In 2006, I met Zeke Bratkowski.

Bratkowski, who played for The University of Georgia in the early 1950’s, was a standout quarterback for the university who went on to play professionally for the Chicago Bears, Los Angeles Rams and Green Bay Packers. He also served two years in the U.S. Air Force (while he was still with the Bears) and had a full coaching career in the NFL that spanned thirty years and six teams. He’s got a football pedigree that every kid (and his dad) who throws the pig skin around after Thanksgiving dinner would be envious over.

But, that’s the thing – of all the things I remember about meeting Zeke, being prideful wasn’t one of them.

Don’t get me wrong, he had lots of old football stories – the kind you have from playing with a brotherhood of teammates for many years – and he didn’t not talk about his accomplishments, but he had a stillness about him that communicated “yeah, I’ve seen some things.”

In a word, Zeke had chill.

Our paths crossed as part of an induction ceremony for the University of Georgia’s Circle of Honor. Since Georgia doesn’t have a Hall of Fame, nor do they retire player jerseys, the Circle of Honor represents this kind of milestone and gives former athletes a chance to be recognized for their accomplishments and contributions to the university through athletics and beyond. I was being inducted in 2006 along with Heather Stepp McCormick (gymnastics), George Bezecny (tennis), Dick Copas (golf) and Zeke Bratkowski (football).

As part of the weekend, we were introduced on the field during half-time of that weekend’s football game and then we had the option to sit together for the remainder of the game. My husband and I stayed for the game and sat right next to Zeke and his wife. They were kind, generous people who drank Sprite after Sprite after Sprite (or was it Diet Coke?).

In typical UGA football fashion, the Bulldogs handed us hope early in the first quarter, but then squandered their lead putting us on pins and needles for the next three quarters. My husband and I (along with Zeke’s wife) got worked up over the Dawgs, but Zeke never said a word. He sat through the game as cool as a cucumber, while everyone else around us was going bananas.

He watched.

He shifted in his seat.

He asked for more Sprite.

Now and again, he would mutter something that I couldn’t hear.

Not one bead of sweat.

Not one clap of the hands.

Not one swear word.

Just watching.

Chill.

Finally, our beloved Bulldogs pulled off a win. The crowd went crazy – as Dawg fans do.

I watched Zeke.

He let out slight exclamation of cheer, gathered his empty soda cups and he and his wife were gone.

That story will always stick with me. Why? Because I have zero chill. I was one of those intense players who got worked up over all kinds of stuff. I am still one of those people who wears most of my emotion on my sleeve – the good stuff and the not so good stuff. I am one of those coaches who wants to tell each kid how awesome they are all the time because I think they need to hear it.

But what I learned from Zeke is that chill can also speak loudly.

I don’t know, maybe it’s because he played and coached at such a high level that nothing much ruffles his feathers anymore or maybe it’s just his personality to be still, but something about that experience made an impression on me (and my husband – we still talk about that game).

I might not ever have chill like Zeke, but I will always respect and admire those who do.

There’s a phenomenon in volleyball these days. The genesis is unknown, but if you watch any high school, club or college match you will hear one common thing said over and over again – “we’re fine.” It’s unclear when it changed from older versions of self-soothing, like, “my bad” or the rather demanding, albeit whiny, motivators of yore “let’s gooo!!” or “come on you guuuuys!” but having listened to team after team speak the words “we’re fine,” one can only assume it going to be here a while. Here are just a few samples of when a player might use the term:

“Blocked every ball straight down…also netted every single time, but, WE’RE FINE. ”

“I just hammered a ball on the ten foot line (from my side and under the net) but I’M FINE, WE’RE FINE!”

“I just hit a ball so hard angle on my side that it travelled parallel across the bottom of the tape for at least five seconds, but, WE’RE FINE.”

“My coach told me to serve to area five, but I got an ace by serving area three instead, so WE’RE TOTALLY FINE.”

“The score is 8-22 in the third, we are down fourteen points and lost the first two sets, but, seriously, WE’RE FINE…no really, WE’RE TOTALLY FINE. LET’S KEEP SAYING IT TO EACH OTHER, OKAY?”

