I have the best life these days. I love it! For the first time since I can remember, I went to a swim meet, and not only enjoyed it, but looked forward to it! Since we are with a new team, I was not anticipating having anyone to sit with, which, in and of itself, would have been a treat. (I have mentioned how much I enjoy being alone, even in groups and crowds.) I go to the meets to see my kids swim, not so much to socialize. All I need is a clear view of my progeny, a book and a bottle of water. I double lucked out, though, because my dear, sweet husband directed me to a dad from our new team, who not only introduced me to his wife and another set of parents, but none of them minded that I talked a little, and read a lot. (Interestingly, the book I was reading is Quiet : The power of introverts in a world that can't stop talking, by Susan Cain -- my new hero!) I got to see my Joseph swim, and I watched their kids swim, too, without the need to critique everything, or make comments on who looked like what. I got to go to the meet and be a mom AND be myself -- the best combination ever!!
As a bonus, I get to see my husband in action. He shines when he talks to the kids before and after their events. His love of the sport is evident in the way he interacts with his fellow coaches, especially the ones he now works with. For the first time, in a very long time, he looks like himself on deck, and I couldn't be more proud.
There's another side to my joyful anticipation today: I am not working at a pool. Summer meets for the past few years have been trying for me, as I still felt like I was at work, even though it was someone else's pool. In the wintertime, I didn't quite have the same feeling, but I did find myself keeping a close eye on how the meets were running, since we hosted a major meet at the pool where I worked this summer; I knew what I was doing, and how I envisioned the meet, but I kept looking for that one thing that goes wrong that could have been avoided "if only." For the first time, I did not need to worry about that meet (the next time that meet will happen at that pool will be in seven years. No way will I still be there then!)
So, for the first time in a long time, I was quite relaxed going to a swim meet. No duties, no responsibilities, no worries. And on the way home, we stopped for fro-yo, chatted, laughed and rehashed. Just like the "old days" before swimming got stressful -- the days when we first met. I'm glad our boys are getting to know that man: the man that I married.
Showing posts with label coaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coaching. Show all posts
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
the roar--an element
My comments at the recent CHHS Football Banquet.....
Once upon a time, Coach Gay mentioned a program that he called Reading with the LIONS. The aim of the program, in which Junior and Senior players give up their lunches or study halls to read to elementary students on game day, was intended to help demonstrate to the players that they are role models to their young fans, even when they are not on the field. Additionally, in introducing themselves, posing and answering questions, and generally being the center of attention in the classroom, they would hone their public speaking skills.
I volunteered to organize this program for Coach Gay mostly because I knew teachers in the District, and he did not. What I saw and heard amazed and impressed me more than I expected.
The teachers were so accommodating and grateful for the player visits, and for seeing their former students so grown up. The elementary students were thrilled to have a change of pace. This much I expected. What blew me away were the football players…
They transformed from a nervous gang of semi-coerced kids, asking for books with “lots of pictures” or “only 3 words,” to an eager team who also played in 5th grade gym class and sounded out words like “philanthropic”—cold.
As if that wasn’t enough, I received emails from teachers and parents who were impressed at the transformation in their kids: reluctant readers were now asking for books; math-shy kids were looking for LION stats in Saturday’s paper; even kids who were planning their weekly wardrobe so they could wear blue and white or a football jersey on Friday. The nurse said a student told her the worst thing about going home sick was missing the LION Reader. A high school teacher observed a delighted elementary student pointing out that week’s reader, and the huge smiles on all three faces: Player, Mom and Child.
Making an impact is something that more often happens on a smaller scale than we realize. I read in a picture book once that meteorites that make big craters are sometimes just tiny rocks, no bigger than a fist. The LION Readers have been a meteorite. Their impact truly did go beyond any classroom. When I met our Superintendant, Dr. Reeder, he said two things to me that I’ll never forget. He said, “Oh! You’re the LION Reader Lady!” And then he said, more seriously, “Their visits to Eisenhower and Hoover have been key in how well the team is playing. It gets their minds off the game a little so they can focus when they get to the field.”
