The blame game is a mistake. I’ve experienced it firsthand, and all it ever does is further fracture team morale. He’s right; we lack cohesion. But no amount of yelling or drills will fix these kids’ “every man for himself” mentality. We need team building. A way to make these kids care abouteach other.
And he shouldn’t have to tell anyone about his financial situation to get their help. They should play well because they love the game, because they’re hungry to win. They’re too young to be burdened by the most mundane reason to play ball: for the money.
I spent years playing for the money. That money paid off my student loans. It paid for flights to see my family and the occasional balmy beach getaway over the winter break. It paid my rent for themonthsbetween when I was released from Liga ACB and when I finally landed a coaching job.
But even with all that, I still always got the most fulfillment, had the most fun, when I was volunteering running free basketball clinics over the last few summers. To see the growth in the kids’ shooting or passing skills, sometimes even in theirpersonalgrowth over the course of the training camp?
I shake my head.
The clinics may have started as a way to keep in shape over the summer hiatus, but I quickly realized giving back was helping me, too. I wasn’t just a pawn in some rich guy’s game of fantasybasketball; I was my own man, playing ball because I wanted to. Because it felt good.
And now here I am, trying to blend a game I love—even after all these years and all the heartache—with my newfound passion to help kids grow through basketball. The longer I can keep Carter—or anyone else—from having to look at the game as a paycheck, the better. We just have to break this pesky losing streak.
The team is silent except for a few grunts and grumbles as they pack up. Something’s gotta change. Confident there won’t be any more outbursts, I leave the locker room, walk two doors down the dim hallway, and rap on the doorjamb.
“Come in,” Coach Paulson’s rough voice answers a moment later. I take a seat in one of the worn leather chairs in front of his desk. Spiral notebooks, extra equipment in boxes, and half-empty coffee mugs litter almost every surface.
“What can I do for you, Park?”
I rub my clammy palms on my khakis, hoping he doesn’t notice. I came to pitch my idea, an idea I’m almost certain will improve the team dynamic, but I’m suddenly at a loss. Countless times I’ve sat where I’m sitting now, to get reamed about a bad play, to learn I’ve been traded to another team, and most recently, to be released from my contract. This is the first time I’ve come in as a member of the staff, which means it’s probably the first time a coach might actually listen to me.
But will he, though? Looking around the league, and even at the college level, you’d be hard pressed to see a coach ofAsian descent. People think of coaches and they think of loud, physically imposing white men who dominate by shouting their team down and getting in the ref’s face every game. While I got in plenty of trouble for doing exactly that on the court, most people still believe the stereotype that Asians are quiet and compliant. That they’re not fit to lead.
Something about Coach Paulson, however, makes me want to give him the benefit of the doubt. He might be small in stature, and he couldn’t care less what people think of his clothes or appearance, but he commands respect, and students and adults alike look up to him. And he hired me. I interviewed at over six schools, and he was the only head coach to give me a chance. I have to believe he wouldn’t do that just to ignore me.
I clear my throat.
“That loss was brutal.”
“That it was,” he agrees.
“The team isn’t working together. They’re not communicating. They all want to make the shot on their own, to be the star. Especially Carter.”
Coach Paulson leans forward, steepling his hands.
“Carter is our best player. Would you have me bench him?”
I shake my head.
“He is the best player we have.” I pause, taking a breath to steel myself. “But he’s only one player. He can’t win alone, and right now, we’re treating everyone else like the only thing they can do is pass him the ball. I think it’s making them resentful, so they’re acting out.”
I can’t read Paulson’s expression.Shit.
“What would you have me do? Give ourweakestplayer the ball when we’re already losing?”
“I think we need to change our mindset. Instead of assigningbestandweakestplayers, we need to do some team-building exercises to show themeveryoneis important, even if they’re not making the game-winning shots.”
I hold my breath. Some head coaches don’t want ideas from their assistant coaches. They consider it a challenge to their expert strategy. But Coach Paulson asked, and as he leans back in his chair, the ghost of a smile hidden behind his substantial mustache, I think he listened.
“What do you have in mind?”
For the next hour, I outline my plan, including a team retreat, group tutoring sessions for anyone struggling academically, and a few updated plays that will incorporate more players while still allowing our stars to shine.
The whole time, Coach Paulson nods along, interjecting with his feedback as needed and informing me about any limitations that might get in the way. In the end, we agree on a team movie night at the school featuring everyone’s favorite basketball flicks and a tutoring sign-up. There’s no budget for a full retreat, not without sacrificing funding already earmarked for travel to games, but Coach Paulson gives me permission to run my new plays at the next few practices.
He stands and offers his hand. I clasp it firmly.
“You showed impressive initiative,” Coach remarks after retaking his seat. “The school already knows that I plan to retire in the next few years. It’s why we went through so many rounds to fill your role. Today, I’m even more confident we made the right choice.”
