There’s this thing I do after every tournament. I sit in silence for a few minutes. I let the gym noise fade, the sound of sneakers squeaking and parents shouting turn to stillness. And in that quiet, I begin the replay.
Not the film. Not yet. The mental one.
I go through every moment—every timeout, every sub, every play call. I pick it apart like a coach should. But sometimes, I go too far. I forget the part where I’m human. I forget to choose love… for me.
This past weekend we went 2-2. Our first game was a true test—aggressive team, fast pace. We had a slow start, but we fought back and took the win. I saw heart in them. Grit. The kind that makes you pause and remember why you love coaching. Second game? Same slow start, stronger finish, but not enough. Turnovers and lack of rebounding cost us.
Sunday came. First game—easier, but useful. Everybody got in. Everybody touched the ball. Confidence reset. It’s what we needed before the storm.
And then came the last game. The one that sticks to your ribs. The one you think about all week. Winnable? Absolutely. Lost? Yes. But what really hurt wasn’t the final score—it was the lack of trust, the lack of focus, the misalignment. In those moments, I wasn’t just battling the other team. I was battling distractions, individualism, pride, fear, and fatigue. And worst of all, I was battling the part of me that wanted to react instead of respond.
That’s the curse of being a coach who hates to lose.
You start to spiral. Every critic’s voice becomes your own. You analyze your rotations, your play-calling, your message. You go to sleep late and wake up early still replaying it all. And even when someone tries to encourage you, the voice in your head is louder. Because deep down, you’ve already said worse to yourself than anyone else ever could.
But here’s the truth—the real truth that I keep learning: coaching with love doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It means I allow the pain to teach me, not torment me.
I call it the ‘Choose Love’ method.
It starts with speaking kindly to yourself. It’s choosing to journal instead of vent. It’s reviewing film not to beat yourself up, but to evaluate the facts. It’s recognizing the line between passion and punishment. It’s unplugging from social media, sitting in silence with God, and asking, “What do I need to adjust to focus on the outcomes?”
And when I sit in silence and prayer long enough, I hear the whisper:
“I called on you for this. You’re the right person for this group.”
Love looks like resetting & refocusing.
Love looks like trusting again—even when the team isn’t quite there yet.
Love looks like pulling away from basketball for a moment and reconnecting with what makes you smile. For me, that’s food. That’s laughter. That’s music.
Because you can’t coach from an empty cup. And you can’t pour into others with bitterness lingering at the bottom.
The real challenge of coaching 17U isn’t just the X’s and O’s. It’s the baggage they bring in. It’s the preloaded philosophies from other programs. It’s the walls built around coachability. Some kids aren’t used to being held accountable. Some parents aren’t used to letting them fail forward. And so, we coach through resistance. We end up having to threaten buy-in instead of inspiring it.
But what if we led differently?
What if we chose love—even when they question us, even when we’re tired, even when it doesn’t look like it’s working?
What if we remembered that our job is more than teaching a press break or running a late-game set? It’s showing these young people that leadership is a heart thing. That our trust will be built. That character matters more than rankings.
So I’m choosing love again. For my team. For my staff. For the journey. For me.
Not the kind of love that excuses poor effort. Not the kind that avoids hard conversations. But the kind that speaks truth with grace. That guides with intention. That believes, even when belief is the hardest thing in the room.
To every coach reading this—you’re not alone in this balancing act. You’re not crazy for caring too much. You’re not weak for needing rest. You’re just human. And humans are allowed to feel.
To every parent—support your child’s growth more than their stats. Talk about effort. Celebrate coachability. Don’t teach them to run from critique; teach them how to stand in it.
And to the players—talent may get you seen, but love will make you last. Love the game. Love your team. Love the process.
As for me, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll give energy, tell the truth, and guide with care. I’ll Choose Love—within, around, and outwardly given.
