Coaching solo

The title to chapter four in my assistant coaching memoirs is “coaching solo.” My progression along this coaching path has felt similar to a baby’s first year condensed into three weeks. On my first day of practice I was a new baby, blinking in wonder at the wide wide world and simply copying the actions of my mentor/head coach. At my first workout with the team, I had to blow a whistle every 2-3 minutes, in conjunction with Jeff’s shouting and waving. During my third team workout, I sat in the shade with a collapsed runner, picking grass out of her hair and consoling her while she recovered.

At the first meet I drove a school van several hours but still didn’t have to think too much; I just followed the van in front of me. During the next meet I was handed the responsibility of six girls and tasked with getting them warmed up and to the starting line on time. My first independent thinking! Everything sped up and came at me faster and faster after that. During week two of my development, I re-certified at first aid and CPR and officially applied for the job I was filling–resume, cover letter, references, diplomas, and all. At the third and fourth meets, I was in charge of both the JV and varsity girls’ teams, doing all of the pre-race prep twice: warming them up, talking them through a pre-race visualization, and getting them through the team cheer.

Then this week, on my three week birthday as an assistant cross country coach, I conducted my first practice alone. Jeff was home with a migraine and practice was up to me. My training wheels were ripped off. My cozy safe cocoon was rent in twain. I emerged as a trembling tender little butterfly, gasping for air amidst my taut nerves. I was not sure what my leadership style was, or if I even had one. I guess the best place to learn to fly is at the edge of a cliff…

On Tuesday, September 18th, I bearded a den full of lions with my weak wrinkly wet butterfly wings and conducted my first practice alone. It was terrifying: 35 rambunctious teenagers (25 boys/10 girls) and me with my feeble vocal chords and incomplete knowledge of their names…I rode my bike alongside to keep them mostly honest on their tempo run, but I wasn’t sure what to say to them and they were not even all listening anyways. I told the team “I have many talents, but shouting is not one of them.” For the most part they listened, but they were quite reluctant to do everything I asked them to do.

The kicker was after our tempo run, during the core work. They do three circuits of core work, led by the team captains. 90% of the team inexplicably got up and didn’t do their last set of core work. I called out, “hey, you guys still have a third set to do!” I was so surprised that the captains had stopped the core work early that I let it go. Also, I wasn’t sure my quiet voice would even be able to get them to finish that final set anyways and I straight up chickened out. Six or seven of the kids stayed in position and finished their last set, bless them. I simply lacked the vocal volume and gumption to force them to do their third set of core work before they dispersed.

Summary: I survived, but just barely, and the entire night I kept wondering over and over what I could’ve done better and feeling thankful that Jeff would be back at practice the next day.

The next day, Jeff was not feeling better. He did not go to practice. I braced myself for another solo practice, outlined a few different speeches for different scenarios, gave my hardening wings a few experimental flaps, and marched into battle–I mean practice. I cast around the cross country supplies for some sort of megaphone and landed on an orange cone. I placed the cone-phone to my mouth and yelled into it, calling practice to order. The first order of business was to finish the third set of core work that they skived off the previous day. I was dreading making them do it, but I was also glad that the order came from me. If Jeff had come in and told them off, I would’ve felt like an impotent wittle tattle tale. But the alternative required copious courage. Deep breath. Lips to mega-cone.

“Before we go on our run today, you owe me one set of core work.” I shouted, trying not to think about how high and thin my voice gets when I push its volume to the max. I felt a little bit bad about making the kids who had stayed to finish their core do it again, but I couldn’t remember everyone who had finished it so I told them this is a team effort and we are in this together. When the kids who had completed the ab work the day before complained, I told them, “your abs will be one step ahead of the rest of the team’s for the rest of the season.”

Next up: I announced the 50-60 minute run on the grass around campus. Due to the plethora of aches and pains that they had bemoaned so thoroughly the day before, they were relegated to a soft surface easy run on the dread “grass loops.” Cue loads of grumbling. Negotiations opened at “can we please run somewhere else?” I stood my ground and reminded them how horrifically sore they had all claimed to be yesterday.

Them: “But we aren’t sore! Yeah, I feel great!” (scattered responses)

Me: “Do you mean to tell me that you’re only sore on workout days?” I asked. “How very strange and convenient!” I said in a mock-confused voice. I conceded to allow them to run the last 10 minutes on the sidewalk. That started a bidding war, which I actually rather enjoyed:

Them: “Can we do 30 minutes on the grass, 20 on the road?”

Me: “no.”

Them: “How about 33 minutes on the grass?”

Me, snagging a wily idea from thin air: “Did you just say 41 minutes on the grass?”

Them: “How about 35 minutes?”

Me; “42 minutes?”

Them: “37 minutes. Final offer.”

Me: “45 minutes? Sure!”

Them, to each other: “Stop! She keeps adding time!”

Me, mentally: “muahahahahaaaa”

We ran on the grass. I am not the type of person to engage in power plays, but coaching is a different beast, and it requires me to constantly adapt, figuring out how to remain amiable and approachable without losing my credibility and authority. In short, it is draining! But FUN when I hit upon an effective strategy (see above).

During our pre-run negotiations, I forgot to tell the team to stick around after the run so we could do strides and drills together. Consequently, only about a third of the team was around when I returned from the jog with my group. I got out my mega-cone and called them to do strides. Then I asked if my cone-phone was helping at all. They said no. I tossed it aside and told the scattered, inattentive group to “COME CLOSER! I may not have as much HAIR as my husband, but I have just as much authority! It’s time for strides right now!”

First they negotiated and tried to talk me out of doing the strides completely, then tried to talk me down to just accelerations, then attempted to weasel it down to less sets. I stood my ground, trembly on the inside but made of stone on the outside–stone dressed in knee-high heart-patterned socks. Stone that smiled benevolently while solidly denying their varied demands.

Me, mentally: “muahahahahahaaa!”

They did all three sets of strides and drills (3 each of high knees, butt-kicks, bounding, and accelerations). I love how Jeff has trained the team captains to lead all of the post-run core work and strides. I merely stood there and supervised. When they were done, I told them “nice job, team!” And we walked back to our tree to await the parental pick-ups. As the kids left one by one, they said “bye, coach!” or “later, miss!” (funny Sunnyside culture tip: kids call men “mister” and women, married or not, “miss.” I prefer coach, but “miss” is bearable.) Some of the kids gave me fist bumps on their way out.

All in all, it was exhausting but successful. On Friday I have to sub for the middle school cross country team’s practice.

It’s time to fly.