When my son, George Jr., was in high school, I had the unique privilege of being both his father and his basketball coach. It was a role that required balance—nurturing him as a son while pushing him as an athlete.
When I first joined the school, basketball wasn’t a priority. The institution had built a reputation for producing world-class athletes in rugby, cricket, and swimming. But within a year, our basketball program had risen to an elite level in South Africa. We were no longer just participants—we were contenders.
By his senior year, George Jr. had earned the starting point guard position. He was skilled, disciplined, and a leader on the court. But leadership comes with a price.
One afternoon, during practice before a crucial tournament game, I noticed him repeatedly making a mistake I had previously corrected. I stopped practice.
“George, I need you to stop doing that,” I said, my voice firm but measured. I demonstrated the correct technique and sent them back to work.
Minutes later, he did it again.
This time, I halted practice completely. “On the baseline,” I ordered. I made him run a demanding drill—one that required full intensity. He gave his best, but he didn’t meet the mark.
Without hesitation, I pulled him from practice and replaced him.
Silence settled over the gym. His teammates exchanged glances, some murmuring quietly…
When we came to the end of the session his teammates were talking to him.
I said nothing. I simply walked to the car and waited.
The ride home was tense. George Jr. sat beside me, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. I chose not to speak, allowing time and space to do their work.
I just wanted to get home, have dinner, and let the situation settle. But as I reached for the door handle, he finally spoke.
“Dad, I want to talk to you.”… I paused, turned to him, and listened.
“I don’t like the way you treat me in front of my teammates,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “You push me harder than the others, and it feels like you blame me for everything that goes wrong.”
I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t defend myself. I just let him speak. When he finished, I met his eyes and simply said, “I hear you.”
Then, I stepped out of the car and went inside for dinner. The next day, I took him to KFC. Over a meal, I finally explained.
“Buddie,” I said—that’s his nickname. “As my son, you are the best example I have to set a standard for the team.
I expect more from you, not because I want to be unfair, but because leadership demands it. Whether you feel like it or not, your attitude and discipline shape this team.
If you allow yourself to be the weak link, what message does that send?”
He sat quietly, absorbing my words. Then I asked, Are you listening to me, “ are we on the same page?” He looked up at me, his expression softer.
“Yes, sir.”
That weekend, we won the game. And by the end of the season, he was named the team’s Most Valuable Player.
We are raising men, NOT boys!
GHO Snr 🌿
No comments:
Post a Comment