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.