“You, you, you! No! Me, me, me. No, YOU! WE’RE FINE.”

“Totally got six packed by my own hit after it was blocked, don’t worry, I’M FINE…WE’RE FINE.”

“Up 23-8 but the other team just made a huge point run off our errors making it 23-22, but seriously guys…WE’RE FINE! One pass, WE’RE FINE!”

“Been tooled fifteen times by the same hitter and I haven’t fixed my blocking, but I’m fine. WE’RE FINE. EVERYONE’S FINE! (Especially that hitter, that hitter is TOTALLY FINE).”

I don’t know, it’s probably just me, but it seems as though whenever someone says “we’re fine” that they are not even remotely fine, but it’s all good, right? WE’RE FINE, right? Happy passing, setting, hitting, blocking and serving my friends! I love you all and this crazy sport and wouldn’t change a thing.

CHAPTER 1

Mrs. Cockshutt was my first ever coach, well, she was actually my P.E. teacher. I was eight years old in the 4th grade and was beginning my year at a new school. Having skipped 3rd grade, I was a year and a half (if not two full years) younger than everyone else in my class which meant I was also smaller and weaker than most kids.

Mrs. Cockshutt didn’t care, in her P.E. class, we were all the same. Our school was an old sorority house, so we had this massive house/school with a massive back yard – complete with a tennis court and ample running and exploring space. Some days, P.E. meant running around playing tag and other days were more structured. One day in particular, we played a new game called volleyball tennis.

Volleyball tennis is exactly how it sounds. One tennis net, one volleyball, one contact per side with one bounce before sending it back over the net to the other side. I immediately loved it and when it was time to do our end of the year report for P.E., I scoured every Encyclopedia Britannica with the letter “V” on the spine to do my research.

In 5th grade, we changed schools. Lucky for me, my new school had a volleyball program and the new coach was sure to be just as wonderful as Mrs. Cockshutt. Al Bennett was my home room teacher and volleyball coach and one of the three main drivers behind Austin Junior Volleyball, which would become what is now one of the premier volleyball clubs in the nation, and one of the best in Texas. Austin Juniors has gone on to produce more Division I collegiate All-Americans (I’m one of them) than you can shake a coaches clip board at. To say I got lucky getting to be part of the inaugural class of club players in Austin would be an understatement.

I hit volleyball gold.

CHAPTER 2

In 1985, however, club volleyball was very new and I was still very small. I was still a year-and-a-half younger than most kids in my class and my team was comprised of various grade levels, so while everyone was starting to get muscles (and boobs and periods), I was still wearing a baggy size XS and trying to squeeze nutrition out of a steady diet of grilled cheese sandwiches and macaroni. Not only was my body 9 years-old, my maturity level and emotional development were also the same age – but I was adaptable.

A scrappy, skinny thing, I had desire enough to reach the moon, but I lacked talent, size and let’s call a spade a spade – I wasn’t athletic – at all. Still, my school and club coaches were hard on me. But they wanted me to be better, right? So, I put up with it as did my parents.

I didn’t get better right away. I didn’t get better for a long time. After about five years of club and school volleyball (in which I spent a great deal of time on the bench), I had taken in a lot of really tough coaching. I had taken in toxic words about my ability, harsh criticism of my attitude, eye rolls, loud sighs, all the yelling and sideline body language that would shame Brene Brown into a corner to process. It wasn’t all bad though, I had a lot of fun with my teammates and there were glimpses of hope when I got put in to serve every now and again.

By the time I was a sophomore in high school, I had enough talent to hold my own and had settled into what I thought was normal coaching. I had no idea that anyone did anything different except yell and throw tantrums on the sideline or shame and criticize in post game talks. That was just what I knew and over time, it was actually effective for me. I used shame to motivate me to perform better. I used eye rolls to put in hours and hours of reps on my own time. As a player, I’d become somewhat desensitized – not immune – to it all.

But the thing about being coached by people who chip away at your confidence is that when it’s your turn to coach, you don’t know what else to do except have the same high standards and expectations for every player regardless of size, ability, desire, etc. You tend to coach the way you’ve been coached. That’s exactly what I did after I finished playing.

