?.  Each type of engine had its own voice.  Each boat’s hull made its own music.

The boats were pieces of art: Beautiful woodwork; exquisite, colorful, paint jobs.  When presented on a canvas of blue water and sky, framed by evergreens, the floating bridge, log boom, Mount Rainier and the Cascades, complimented by the soaring geyser-like roostertails, they were masterpieces. Add in the contradictory, ear splitting sounds of the big engines and you had an art form unique to Seattle.

Bill O’Mara’s call was always electric.  There was always a hint of impending drama in his voice.  As the thunder boat accelerated out of the north turn, the majestic plume of roostertail expanding in concert with the increasing speed, O’Mara’s call of, “. . .He’s 1500 hundred feet away, 1000, feet, 500 feet, and over the line!” was virtually drowned out as the hydro roared in front of the Start/Finish barge.

The boys stared with rapt attention at the screen.  Mom, being a pure bred Seattleite, but not necessarily a hydro aficionado, put down her chores, looked down at the boys and wondered if they were that attentive in school.  Doubt it.  But she enjoyed the boys’ wonder and had to admit that she, too was fascinated.

When the qualifying attempt was concluded, it was inevitable that the boys would employ any tactic to get mom to take a picnic out to Lake Washington on such a nice day.  Often, she would comply.

IN THOSE DAYS every boy tried to duplicate the various sounds of the Unlimiteds with their vocal chords including the cavitations as the big power plants toiled in the turns and came off the exit buoy gunning into the straight.  These vocalized Unlimited sounds could emerge at anytime when the image of a boat raced across a boy’s mind. If people were present when these utterings spewed forth, they understood - if they were from Seattle. The uninitiated would wonder if something was physically or mentally wrong with the child. 

Of course, these early August days were filled with “playin’ hydros”:  Pulling plywood boats behind bikes, racing carved boats down the creek; pushing cardboard skidders across the grass; just sitting and drawing your favorite boat; and building models.

Everybody had their favorites.  Each boat had its own personality.  It was defined by hull design, the ride, and the noise. Most boys could distinguish between Allisons or Rolls or the Coral Reef’s  Messchersmidtt. And who couldn’t immediately recognize the Thriftway Too’s distinct voice?

THOSE were the innocent days in Seattle.  Hydros,  Huskies, and Rainiers.  But in that first week of August it was all hydros.

Race Day. . . .

The boys couldn’t wait for Sunday’s big event even though it always came too soon and gone too quickly.  Christmas had nothing on race day when it came to anticipation.  It was the day to fend off the scourge from the East: The Schoeniths.  It was hard not to like Don Wilson, Jack Schaefer, and Wild Bill. . .but the Schoeniths?  Easy. They always seemed to stay at the Hill Top Inn, kind on the edge of town as if no one inside the Seattle city limits could abide a Detroit presence.  A good guess is that car sales in the Seattle area were significantly down during Seafair Week.  The boys were sure the owners of the Hill Top were traitors. Let the Detroit boys sleep in the woods.   Hope it rains.

It was always stunning to go to the Lake and see the boats and realize they were not just black and white.  TV in the 50's did that to you. To find it was a symphony of colors, boats, buffed for war, resplendent in every color combination, thousands of fans displaying outrageous summer wear, the log boom crammed with every size and shape of leisure craft, was pure delight.

The classic Pacific Northwest color combination of deep green firs, mingling with the lighter hues of deciduous trees and grass, set against the back drop of the deep blue August sky mirrored on the lake’s surface, completed the setting for a perfect day.

EVERY VETERAN Seattle race fan had his favorite spot.  One had to get to the spot very early. . .VERY early. . . to insure blanket space.  By 9 AM there was no grass showing on the lakeshore’s bank along the entire length of the course, only blankets, coolers, and bodies.  The boys and their families always staked out on “the point”, a chunk of grass-covered slope jutting out and facing the start/finish barge.  Every flying start looked as if all eight boats in each heat were coming right at you.  It was the closest point of land to the race when they roared by plummeting into the South turn.