Parents, thank you for raising boys willing to give of themselves, even when it seems to be a small thing: those small things are the BIG things. And thank you for your willingness to pitch in when I needed drivers and chaperones. Juniors and Seniors, thank you for opening up to your fans, and answering questions ranging from “What’s your favorite dinner?” to “What’s your favorite play?” And for being such good company in our travels. Freshmen and Sophomores, your day will come—I hope you’re looking forward to it.
Coach Gay, thank you for setting Reading with the LIONS in motion. The initiative, in every way, was a success. You said to me once that it is exciting to catch glimpses of the men these players will become. Through Reading with the LIONS, the classroom teachers and I were blessed with a preview of the teachers, uncles, fathers, coaches, these Camp Hill LIONS will one day become.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
coach kim jones
Dear Kim,
When I began running, I hated it. Somehow it had occurred to me and a friend that we were not getting as much aerobic benefit from our dance classes as we would like, and around the same time, I started racing Jonathan to the car, to a tree, across that field. I decided that it might be a good idea to try running. It would give me something to do while the boys were at swim practice, and, clearly, would benefit me. Still, I hated it.
But I tried to be determined about mastering it, and forced myself to get on the treadmill for 30 minutes those three days a week. At least half the time I walked--I walked fast, but it still really wasn't running. It was boring, and I found excuses for slowing down. But, I was exercising, I was sweating.
Then came your diagnosis. For a relatively long time, I was terrified to talk to you--afraid I would cry, or say the wrong thing, or that you would cry. I was scared of your breast cancer, your treatment, and yet I was so very pleased to see you walk into the Y every day. If you could do that, I could run. If you could continue to go out on that pool deck, and guide those kids with all the gusto you could muster, I could run. If you could keep smiling, laughing, hugging, high-fiving, I could run.
I bought a Swim for Kim shirt, and wore it on the treadmill. At first I got funny looks, because all the other Swim for Kim shirts went into the pool area, not the exercise rooms. I didn't care--I knew that you were getting sidelong glances because you lost your hair. If you could handle that, I could handle this. Every single time I started that treadmill, I told myself I was doing it for you. And I did.
There were oh, so many times when I wanted to quit running; to walk or stop completely. I chastised myself--"Kim can't quit." Or, "Kim had chemo today. Is this really so rough?" And sometimes, "What would Kim think if she knew you'd stopped?" For every mile I ran, I put a dollar in a box at home. I didn't know what I would do with it, but I knew that something would present itself. At Christmas, I bought three more Swim for Kim shirts, and gave them as gifts to my sister, my brother, and my sister-in-love. I kept running for you, through chemo, radiation, the swim season. Just as you were telling the kids in the pool, with practice and perseverance, I got more efficient, faster, more comfortable.
It took time for me to work up the nerve to talk to you as we had before. To feel that if you laughed--no, when you laughed, for you always seemed to have one ready--I could, too. I was so fortunate that you never questioned my distance. It would have hurt us both if you'd noticed. You helped me with my HR class; we talked and laughed over hiring practices and promotion standards. When I finished my paper, I sent it to you for editing before submitting it.
And when the doctor told you that the cancer was gone, but would lurk around, and eventually return, we hugged, and cried together in the chapel at the Y. You showed me the radiation burns, and told me how they hurt, but you were so tired of always trying to hide them. I told you how beautiful you always were, always would be; that your presence is what mattered most.
Kim, you never knew what a coach you were to me, too. Your support of my sons, and my husband, in and around the pool was a gift I never was able to--could never--thank you for enough. If all of us are here for a reason, to learn something and to teach something, you were an extra special blessing. You taught me how to encourage my son without going overboard. You taught me to face life with joy, no matter the difficulties. You taught me to love what I'm doing with my whole heart, even if it's not what I wanted to be doing. You encouraged me to see through to the end, no matter what. I remember your frustration with yourself at not making my graduation party, and Henry's confirmation party, because you were too tired from a breast cancer event. Did you know that I was so proud of you? Did you know I wished I was more like you? I am so very grateful to you--for being you, for all to see.