I only coached club volleyball for one season before quitting. See, I had a 16-3’s team, which meant I had kids all over the spectrum. Some were serious, some were just there to have fun, some were there because their parents made them play – for someone with high standards and unrealistic expectations, this was a nightmare. I did the only thing I knew how to do – yell, roll my eyes, make them run, communicate disappointment with my body language and who even knows what else.

Intuitively, I knew coaching wasn’t for me and I also knew, those girls didn’t need what I had to offer.

CONCLUSION

The last time I coached a team was in the 1900’s – 1998 to be exact.

Firmly planted in the 21st century, 2016 to be exact, I finally felt it was the right time to see if I could actually be a good coach. I’ve been “coaching” through writing and speaking and encouraging parents. In fact, my undergraduate and graduate degrees in Clinical Psychology were actually for the sole purpose of counseling athletes through transitions (and perhaps bad coaching), but it was time to get back in the gym and back around the kids.

Here’s what I can tell you from where I sit. I have absolutely no grudges or ill-feelings for any of my coaches. I am extremely grateful for the way my life through sports has given me a wealth of experiences and I’m completely aware that had I not been lucky enough to play for some of the best coaches in Texas (they are still producing champions), my story might look much different.

However, as coach, I couldn’t imagine speaking to one of the athletes on my team in the manner by which I was spoken, I can’t imagine telling one of them “you suck” or making jokes within ear shot of them about their ethnicity. My responsibility to these girls (and to my family) is to challenge them and encourage them. My job is to communicate their potential and ability and see them as individuals, each on their own path – AND to take all of that and help them work together for a common goal.

I have been overwhelmed most of this season that God has given me a second chance to impact someone’s life. Sometimes I sit in my car after a game and cry thinking how lucky I am and think about my little nine year-old self who had a heck of a dream to become a volleyball player someday.  It’s been a wonderfully hard journey and I wouldn’t take even one second back.

AFTERWORD

I’ve hesitated writing this because I truly, truly do have utmost respect for all my coaches and I know who they are as people now and know they continue to impact our sport in great ways. Most of what I speak of here is from my formative years between the ages of 9 – 14. Once I was old enough to talk back, I did – and I learned how to take care of myself in most cases. My high school and college coaches were a walk in the park mostly because I had already learned how to take a lot as an athlete.

I am forever grateful for that. I really, really am.

I wrote this mostly because I think it’s important to talk openly about it. If you don’t know why you are doing what you are doing as a coach or what impact it may have in kids life (especially formative years), take a step back and examine it. I never wanted any kid to feel what I felt like after a lashing and when I found myself doing just that, I had to stop. We are the adults and we need to know our limits. I needed to find my limit and I needed time to figure out who I wanted to be as a coach. I think I know now.

Sincerely,

Coach T.

So, I was going to say former athlete, but if you are anything like me, you know that once you are an athlete you’re always an athlete. Physical limitations and injuries may sideline us for a bit, but eventually we make our way back onto the field. It isn’t a perfect science (and I wish some of these weren’t true or necessary), but embracing them is much easier than resisting them at this point, and that’s good for everyone.

I wonder if you can relate to any of these confessions too?

