The Ask
“Dad, will you coach us?”
The words dropped over a mid day snack like they were no big deal, but my pulse spiked. This is the daughter who cranks Willie Nelson beside me on winding back roads, the kid who says yes to backpacking weekends and off course hikes to explore with me because, why not? If she wanted me in the big chair, the answer was already yes. Honor demands action, especially when it comes wrapped in a “ride-or-die” grin.
That single question took me back to my own childhood; which was mostly devoid of a parental figure at a sport event. I could give my girl a better anchor—only this time I’d be on the court instead of in the stands.
The Ask
“Dad, will you coach us?”
The words dropped over a late-night bowl of cereal like they were no big deal, but my pulse spiked. This is the daughter who cranks Metallica beside me on winding back roads, the kid who says yes to backpacking weekends and nine-mile beach runs because, why not? If she wanted me in the big chair, the answer was already yes. Honor demands action, especially when it comes wrapped in a “ride-or-die” grin.
That single question took me back to my own dad shouting from rusty bleachers and to all the small decisions that had welded us together. I could give my girl the same anchor—only this time I’d be on the court instead of in the stands.
The Empty Clipboard
I grew up in cleats, but volleyball might as well have been Olympic fencing. I didn’t know a libero from a trombone. Once the league e-mail confirmed my slot, panic nudged. I binged YouTube, devoured coaching blogs, and sketched plays in OneNote like a mad architect. By Monday I’d built a slick practice plan, complete with tablet diagrams that looked great to an almost-50-year-old guy who loves systems.
The first practice shattered that illusion in sixty seconds. Thirteen teenage faces blinked back at my carefully drawn arrows with a polite “Uh… okay?” Their body language said, Coach, we just want to hit the ball.
Cue the first audible pivot. I asked who’d played longest. One hand shot up—five years’ experience and the kind of confidence you only get from endless reps. I promoted her to captain on the spot and asked her to demo a proper pass. The rest of the team leaned in, gears clicking. Ship steadied. Lesson learned: leadership isn’t about being the smartest in the room; it’s elevating the smartest in the room.
The Fall—and the Stoic Stand
Our debut match arrived faster than my learning curve. We lost—spectacularly. Balls dropped, rotations scrambled, my clipboard might as well have been a set of IKEA instructions in Swahili. I told the girls to keep their heads high, then spent the entire weekend pacing the house like a caged bear.
Marcus Aurelius finally caught me by the collar: “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” I realized the loss wasn’t a verdict on my worth; it was data. On Monday I walked into practice, owned the defeat publicly, and asked the girls what they needed to improve. The floodgates opened. We built the next week’s plan together, and the mood shifted from coach versus team to crew on the same ship.
Four Pillars in Play
Body. I decided I wouldn’t be the clipboard-only guy. I ran ladders, dove for loose balls, and learned that forty-nine-year-old hamstrings sing a very specific hymn after the third suicide drill. Pain reminded me I was still in the game, not watching it.
Being. Coaching revealed my quiet addiction to approval. When a serve sailed out of bounds, I felt eyes on my back like corporate board members tallying missed KPIs. But vulnerability breeds credibility. I started admitting mistakes in real time—“That sub pattern was on me”—and the girls mirrored the honesty.
Balance. Family logistics went nuclear: practice three nights a week, games on Saturdays, plus the usual business travel. Yet my wife told me she saw a fresh spark—a mix of teacher’s pride and warrior focus. Energy begets energy.
Business. Monday-morning staff meetings suddenly sounded like post-game huddles. Clear drills → clear agendas. Fast feedback → fast iterations. The office noticed. Leading teenagers sharpened every other blade I carry.
Nicknames & New Oxygen
I grew up worshipping teams where “Wild Bill” and “The Answer” were household names. Nicknames give identity room to breathe. Mid-season I rolled out a list:
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Mad Dog—unleashed intensity at the net.
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Shackalicious—our lanky blocker who stuffs spikes like a food truck loads burritos.
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Tater Tot—tiny, scrappy, impossible not to cheer for.
Suddenly warm-ups echoed with laughter, and “nice serve, Shackalicious!” felt less like teasing and more like tribe-building. Performance followed joy like tide follows moon.
The Bench Call
Quarter-finals. Tight match. Best player fires off a comment hotter than stadium lights, demoralizing teammates. I had only seven girls—options thin. Still, culture trumped score. I benched her the entire set. We lost it by three. She cried. I questioned everything.
We rallied the next set and nearly stole the match, but the real win was invisible: the team understood lines exist and leadership enforces them, even under playoff pressure.
Lighthouse Lesson
Each player wrestled her own storm—shame over missed serves, rising hormones, fear of letting Dad-coach down, anger at rivals across the net. My clipboard couldn’t solve all that, but my posture could: stand tall, shine steady, show the path through fog. Be the light. Leave a path.
Some days that meant fist-bumping after an epic fail. Other days it was simple eye contact that said, “You’re more than the scoreboard.” The beam doesn’t judge the waves; it just guides them home.
Ten-Year Snapshot
Fast-forward a decade. My daughter’s college friends chat about freshman finals and crushed relationships. One brings up sixth-grade volleyball and says, “Your dad was intense but he always believed in us.” She smiles, shoulders back, knowing her old man showed up—truly showed up—when called.
That’s the trophy I’m chasing.
The point?
The season ended. We finished middle of the pack, bruised knees and bigger hearts. And me? I learned comfortable equals stagnant. Every arena—family, fitness, faith, finance—blooms when you volunteer to look foolish and grow forward.
So if you’re stuck in analysis paralysis—launch the podcast, mentor the intern, coach the sport you don’t yet understand. Step into the unknown, clipboard rattling, and figure it out with the people counting on you.
Adrift? Follow the Light.
Because everything worth building lives on the far side of comfort.