The air was electric.  The feeling of being part of this community was patriotic.  Secure. A family of 400,000 - 500,000.  We were one.  The boys felt a comradre with the thousands of people, young and old, from various backgrounds, strolling back and forth along the street by the lake.  Everyone was together that day.  The only disagreement was with which Seattle boat one would favor.  There was a feeling of unity to defy the Eastern establishment.  It was a mandate of Seattle citizenship to be a part of it.

The morning hours would pass slowly, especially for a pair of 11 year old boys.  People would be taking in the sun, playing cards, throwing Frisbees, floating around on inner tubes, or doing bizarre activities like dipping lizards in a beer and eating them. (Must have been a bet that was won, but the victor would later regret.)  The boys were fascinated.  And then. . . a roar would erupt from the pits.  A monster awakening.  All conversation and activity would stop and the speculation would begin.  It was 10:00 AM.  Testing could commence.  Who was making the noise?  Someone going out?  Nah.  Boat trailer-firing.  Conversation and activities resume.  But then: the sound of a crane revving up.  A boat was going in!  Everyone looked toward the barge to see who would be coming out.  It was either cheers or boos.  Seattle or Detroit.  The passions ran deep.

  

No Greater Thrill. . . 

This writer would debate it with anyone: Simply, there was no greater thrill than when the Slo Mo Shuns IV and V came hard under the high rise of the floating bridge, splitting the Detroit invaders who desperately tried to block the juggernaut. 

THE NERVOUS ANTICIPATION was agonizing: The five-minute gun.  The Detroit boats are out and milling. The various pitches of the tuned power plants mingling as they postured for battle. But, no Slo-Mos!  All along the lake shore and log boom everyone was hushed.  Naked eyes and binoculars trained on the north turn and the floating bridge.  Would they get there in time?  The clock ticks.   A million eyes searching for their heroes.  The clock winding down.  And then, someone yells, “I see them!”  Two white dots side by side becoming larger as they sped south toward the bridge with the enemy and the doting minions anxiously waiting on the other side.  The roar of the crowd grew in concert with the growth of the roostertail plumes.

Boom! The one-minute gun.

 

Detroit’s Gale boats, the step-hulled, twin engine Miss Pepsi, Miss US, the Tempo VII and the Such Crust III milling in the North turn.  The Slo-Mos closing.  People lined up on the bridge waiting to get drenched as the Seattle icons roared under the bridge. The six enemy boats seemed motionless even as their rooster tails came up with acceleration, as Seattle owner, Stan Sayres' mounts poured through the gaps hitting the line with the starting gun.  What a sight.  A Seattleite would have to be dead not to be screaming at the top of his or her lungs and hearts in their throats with excitement and pride. 

People can speak of Indy, the Kentucky Derby, the Olympics, the Masters.  They were never on the point staring at 8 boats with water flying, bouncing back and forth, jockeying for position as they pounded into the South turn.  The sounds of those big aircraft engines are impossible to describe. An audio oxymoron: Deafening sweet music. Eight Godzillas clearing their collective throats. Hurdling toward the turn at 180 to 200 miles and hour.  They blotted out every other sound and thought.  That moment of the start was all consuming.   

There were at least five of those starts on race day in those years, every one heart stopping, dramatic, and absolutely thrilling.

Race day had something for everybody: heroes and villains, planned and impromptu side shows; occasional disaster and near misses; colorful characters in the show and in the crowd; winners and losers.

AT THE END of the long day with the sun settling in the west, the many thousands of sunburned fans carrying blankets, coolers, and beach chairs were at peace even though the chatter was animated with reviewing the race.  Even though thousands of voices yakked on, there was an eery silence.  The sounds of big aircraft engines, which so dominated all conscience thought over the past seven days, were quiet.  The monsters put to bed.  But the imprint on everyone’s memory of those days would last forever. 

If one of those boys lived a thousand years and moved to another planet, worked in some futuristic profession, and heard “that sound” wafting on the breeze, his activity would stop.  As if hypnotized, he would turn towards the sound with his head cocked, eyes squinting, mouth half open.  And then he would smile, knowing what he heard, and the warm, nostalgic feelings of the innocent days would retur

Sprinkler Head Protector Professional!