1. I STILL HAVE COACHES: I humbly admit: I need direction. I don’t necessarily need someone to yell at me anymore but having a training program or fitness class helps me stay on track. I haven’t had an actual coach since I stopped playing, but through coaches at the gym I get direction physically and through mentors/friends outside the gym I get direction emotionally, spiritually and relationally. Working hard individually is fantastic and I love doing that too, but knowing I can ask questions (and that there is someone who can answer them) is a great asset in life.
2. I STILL HAVE GOALS THAT WON’T QUIT: Some days I think training for the Olympics would be an easier feat than trying to “train for life.” See when you are still playing to win, you have external forces working to produce a desired result. Eventually, we internalize a certain goal and if we are motivated and driven enough, we won’t quit until we’ve achieved that goal. When you stop playing, the external forces are fewer and fewer which means if we don’t have something to internalize, goals may seem a bit abstract, especially if we are injured or restricted physically in some way. Internalizing a value may have more benefit for a lifetime athlete than internalizing a specific goal. These days I train because my brain needs the stimulus I’ve always given it and my body needs to stay healthy. To put it simply – when I do things in the gym, I can do things outside the gym too and though there is no “win” on the line, I enjoy training simply because I know it’s good for me.  I’ve internalized that value.
3. I STILL HAVE SPORTS DREAMS: It’s fewer and far between, but I still get sports dreams every now and again. I’ll be falling asleep and drifting off into that twilight place when I am suddenly jarred awake, shoulder jerking up to my ear because a ball is headed right for my face! Volleyball players know this too well. Ever been laying in bed falling asleep playing a mental game of pepper? Our bodies and brains have remarkable memories and sometimes I still get crazy volleyball dreams creeping into my psyche (yes, I’ve self-analyzed them).
4. I STILL COMPETE: Let’s not confuse competing with winning. Even though winning still feels pretty sweet, it’s not my end game anymore. Most of the time the competition is between my ears. I don’t beat myself up over sports stuff anymore, it’s not useful, but I do love seeing what I can do when I put my mind to something I haven’t done yet or a new skill I’m trying to learn. I know where I need work and I know when I don’t enjoy things. My competition floor is basically me convincing myself I can do something even when I don’t want to or when I feel scared that I might fail – doing something even when I know I won’t win or when I know I’m the slowest or the weakest in the group. I may not look like a fierce competitor, but my goal is to keep going long after everyone else has stopped to increase my chances of being in the game longer.
5. I DON’T HAVE A “WHATEVS” ATTITUDE: Everything has a purpose. Everything is intentional and most things are thought through. I do have some spontaneity in life and when I get caught up it’s pretty great, but mostly I view life with intention. The people I hang around with, the books I choose to read, where I spend my money, the way I spend my down time or time off – using my time intentionally is important to me. It helps me enjoy the time I spend with family and friends. If I’m intentional throughout the day and the week, I can be fully in the moments I choose to unplug and just enjoy the people in my life.

So, how about you? Any of these you can relate to? Anything you would add to the list?

Teammates are for life.

Anyone who has played a sport longer than a year or two knows that there is a special bond between people who have gone into battle together. A roster full of strangers at the start of a season, you are molded into a team over the next seven or eight months.

Strangers no more, bloodied and bruised by the battle having given all to the team for one last fight.

Fighting for a common cause. Fighting for dignity. Fighting for respect, honor. Fighting because that’s what we came here to do – together.

In the previous years, I’ve seen my former teammates struggle with very real life stuff. I’ve seen them trip, fall and get beaten down by the aches and pains that life can and does cause. I’ve seen them triumph, overcome and rise.

It’s a beautiful process seeing it from the outside.

It encourages my soul. I feeds my spirit.

I too have fallen. I too have been beaten down and I too have also gotten back up.

I recently had dinner with a teammate of mine and after some good, real conversation I said something like this:

“It doesn’t matter who we were or what differences we had when we played or where we left things at that time. When you go to battle with people, you are bonded for life.”

I meant it.

When one of my teammates hurts, I hurt too. When they celebrate and overcome, I celebrate too. That’s the beauty about being on a sports team. It connects you in a way that you could never articulate at the time – and even if you had your differences off the court, nobody cared once you stepped foot on the court.

It was game on.

To this day, my teammates are my people. They get my jokes and I get theirs. I know when they are holding something back and they know when I am too. We laugh about old stories and then laugh even harder that everyone has their own version of the same story. We support each other off the court, perhaps better now than we did when we were playing (although, my teammates took pretty good care of me back then to be sure).

I can text or call them and a wonderful conversation ensues with all the laughs.

They are my people, always will be … and they are fantastic human beings.

Who are your people? Who are your teammates for life?

I have written a lot about the benefits playing sports had on my life. Truly an amazing experience and one in which to this very day and this very moment, I can cite incredible opportunities and experiences. But, I didn’t escape unscathed. Sometimes I scratch my head at my thought process and think to myself “man, sports really messed me up!”

