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.