A bit of Nostalgia

Have you ever done some building project, that, once accomplished, you feel a sense of pride in a job well done?  Something that is not in your routine nor considered a skill that you have?  So, you want to show it off and point out the superb craftsmanship.  But, it was something like putting insulation underneath your house where you discovered why it is called a "crawl space".  You went into places that claustrophobia lurked.  But, wearing the appropriate protective gear, you persevered, cutting, taping, and stapling until the entire underbelly of your house was effectively insulated.  But, you can't really show it off like you might point to an ornate armoire you built from scratch.  "Say! Wanna crawl underneath the house and look at the cool insulation I just installed?"

All that to say this:  We are closing in on finishing the building of our new volleyball facility designed for personalized training, coaching education, and other cool stuff we are contemplating.  Of course, real craftsmen are doing the real work.  But, I am doing some stuff to save money.  Yesterday was my day to shine; to demonstrate my versatility in the construction field.

The facility is in a warehouse building that, over the years, has been used for a variety of businesses.  We have worked on it so it will look like and function as a volleyball teaching studio. Or, as USA Women’s Head Coach calls it:  A volleyball boutique. As we discovered the wonderful world of codes and permitting the space requires an overhead sprinkler system in the unlikely event of a conflagration.  I worried over the potential of an errant volleyball hitting one of the sprinkler heads and unleashing a torrent rivaling the deluge that cascades over Snoqualmie Falls during the spring melt.

I decided that I needed "sprinkler protectors" - little cages encasing the sprinkler heads without inhibiting the H2O required in case of a fire.  If I had the job done it would have cost $22 a head, installed. Well now. There are 100 sprinkler heads.  At $22 a head that would be . . . enough for me to get some quality soap and a good shower if one of those unprotected heads exploded.  The actual cages cost a mere $2 a head.  So, I decided to put them on my self.  100 of them.  That is one-hundred. 

I begged the electrician who was doing all the wiring if I could borrow his Genie Scissor Lift and head for the ceiling.  He said it was no problem as he was going to ply his trade at ground level for the day.  After a quick lesson on driving the thing, off I went and spent the day 25 feet in the air dodging pipes, and fitting cages - carefully - over the sprinklers.  I also discovered that there was an accumulation of decades of dust on the various pipes so I decided to clean those off since flying volleyballs will likely start dust storms in the upper reaches.

I didn't receive too many accolades from the electrician, general contractor, the painters and the plumbers who were working. I believed I deserved some serious recognition for my craftsmanship.  Further, I got semi-good at negotiating the lift around piles of lumber, light fixtures, tool bins, and other strewn-about building materials.  I wanted to show off my new skills but nobody watched.  Despite being older than all of them, I was a rookie. A rookie! At my age! But, that felt sort of good, too.

But, alas, it is one of those projects that is difficult to show people.

However, when you come and visit, check out the cool "sprinkler protectors".  I will have some binoculars so you can get a closer look at these beauties.  100 of them. The Scissor Lift will be gone so I won't be able to give rafter tours but, I will be more than happy to regale you with tales of this new found skill.

I love a new challenge no matter how mundane it may be.  It was satisfying in an odd sort of way.  As the years have rolled along and we continue to do our best providing a quality experience for young people learning the great sport of volleyball, I occasionally look up to my sprinkler head protectors and smile to myself how the whole thing continues to be a challenge and satisfying.

I like to tell the players:  “You can’t put time in a bank for future use.  Invest it today.”  Learning how to put up sprinkler protectors. . , or learning volleyball. Don’t wait!  Do it now.

"WATCH THE PUCK!"

My oldest child is my only daughter.  She has to do a maximum jump to be 5 foot tall.  She has two children of her own and, if I allow myself some bragging rights, she is an outstanding mother with great kids and a very supportive husband.  For several years she was the jail keep at the Gallatin, Montana Sheriffs’ Department hoosegow in Bozeman. As one of her duties she taught self defense to the sheriffs.  She also worked for an assisted living / nursing home primarily working with the clients’ nutritional needs – all this while working on her degree in Food, Nutrition, and Dietetics at Montana State University.  (She gets her well deserved degree in May, 2011 after completing her internship at a VA hospital in West Virginia.) 

She also has been a volleyball referee and is currently an ice hockey referee, where she rules over everything from little midgets to men’s club and women’s collegiate.  Yeah, I am extraordinarily proud of her.