Here’s what I mean…

LEARNING IS MY DRUG – I’m not one to torture myself physically in order to display of some sort of prowess. I do not ever feel the need to sign up for a race in the mud where I am electrocuted or smothered in cockroaches nor will I ever attempt to base jump off a rock face in a human wing suit just for the rush, but I have been known to take on challenges that push me physically and mentally when I have no business doing said activity. And I do this regularly.

I recently told a friend “I love the learning process. I’m a learning junkie, but once I’ve kind of figured it out, I’m all ‘meh.'” Learning, yes. Mastery, moving on. Dude, that’s messed up!

FILLING IN THE BLANKS – In sports you play a designated position. You are responsible for a specific spot on the court or field. You have responsibilities that you need to perform, people you need to block, balls you need to get to. In practice, you work to hone these specific skills and field/court positions, but errrrrybody knows in a game, you are playing to win so you just do what it takes. You fill in the blanks. There is an element of chaos in sports and even though athletes are trained to stick to their positions, we also instinctively know to react to chaos.

It’s why you see #79 (no one ever knows #79’s name) somehow get a hand on an interception and run six yards for a touch down. Chaos.

In life after sports, however, I’ve had to wait for people to ask me to do something or I will do all the things and then I’ll be tired like #79 because #79 isn’t supposed to run for touch downs (even if it’s only six yards). Dude, that’s messed up!

LETTING GO IS A REAL THING – There will be times when you have to walk away from something you care about. There will be people you cannot play well with. There will be times when you care about something way more than any other person involved in a given matter. There will be situations where there is no passion and there is no heart and you have to just let it go. There will be some situations you have to quit or give up on because it’s not worth what it costs you to stay involved and…Dude, that’s messed up!

QUITTING IS A NECESSARY EVIL – Winners never quit. Quitters never win. Never give up. Don’t give in. Lay it all on the line. Push yourself beyond your limit. No pain, no gain. All in. Blood, sweat, tears…I know, you wrote the book and yet, sometimes you must quit. It’s like taking a step backwards in order to move forwards but no one talks about that in sports and…Dude, that’s messed up! 

MIND GAMES WITH YOURSELF – “Retirement” isn’t ever retirement. It’s just a mental shift and the deal you make with yourself when you agree to stop keeping score. Except, you have to try really hard to not keep score because, um, athletes always keep score. It’s built in self and team preservation. One day you get to a place where you realize “wow, I haven’t kept score in, like, two years and that’s awesome. Wait, no it’s not? What’s the score?” Dude, that’s messed up!

EVERY SONG IS A WALK-OUT SONG – Sometimes I walk into Target with the Queen/Bowie song “Under Pressure” in my head and I think I’m running out of the locker room onto the court. I’m walking into the game of my life, head high, chest puffed up and then I’m all “where is the toilet paper isle?” I don’t even have to tell you…Dude, that’s messed up!

40 DON’T MOVE LIKE 20 – Remember that line from Top Gun “Son, your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash.” Of course you don’t remember that quote, because only old people remember that quote! But that’s life after sports. Ego firmly in tact and writing checks all over town, body is like…Dude, that’s messed up!

Some of these are tongue in cheek, but some of these are for realsies. I think this is what makes transitioning from sports to regular, normal everyday life so difficult (yeah, everyday, normal). Wouldn’t change one thing about my experience and I don’t live in this place every day, but sometimes it sneaks up on me and…

Dude, that’s messed up!

Priscilla Tallman is a freelance writer and social media consultant in Phoenix, AZ. She holds her Crossfit L1 Trainer Certification as well as the CrossFit Mobility Certification and an undergraduate and graduate degree in Clinical Psychology. She has written for Volleyball Magazine, The Art of Coaching Volleyball, Gorgo Fitness Magazine, Art Business News, CrossFit Fury and the CrossFit Games. She is married with two children and in a former life played collegiate and professional volleyball. Despite this post, she is well-adjusted and living a totally normal life after sports.