Everyone was afraid of him.
Before try-outs, during try-outs, after try-outs. But no one messed with him. He could take a room full of twenty teenage girls in sneakers and silence us. No giggles, no rolling-eyes, no chattering.
My dad was a very focused coach.
But if there has been ever a man who is good at what he does, it's my dad. I've never met someone who can do what he does.
Watch someone and see their current skill.
See potential and vision for where they can be.
Build where they are weak, without ignoring where they are strong.
Constantly challenging where they are strong, with out discouraging where they are weak.
He takes individuals and makes them run like a machine together.
He analyzes tactic, technique, personality and character like no one else I know.
And he is a true friend. I used to joke with all my teammates/friends that they came over to my house to talk to my dad, not me ;)Even now many of the girls he coached in highschool still ask him for life advice (ok, who are we kidding... boy advice!), come over to catch up and chat with him at church.
One of my favorite parts of being his daughter is getting to be challenged by him. My dad does not flatter. He calls it like it is. He tells you the truth, he tells you boldly and he pushes you to push yourself. Let me tell you though, nothing is more encouraging then supportive words from him. He really, really means it.
Here's a quick story.Summer league basketball. (Summer league, by the way, is such a joke. Girls are always on vacation, games are late at night, the local schools don't turn the AC on so gyms are painfully hot. It's a joke.) Our five starters, this particular game day, happened to be our only five players. In the first two minutes I rolled my ankle trying to get a rebound. Now, my ankles have always been bad and "a roll" happened almost every practice or game. It hurt for a few minutes, but I knew the difference between minimal injury and major injury. This was minimal, the only thing major that had just happened was I got major out-rebounded.
My ankle did hurt though. I kicked my legs a few times, took a few steps - I'm sure I grimaced while I half-jogged. While I licked my wounded wounds, my girl drove down with the ball she rebounded and scored.
"Sprint, Kristen! What are you doing?!?"Um. Being tough, Dad. Most girls would be in a heap like icing, crying little girly tears after that ferocious accident. Jeez. "I hurt my ankle!""Do you need to come out?""No.""Then sprint."Grimace."So what are you gonna do? Quit? Sprint or quit."
I don't know exactly what it was, but I never forgot that.Isn't that just how life goes sometimes? It hurts, it's difficult, it's "eeeeh." And you can keep going, or you can quit.And if you decide to keep going, you might as well sprint.110%.Pursue excellence.Why do things hard and well? To exalt Christ. To make much of our King."But far be it from me to boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ"Sprint in a way that makes the Lord look excellent.
Dad, you have taught me to be serious about God, by the way you have been serious.You have to taught me to never quit by never quitting yourself.You sprint, you push, you fight and you are a true man.I love you :D
