End of Season Letter


Our basketball season ended a couple of weeks ago. I always have a love/hate relationship with the end of the season. Sad to see it come to an end, but happy that it happened and that I can spend some time with my family. (Or actually write a blog post.)

I am sad to say that this season didn't produce any trophies, championships, or other things that the world deems as a success. It was the first year in four years that one of my teams hasn't "won" something. I also have never set out to win anything. Winning is never a goal of mine. I am upfront about that in the beginning of the season. I am focused on all the little things that go into winning. This class had a lot of things not necessarily go their way this year. They battled. They fought. They didn't complain.  Many factors go into that. Some we could have controlled. Others we couldn't. My job as a middle school coach is to prepare my players for their future careers in high school, while also competing in the here and now. I teach fundamentals, spacing, and all the players know that I love defense. Unfortunately, we didn't end up with many wins this season.

What it did have though, was great kids, great moments, and apparently, life lessons.

I have always thought that my job as a coach is to not make winners today, but to cultivate an atmosphere and culture that is conducive to producing students and players that win at life 20+ years down the road. Sports come and eventually go. Lessons, learning, and relationships last a lifetime.

This letter will go up on my wall. It will serve as a reminder that I at least did one thing right this year. I really appreciate how this player took the time to write a well thought out thank you letter. He doesn't know this, but these types of moments are what drives me. Not winning. Not championships. Not any of that. It really doesn't. You may think I'm crazy. Shoot. Most people already do. :)

I will remember this note more than any score.

Thank you to the player that wrote this. It means a lot.

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