And for coaching me to run.
I love you, Kim, and I always will. I know that you must be on that great pool deck in heaven, calling out encouragement to all those who love the water; cheering and smiling that amazing smile that lit up every bit of your being. I know that your light will continue to shine on us all, because our love for you was always rivaled only by your love for us.
Take your mark.....
Love,
Stephanie
When I began running, I hated it. Somehow it had occurred to me and a friend that we were not getting as much aerobic benefit from our dance classes as we would like, and around the same time, I started racing Jonathan to the car, to a tree, across that field. I decided that it might be a good idea to try running. It would give me something to do while the boys were at swim practice, and, clearly, would benefit me. Still, I hated it.
But I tried to be determined about mastering it, and forced myself to get on the treadmill for 30 minutes those three days a week. At least half the time I walked--I walked fast, but it still really wasn't running. It was boring, and I found excuses for slowing down. But, I was exercising, I was sweating.
Then came your diagnosis. For a relatively long time, I was terrified to talk to you--afraid I would cry, or say the wrong thing, or that you would cry. I was scared of your breast cancer, your treatment, and yet I was so very pleased to see you walk into the Y every day. If you could do that, I could run. If you could continue to go out on that pool deck, and guide those kids with all the gusto you could muster, I could run. If you could keep smiling, laughing, hugging, high-fiving, I could run.
I bought a Swim for Kim shirt, and wore it on the treadmill. At first I got funny looks, because all the other Swim for Kim shirts went into the pool area, not the exercise rooms. I didn't care--I knew that you were getting sidelong glances because you lost your hair. If you could handle that, I could handle this. Every single time I started that treadmill, I told myself I was doing it for you. And I did.
There were oh, so many times when I wanted to quit running; to walk or stop completely. I chastised myself--"Kim can't quit." Or, "Kim had chemo today. Is this really so rough?" And sometimes, "What would Kim think if she knew you'd stopped?" For every mile I ran, I put a dollar in a box at home. I didn't know what I would do with it, but I knew that something would present itself. At Christmas, I bought three more Swim for Kim shirts, and gave them as gifts to my sister, my brother, and my sister-in-love. I kept running for you, through chemo, radiation, the swim season. Just as you were telling the kids in the pool, with practice and perseverance, I got more efficient, faster, more comfortable.
It took time for me to work up the nerve to talk to you as we had before. To feel that if you laughed--no, when you laughed, for you always seemed to have one ready--I could, too. I was so fortunate that you never questioned my distance. It would have hurt us both if you'd noticed. You helped me with my HR class; we talked and laughed over hiring practices and promotion standards. When I finished my paper, I sent it to you for editing before submitting it.
And when the doctor told you that the cancer was gone, but would lurk around, and eventually return, we hugged, and cried together in the chapel at the Y. You showed me the radiation burns, and told me how they hurt, but you were so tired of always trying to hide them. I told you how beautiful you always were, always would be; that your presence is what mattered most.
Kim, you never knew what a coach you were to me, too. Your support of my sons, and my husband, in and around the pool was a gift I never was able to--could never--thank you for enough. If all of us are here for a reason, to learn something and to teach something, you were an extra special blessing. You taught me how to encourage my son without going overboard. You taught me to face life with joy, no matter the difficulties. You taught me to love what I'm doing with my whole heart, even if it's not what I wanted to be doing. You encouraged me to see through to the end, no matter what. I remember your frustration with yourself at not making my graduation party, and Henry's confirmation party, because you were too tired from a breast cancer event. Did you know that I was so proud of you? Did you know I wished I was more like you? I am so very grateful to you--for being you, for all to see.
And for coaching me to run.