So that provides background for this story she tells that has meaning for any coach, teacher, parent, or anyone.

* * *

It was an intense game.  At least as intense as a hockey game played by 6 and 7 year olds can get.  The players, look like munchkin toys with little stubs of legs featuring barely visible skates at the bottom.  Hip pads end just short of the armpits.  The oversized hockey gloves end near the elbows which are hidden under a huge jersey that fits like a tent.  It is all topped off with a helmet and face cage completely eliminating any chance of actually recognizing who is inside the armament.  The whole package remains upright because of the tripod design: two skates and a hockey stick that appears to be glued to the big gloves and rested on the ice.  The little skates start shuffling and the package moves.  The observer holds his breath convinced if the munchkin goes down it will look similar to a turtle on its back.

Back to the game.  At one end of the rink there is a scramble for the puck.  A few turtles are on their backs.  Finally a player from the defense comes out with the puck.  In fast slow motion he? she? begins the long break away with the remaining vertical players in tepid pursuit.  The goalie must face this oncoming juggernaut. Now, a hockey goalie’s regalia makes the other players uniforms look like Lycra single piece track suits. They are a pile of pads planted in the goal mouth.

My daughter was doing solo duty as the referee and next to the boards on the lone goalie’s side of the ice.  Behind her the goalie’s coach was frantic as the breakaway was closing.  “WATCH THE PUCK!  WATCH THE PUCK!” , he pleaded.  The goalie was splayed legged leaning forward being held up by the extra wide-footed goalie stick, focusing on the closing opponent’s forward. As the puck handler drew back her? his? Stick preparing for a slap shot desperately trying to stay balanced, the coach kept bellowing, “WATCH -  the -  PUCK!” 

The “slap shot” was launched.  As it drifted towards the goal the goalie remained stationary with only his? Her? eyes moving watching as the puck slid between her? his? legs into the net.  “AWWWW!! GEEEZZZ!”, the coach wailed.

My daughter who was looking at the slow developing play chuckled and said over her shoulder to the coach, “She did exactly what you told her to do:  She watched the puck. All the way. “  (Somehow she knew the goalie was a girl.)

The coach shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and quietly agreed. 

* * *

Words have Meaning

All that to say this:  Words have meaning.  As coaches we must be aware of what we say and how we say it.

Players need to know this as well.  How many times will a hitter say to the setter, “Right here!”  Ever wonder where “here” is?  There is a cute, memorable key for passing that states, “Left is right. Right is wrong.”  With out question it is a very clever turn of a phrase.  However, recently in our gym a girl was passing the right side of the court.  The incoming serve went to her right between her and the line.  When she noticed this she relaxed and stood up as the ball sailed on by.  I stammered, “Uh. . . Wha? Why didn’t you attempt. . .?” 

She answered with confidence:  “Left is right and right is wrong.  The ball was to my right so it wasn’t mine.”  I looked around for anyone else who might of played it and there wasn’t anyone.  I know what the key means.  But   a young player took it literally. 

After several missed serves or in a critical serving situation we  (coaches, parents, teammates ) have all begged the next server, “Just get it in!”  The delivery inflection of this message can communicate many things:  A threat. “Just get it in!” (Or else! You will spend the rest of your career on the bench;  Don’t even THINK we will stop at Dairy Queen after the match if you miss!;  None of your teammates will EVER speak to you again!)  Why don’t we say with firm confidence and support, “Serve your best serve!”  Aren’t most players’ best serve “in”?

The way words are used is important as well.  Excited players living the moment will call for the ball in machine gun fashion:  “Hutututhutuhtuhutut. . .”;  “Gogogogogogogooo. . .!”;  “Mineminminminmin. . .!”;  “Yesyesyesyesyes. . .! “  When uttered collectively, especially in an audible offensive system, the setter can think they are under a full assault and hear, “Hutuhutgogogogommininyesssyesssss ….!  It would be more efficient to have players make one guttural, crisp, one syllable, command:  “HUT!; MINE!; GO!; YES!  Easily said.  Easily heard.

Practice efficient communication.  Otherwise, at some critical point, your players will . . .

“WATCH THE PUCK!”