News
August 31
The road to the Championship was three years long and ultimately ended in a lake. It received no media attention and the significance of the achievement may have been lost on the players. The coach had never been more proud. If you've ever coached kids, you might know what I'm talking about. And if you have coached them for three straight summers, while living with many of them in cramped bunks at a summer camp you feel comfortable calling home, you are right here with me. Coaching is no picnic, at any level. Professional coaches struggle for authority over millionaire athletes and meddlesome owners. Their college counterparts must sell their programs to potential recruits and appease them enough to keep them in school for four years, while still attempting to win games. All the while they must worry about their players' academic standing. The advantage that these coaches, and even high school coaches, have, of course, is that their players are all talented, committed, and understand their sports. Those who coach children are dealt the opposite hand - respect for authority, positive attitudes, and lack of ego are all usually present in kids, while talent, discipline, and knowledge of a game do not always exist. Thus, this sort of coaching requires a different type of leadership, and indeed, a different type of leader. Such was the case as I attempted to "mold" ten 11-year-old boys at Camp Androscoggin into a basketball team during the summer of 1997. I went in with the understanding that I was the teacher, and that they had to learn from me. Oddly enough, after three years with them, it may be as much the other way around. When I arrived for that first summer on the staff, I didn't view my job as particularly difficult. I knew basketball, and having been a camper at Andro for seven years, I knew camp. But I didn't understand what was truly most important - people, particularly kids. My team did not perform badly that first year, nor the following summer, when the boys were 12 years old. We won some games, learned a few plays, and generally had fun. But, last winter, anticipating my third summer with the same group, I realized my strategy had been totally wrong. In the past, I had spent too much time focusing on what my players should do - pass, pick away, stay between your man and the basket - and had neglected the more important qualities that I should have been teaching - the hows and whys. This approach became clearly necessary after spending a half an hour on AOL's "Instant Messenger," attempting to explain to my disgruntled top scorer the virtues of a motion offense. It hadn't worked well in the past, and because I hadn't explained the reasons for its employment, he had every right to question using it again. Unlike their elders, children have not been trained to hold back any respectful questioning of authority. When something, anything, does not make sense, they make sure to ask why. In turn, the authority figure must ask himself the same question, allowing for valuable self-reflection.I then took this a step further, looking at my everyday activities. I realized that at my internship in Washington, I was being handed tasks without any explanation as to why they were important, or as to how they fit into the larger scheme of the company. It was frustrating - I empathized with my team. Even at the Daily, we give writers story topics, but for lack of time, motivation, or understanding, we often don't teach them how to do a better job, or why their story is important.I could not correct these problems all at once, but I could experiment with a new style over the summer. So, I returned to camp juiced for a big season of basketball (the 13s had four tournaments scheduled) and a chance to change. It started with an emphasis on fundamentals, which a friend on the staff jokingly referred to as "Brennerball." My team complained, of course; they wanted to scrimmage. I told them that we couldn't walk until we could crawl; that they were now at an age where they needed to think about how they could improve, not just about having fun all the time. They would be in high school in two years; tryouts would be quite serious by then. Whatever work they did now would pay off in the future. Because I explained why, they bought it, and worked hard. And we improved. We improved a lot. We made it to the finals of the Camp Cedar Basketball Tournament, which is southern Maine basketball's equivalent to the NCAA Tournament. Still, we were significantly outclassed by Cedar, who beat us handily in both the preliminary round-robin as well as the in the finals. We still had problems. My best scorer wouldn't play defense. One of my best defenders wasn't shooting well. My center was missing layups, and my point guard was turning the ball over. So, we did what good teams do: we practiced and adjusted. We got killed on the boards, so instead of designing a new play, we worked on the fundamentals of boxing out. We were giving up too many easy baskets, no matter what defensive strategy we utilized, so we worked on learning to play better fundamental defense. Cedar showed up at our tournament five days later, with the full expectation of being handed another trophy. Before their first game, I gathered my scouts (fellow basketball counselors) to watch them and discuss strategy. My friend Billy noticed something right away - we were far more athletic than our rival. Cedar had gotten away with this weakness at their tournament because their gym was small - it made their full court press more effective and neutralized our speed. At Andro, on a larger court, we had an advantage. We played Cedar in the second game of the preliminary round and blitzed them. How? By going back to the basics. We played hard man-to-man, ran a simple offense, and tried to push the ball up the floor as often as we could. Up by ten points early, we held on to win by four. It was a great victory, and we were all pumped up. We knew that we would most likely face them again in the finals, but we would carry with us an important ally into that battle: confidence. Confidence. It is central to success in sports, and indeed, life. With my players, I had to instill them with that quality. I had to convince one player that though he did not score much, without his defensive ability, our team would struggle. I made sure that each player on the team knew his strengths and weaknesses, and that we would play to his strengths. Thus, each kid had a role on the team and something about himself of which he could be proud. The design was for my faith in their abilities to translate into confidence, which would thus lead to comfort on the court, and better results. Once again, I realized that this approach is lacking in the adult world. Most people are aware enough to take this approach with kids, but adults need positive reinforcement as well. How many professors actually sit their students down to tell them what they are doing well? How many bosses do this with their employees? The special ones do. So, we met Cedar once again, and fought through a war of a 13-year-old basketball final. We won. We celebrated. We ran straight to the lake, jumped in, and sucked up the emotion of victory. And there was emotion, because in the vacuum that is camp, seemingly trivial events in the world's scheme take on much greater significance. There was a bittersweet twinge attached to the trophy, though. I felt bad for being unable to use all of my players in the championship game. I approached one such boy, while walking back to our bunk, to apologize for not giving him his usual minutes. "The matchups just weren't right for you in that game," I attempted to explain. "I don't care about not playing," he said as a grin began to stretch across his face. "We won." He raced ahead to catch up to the rest of the team, while I lingered behind, thinking of a quote from Mike Krzyzewski, something about things being truly special when you are able to give up a piece of yourself to be part of a greater whole. It is not easy for a child to understand that sort of unselfish pleasure, but, on that day, everyone on the team did give, and the common reward was greater than any individual accomplishment. I thought about how I could transfer some of the lessons learned with these boys to my everyday life. I envisioned an environment in which we were all comfortable enough with one another to help and want to be helped. Then, I decided to stop thinking. And I was just proud.
