On Dean Smith

As a grad student at Georgia Tech in the late 1980's and early 1990's, I was fortunate enough to have experienced some of the most epic basketball battles at the time when the ACC was ascendant. Tech's own Bobby Cremins, Dave Odoms, Terry Holland, Jim Valvano, Mike K, and of course Dean Smith.  each had their own style and their own strategic proclivities.  I can't say that I was a connoisseur of basketball strategy, so the ins and outs of the chess match was pretty much lost on me, but I did notice that some coaches had teams that played like their coaches behaved. Valvano's Wolfpack was fundamentally sound but a little wild and freewheeling, Cremin's Tech team was gritty, streetwise, and Brooklyn tough, Coach K's Duke was precise, martial in their mien and athletic, North Carolina was staid but surprisingly hard to pin down because of their coach.

The most aggravating thing was that they always won. Tech was always competitive against the big two of Duke and UNC, but was only occasionally successful.

Fast forward to yesterday, as I once again turn my mind to Dean Smith upon his passing, those memories came out.  I had followed the development at UNC with Dean Smith's retirement, the appointment of Bill Gutherage, the rapid ascendance and descendance of Matt Dougherty, and ultimately the hiring of Roy Williams back to the powder blue fold of UNC. I always always alightly surprised to not see Dean Smith on the sidelines of the Tarheel bench whenever I tune in now, just because he is what my memory says is the person  patrolling sidelines. As I read through the various tributes to the man and his legacy, it struck me deeply that this is a man lived a life that any worthy coach/teacher aspire to to live.

There are the usual pablum from the word for dollar schmucks like Vitale and the too smooth, too effusive comments from the ESPN talking heads.  The words that struck came from his players, his boys because they are all his boys, even as they have aged into maturity as men, they were still his boys. They behave like boys when they were with him as well.  The footage shows very large, very elegant men toeing the line, giggling nervously like little boys awaiting for their teacher to give them their approval.

The stories of how the mentor reaches out to the pupil in their times of need, far beyond their four years in Chapel Hill, affected me greatly.  This is what we aspire to as a coach, to make a difference in the lives of our charges, far beyond the short time that we spend with them while coaching them.  That relationship forged in the beauty of the game, the bittersweet efforts that is a part of the journey to excellence, the pain and heartbreak of losing, the explosive excitement of winning, is what endures. As I hear the players, James Worthy, Phil Ford, Michael Jordan, Doug Moe, George Karl, Charlie Scott, grown men, some with snow capped tops all speaking as if they were one, all professing their love for the man they credit with their lives, their identity, their whole; I begin to feel pulled towards being even more committed than ever to coaching, to teaching, to mentoring.

To be clear, it isn't the adulation of the many that inspired me, it is the realization of the effect that one person can have on so many, the responsibility for so many on the one.  The realization that one person can change lives for the better by being honest, patient, and forthright. It is also the belief that doing the right thing, as hard as it is in these days of ever changing norms, is the right thing to do.  In the middle of it all is our own compass of doing what is right, coupled directly with the courage to admit your errors and make it right.

It is and will always be hard to do things right.  Sometimes our moral compass fails us, sometimes we strike the wrong stance, but we must always persevere and learn from our mistakes because there is so much at stake.

RIP Dean Smith.  You had a great life and you have created many great lives with all the young men you have steered towards their own path.

Father's Day 2014

My relationship with my father was uncommonly close.  His desire to have children was famous amongst his friends, he often doted on the children of his friends as if they were his own.  He quickly became the favorite uncle in no time, always having the time to play with the kids and always having candies and other treats.

So it was that the pressure was placed on my mother to have children.  I was number three or four, I don't remember, and the number seems to change with each retelling.  I came along after my mother stayed in bed for almost the entire nine months that she was pregnant with me, her friends would go through all the Chinese medicianl shops in greater Taipei looking for medicine that would help her have me. It was a momentous occasion when I came along.  My dad was in his mid forties when this happened, needless to say,I was doted on, spoiled, and literally could do no wrong. Even though we were not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, I went to the best school in Taiwan, my room was clogged with the best toys and books and whatever I desired.  Within reason of course.

Since I was the other child, he became my best friend, he got on the ground and played with me, we shared secrets and had our own language.  My poor mother wasn't exactly left out of the picture but she certainly was not a part of our club. Our relationship even survived my becoming a teenager.

As obnoxious and self absorbed as I was, we always had our time together.  It was Friday night, we would watch TV and talk about life, morals, ethics, things that two best friends talk about at the exclusion of others. He supported me unconditionally when I screwed up in grad school and nearly didn't get my degree and he rode the emotional wave with me as I foundered and triumphed. It was no small feat to get me to finishe my Phd, as I was by nature a dilettante and had problems focusing on any one thing.  Not quite ADHD but I supposed there are some of that in my nature.

The reason I am going through all this back ground is that I lost my dad in 2001. I miss him every day, in large and small ways.  You would think that 13 years is enough time, but it isn't.  The hard holidays aren't Christmas or New Years.  We always celebrate his life on the day of his birth and the day of his passing, usually at Red Lobsters, because that was his favorite place in Findlay Ohio where my parents after they moved back to the US, but those aren't the hard days either.

Today is the hard day.  When every image on television, every message on social media, every news media tease involves the picture of a father and children.  This is a bitch, this is hard.  This is the day I have to steel myself against losing it publicly.  I still lose it, just not in public, like at the grocery store. This is the day that everything reminds me of him.  This is the day where every voice in my head is his voice, saying those same things he always says over and over and over again.  Those things that used to drive me crazy, because they were always the same, never wavering.  Things about being a good person, about being patient, about how to treat people, about how to be a moral human being.  I don't need the moral teachings of a church nor a religion, I have my father's voice to guide me in my life.

This day will soon be over, and I will return to work and the hectic schedules of a hired gun. No doubt I will dream of him tonight and I will no doubt miss his so much that is feels like there are a million daggers slicing through my insides, but this too shall pass.  Until next year.