I love you, Kim, and I always will. I know that you must be on that great pool deck in heaven, calling out encouragement to all those who love the water; cheering and smiling that amazing smile that lit up every bit of your being. I know that your light will continue to shine on us all, because our love for you was always rivaled only by your love for us.
Take your mark.....
Love,
Stephanie
Saturday, November 26, 2011
silver and gold
"Twelve months ago, I was told I was no good...."
So began the words spoken to the parents gathered after early morning practice on Thanksgiving morning. I don't think Coach intended to get emotional saying his words of thanks to us. From what I have seen of him in front of us, he tends more towards matter-of-fact when talking to parents. With the team, I hear he is pretty controlled, but does, on occasion, show some strong emotions.
Either which way, the words gave me chills when I heard them, and have been echoing through my mind ever since...
After all, a year ago, that's pretty much what the former coach had said about this very team of boys.
Last year, the team record was 1 and 9. The year before, 2 and 8. That coach's 'intensity' was something I personally found to be painful to watch. I expect coaches to be, shall we say, "excited," on the sideline, but he always seemed angry, irritable and frustrated. By the end of last season, I was keeping my own stats: counting how many times he had thrown something, screamed or waved his clipboard in someone's face, and judging what my son's mood would be on Saturday morning by how red the coach's face was. Around mid-season every year, there would be a rumor that it would be his last; he would retire at the end of the season. Among my friends in the stands, there was a certain hopefulness that went along with the rumor, but also a general, "I'll believe it when I see it" attitude.
The season ended last year with his retirement--and him saying that he had no desire to attend a football banquet. He went on to say that he wasn't even sure the boys deserved a banquet, after the season they had. He implied that we would be lucky to get a second-rate coach; that no one would want to work with these kids.
We pushed on. We had the banquet, and he did attend. None of us who knew what he'd said were happy about it, and would have loved to 'forget' his invitation, but we wanted--needed--to do the right thing for the players. As parents and fans, we had to stand behind our boys, no matter what. And we hoped for the future....
Our prayers were answered with a match made in heaven, it seems. A Coach who wasn't wanted and a team that was thrown away managed to finish the season with a more than respectable 7 and 5 record. More than that, they learned more from their new Coach than they had ever learned from the previous one. They learned that what they need is inside them. They learned to trust each other; to support each other. To take credit modestly, and to own up to mistakes with dignity.
They learned to be a team.
They learned, along with their new Coach, that their worth is not counted only in wins and losses, but in who they are--to each other, to the community, to themselves. They may have lost their championship final game, and brought home silver medals, but I still say that they are all, without a doubt, worth their weight in GOLD.
The season reads like a movie script, and I heard someone say before the last game that must mean they need a happy ending, a win, to finish it out. I almost agreed; I wanted a win, too. But, in reality, the happy ending for these guys is just beginning. The lessons they've learned are going to change their lives, and the lives of an entire community--just you wait.....
So began the words spoken to the parents gathered after early morning practice on Thanksgiving morning. I don't think Coach intended to get emotional saying his words of thanks to us. From what I have seen of him in front of us, he tends more towards matter-of-fact when talking to parents. With the team, I hear he is pretty controlled, but does, on occasion, show some strong emotions.
Either which way, the words gave me chills when I heard them, and have been echoing through my mind ever since...
After all, a year ago, that's pretty much what the former coach had said about this very team of boys.
Last year, the team record was 1 and 9. The year before, 2 and 8. That coach's 'intensity' was something I personally found to be painful to watch. I expect coaches to be, shall we say, "excited," on the sideline, but he always seemed angry, irritable and frustrated. By the end of last season, I was keeping my own stats: counting how many times he had thrown something, screamed or waved his clipboard in someone's face, and judging what my son's mood would be on Saturday morning by how red the coach's face was. Around mid-season every year, there would be a rumor that it would be his last; he would retire at the end of the season. Among my friends in the stands, there was a certain hopefulness that went along with the rumor, but also a general, "I'll believe it when I see it" attitude.
The season ended last year with his retirement--and him saying that he had no desire to attend a football banquet. He went on to say that he wasn't even sure the boys deserved a banquet, after the season they had. He implied that we would be lucky to get a second-rate coach; that no one would want to work with these kids.
We pushed on. We had the banquet, and he did attend. None of us who knew what he'd said were happy about it, and would have loved to 'forget' his invitation, but we wanted--needed--to do the right thing for the players. As parents and fans, we had to stand behind our boys, no matter what. And we hoped for the future....
Our prayers were answered with a match made in heaven, it seems. A Coach who wasn't wanted and a team that was thrown away managed to finish the season with a more than respectable 7 and 5 record. More than that, they learned more from their new Coach than they had ever learned from the previous one. They learned that what they need is inside them. They learned to trust each other; to support each other. To take credit modestly, and to own up to mistakes with dignity.
They learned to be a team.
They learned, along with their new Coach, that their worth is not counted only in wins and losses, but in who they are--to each other, to the community, to themselves. They may have lost their championship final game, and brought home silver medals, but I still say that they are all, without a doubt, worth their weight in GOLD.
The season reads like a movie script, and I heard someone say before the last game that must mean they need a happy ending, a win, to finish it out. I almost agreed; I wanted a win, too. But, in reality, the happy ending for these guys is just beginning. The lessons they've learned are going to change their lives, and the lives of an entire community--just you wait.....
Thursday, November 17, 2011
thanks, coach
Dear Coach~
You are quite a motivational speaker. The first time I met you, you had been working with my son and the team for a short time. They had been lifting weights a bit, nothing really serious, as I recall, but you had taken the time to get to know them a little. A couple of the assistant coaches from the previous years had remained on your staff, and I was impressed that they shared so much information about the boys' talents, strengths and weaknesses with you. And also impressed that you had listened, but said that you were committed to making your own judgements.
In fact, there were many things you told us you were committed to that evening. You talked about so many different ways you wanted to change things with this team, and you promised to be accessible to us, as well as to the boys. Some things didn't materialize (this year. I have every confidence that this will grow and continue to develop.), but other things took off. That first evening, though, what most amazed me is still that I left the meeting excited about the football season.
Coach, you promised that you would take our boys and help them to become men. You promised that they would, by the end of the season, be a team, a family. You even were so bold as to promise that they would have a winning season, probably even a playoff season. I hope you understood how difficult that was to swallow. I, for one, had seen my son's team lose far more than win, and I'd never expected to meet an approachable football coach. But, somehow, you convinced me.
With your guidance, these boys have changed. You told them, in the early weight room sessions, that they can't give up in the third quarter; that the game isn't over until the clock winds down. When I run now, I break the route down into rough quarters, and tell myself the same thing. And I've watched as the team has played--really played--until the very end of the game; they just don't give up. It's great to see.
One thing you have held fast to is their position as role models in the community. At first, it didn't seem they realized, or cared, that community members recognized them. They wore their jerseys the same as they always had. Now, just three months later, they carry themselves differently in their jerseys. It's difficult to explain, but they have a new bearing. They care. All those weeks of reading that the upperclassmen did really got through to them: these kids know them. The questions the kids ask are real, and make the boys think on their feet. They've seen the support that comes from admiration, and they began to understand the responsibility associated with wearing any uniform. They then passed that self-respect on to the underclassmen. The end result is an entire team that looks forward to being able to read to kids.
Your view of pregame meals and Senior dinners has been simple genius. Sitting down to a meal is different from grabbing some food on the run. Despite the buffet style so necessary or efficient in feeding so many at one time, the team sits together and talks. Decompresses. Relaxes a little. Calms those nerves.
Coach, I would like to thank you for coming to our team. I believe in what you have started here: the new traditions, the ideas you have, the dreams you see coming true. Most of all, I would like to say that I appreciate the mutual respect you have fostered. These guys, as you promised, look out for each other. I've heard them extend credit to other team members when paid a compliment. I've heard them say that they have learned from mistakes made in practice or in games, and that the next one will be even better. And I've heard you commend the team, rather than take compliments for yourself. More than once, you have thanked us, as parents, for the sons we have raised. We--the parents, and you--the coaches, have become a good team, too. Thank you.
Thank you for believing. Thank you for pushing. Thank you for your faith in a bunch of people who you'd never met. Thank you for being honest--with us and with our children. Thank you for being the type of coach who really does do this job for the love of the kids first, and the game second. Thank you for an unforgettable season. The winning, I'd like to say, is just icing on the cake, but I'd be lying. Without the winning, the rest would still have been there, but it might have been harder to see. So thanks for that, too.
Warmly,
a converted Football Mom
You are quite a motivational speaker. The first time I met you, you had been working with my son and the team for a short time. They had been lifting weights a bit, nothing really serious, as I recall, but you had taken the time to get to know them a little. A couple of the assistant coaches from the previous years had remained on your staff, and I was impressed that they shared so much information about the boys' talents, strengths and weaknesses with you. And also impressed that you had listened, but said that you were committed to making your own judgements.
In fact, there were many things you told us you were committed to that evening. You talked about so many different ways you wanted to change things with this team, and you promised to be accessible to us, as well as to the boys. Some things didn't materialize (this year. I have every confidence that this will grow and continue to develop.), but other things took off. That first evening, though, what most amazed me is still that I left the meeting excited about the football season.
Coach, you promised that you would take our boys and help them to become men. You promised that they would, by the end of the season, be a team, a family. You even were so bold as to promise that they would have a winning season, probably even a playoff season. I hope you understood how difficult that was to swallow. I, for one, had seen my son's team lose far more than win, and I'd never expected to meet an approachable football coach. But, somehow, you convinced me.
With your guidance, these boys have changed. You told them, in the early weight room sessions, that they can't give up in the third quarter; that the game isn't over until the clock winds down. When I run now, I break the route down into rough quarters, and tell myself the same thing. And I've watched as the team has played--really played--until the very end of the game; they just don't give up. It's great to see.
One thing you have held fast to is their position as role models in the community. At first, it didn't seem they realized, or cared, that community members recognized them. They wore their jerseys the same as they always had. Now, just three months later, they carry themselves differently in their jerseys. It's difficult to explain, but they have a new bearing. They care. All those weeks of reading that the upperclassmen did really got through to them: these kids know them. The questions the kids ask are real, and make the boys think on their feet. They've seen the support that comes from admiration, and they began to understand the responsibility associated with wearing any uniform. They then passed that self-respect on to the underclassmen. The end result is an entire team that looks forward to being able to read to kids.
Your view of pregame meals and Senior dinners has been simple genius. Sitting down to a meal is different from grabbing some food on the run. Despite the buffet style so necessary or efficient in feeding so many at one time, the team sits together and talks. Decompresses. Relaxes a little. Calms those nerves.
Coach, I would like to thank you for coming to our team. I believe in what you have started here: the new traditions, the ideas you have, the dreams you see coming true. Most of all, I would like to say that I appreciate the mutual respect you have fostered. These guys, as you promised, look out for each other. I've heard them extend credit to other team members when paid a compliment. I've heard them say that they have learned from mistakes made in practice or in games, and that the next one will be even better. And I've heard you commend the team, rather than take compliments for yourself. More than once, you have thanked us, as parents, for the sons we have raised. We--the parents, and you--the coaches, have become a good team, too. Thank you.
Thank you for believing. Thank you for pushing. Thank you for your faith in a bunch of people who you'd never met. Thank you for being honest--with us and with our children. Thank you for being the type of coach who really does do this job for the love of the kids first, and the game second. Thank you for an unforgettable season. The winning, I'd like to say, is just icing on the cake, but I'd be lying. Without the winning, the rest would still have been there, but it might have been harder to see. So thanks for that, too.
Warmly,
a converted Football Mom
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