The True Effects of Coaching
Coaching is far more than the obvious behaviors on the sideline.
Games were battles between coaches when I started, especially in my first professional head-coaching job as a 25-year-old. I had to out-coach the opposing coach through schemes and strategies to win. Winning validated my coaching, my knowledge, and my skill, whereas a loss questioned my acumen. The players were chess pieces, moved and manipulated by me as I attempted to outwit the opposing coach.
We often speak about professional coaches in this manner, as they set up their teams or make adjustments, call plays, and substitute players to win. Games are marketed as matchups between the coaches; less so in the NBA, described as a player’s league, but certainly in European leagues and NCAA, where coach personalities dominate discourse. Consequently, we want to see coaches gesticulating, calling plays, admonishing players, berating referees, sitting in defensive stances, walking on the court, and more. How do we know the coach is really coaching in the absence of these behaviors? New coaches and coaches of younger players emulate these behaviors because this is coaching: We have created this expectation.
People (college coaches, coach educators, bosses) have suggested I did not really do anything in my last three real jobs. We made the playoffs, won four (of a potential six) trophies, and won two (of two available) trophies in these jobs across youth, junior college, and men’s professional levels. The criticism, then, had nothing to do with success, but style.
I no longer view players as chess pieces I control, nor do I view games as a battle of wits between myself and the opposing coach. I am unconcerned with the opposition. I hardly scout. People ask about players on opposing teams, and I remember some by number or a characteristic, but I generally am unconcerned with the opposition: My focus is on my team and my players. I want to play well because we play to our potential, we execute our style of play, and we perform skills we have practiced and learned. I am not interested in trying to out-coach the opposition or otherwise control the game through my coaching acumen. Consequently, some feel I do not do anything, as I I rarely yell at players, gesticulate, throw tantrums, or call plays, preferring to squat on the sideline and say very little during games.
We came back from a 13-point deficit to win in our first game with any adversity this season: Our three previous games had been decided by 29, 36, and 76 points. I hesitated to call timeout when we fell behind as I was interested in our reaction; I wanted to learn about the team and our players, as the previous games had provided few learning opportunities. I was completely confident we would win once we played at our pace regardless of the deficit. As we started our comeback, their coach went berserk, screaming at his players for small mistakes. I said at a timeout that they would fold if we kept up the pressure; their coach was too anxious, and I expected that to carry over to his players. We just had to apply pressure, play our game, and stay aggressive on defense. At no point did I think we would lose.
After the game, a rival parent remarked about my calmness on the sideline. Coaches too often assume poor play is a lack of intensity or concentration, and they yell and scream at timeouts or on the sideline in an effort to generate more intensity or focus. Many times, anxiety or trying too hard or to do too much cause struggles. My timeouts generally are lighter than most; jokes, concentrate on breathing, reiterating that these tight, competitive games are the reason we play basketball, the reason we practice every day; this is the fun. Occasionally there is an effort or concentration problem to address; I substituted all five players at once during a game because everyone tried to leak out for a dunk rather than grab the defensive rebound. I yelled in an early timeout to wake up the players at a 10:00 AM game at which, I found out later, several players were hungover. I am not a robot on the sideline, but coaches must know their teams and their players, and adjust their approach based on their players’ emotional needs in each situation. Yelling cannot be the only solution.
I realized early in the season, possibly by this point, that we struggled with adversity. We slowed down, ran more plays, played more individually, and gambled unnecessarily on defense when games were tight, as was the habit with their previous coaches who yelled and screamed and substituted for every mistake and missed shot. My battle all season was to break these habits, to trust the style of play and each other, regardless of the situation.
Our defense carried us through March, although our pace made us look like a great offensive team. Our second big comeback was in the final game of the CLJ to secure the championship. We trailed by 8 points in the fourth quarter, and held our opponent, theoretically the most talented team in the competition as it was the basketball federation’s team, to four points over the final seven minutes.
We had six weeks between the end of our regular season and our first playoff game, which was absurd. However, many things changed in those six weeks. Most noticeably, we switched from a defensive team to an offensive team. In our last five games prior to the break, we scored +/- 1.00 (.94 - 1.07) point per possession and held opponents between .75 and .97 points per possession. In the playoffs, we gave up more than 1.00 points per possession several times, including 1.14 PPP in the championship game, but scored between 1.04 and 1.26 in the playoffs, including 1.24 in the championship game. We trusted each other more, shared the ball better, pushed the ball faster, and improved our three-point shooting. We essentially ran three sets (Stagger away, dribble weave, and double drag) through the entirety of the championship game, including BLOB and SLOB and against zones. We just played basketball.
We also handled adversity much better. We trailed through much of the first halves of our three games in the semifinals. Our directors were visibly nervous when I substituted our 11th player into the game in the first quarter in a game we trailed and needed to win. They saw the potential negative consequences; I saw an opponent playing his starting five against five bench players and not creating separation. We maintained our pace and pressure because nobody played extended minutes, and we trusted the pressure and pace to pay off.
We no longer had to shock and awe teams in the first quarter, as we did early in the season. We knew we could play any type of game, and we knew we had any number of players who could step up and be the guy. My favorite part of the two videos above is the two players making all the plays in October were not on the court in March, the player making most of the big shots in March was not on the court in October, and the MVP of the finals in May was not on the court in either game. As I said early in the season, 16-year-olds are inconsistent; nobody’s path is a straight line. Developing a deep roster raises the floor because you never know when the clutch shooter will be injured for an important game or your MVP will struggle. You hope everyone peaks at the same time in the postseason, but that rarely occurs.
The finals MVP struggled midseason. I shared more videos with him via text than any other player to demonstrate my thoughts, to show the shots I considered bad shots, to show the open teammates he missed. I listened to him and his concerns. Stylistically, he was not my ideal player, but he was competitive, which I love, and mature, which helped. I knew he wanted to achieve, to be great, even when I questioned his approach. In the mini-break between the end of the regular season and the semifinals, I told him to be the stopper, our best defender, and to use his passing skills, and I would not be able to take him off the court. Toward the end of the season, I noticed he and our best player partnering more often in drills, which was outside of their preseason cliques. The best player even told me between semifinals and finals that he had changed.
In our one regular season loss with our full team, he shot 4/15 with no rebounds, and two assists. In the championship game against the same opponent, he shot 11/15 with six rebounds and six assists. He did not necessarily improve his skills during the three months between games; he changed his mindset. He embraced his role. He grew more comfortable with my expectations for him. His shot selection improved. He did not force as many drives into traffic. His defensive commitment improved. He developed a better sense of when to try to take over and when to stay within the system and share the ball.
I also realized the combinations that worked the best; I avoided playing him and our CLJ leading scorer together as despite being close friends, the team did not play well with them on the court together, which meant reduced playing time for the player who many believed was our best player. As coaches, however, we strive to play the five that play the best together, not the best five. As we reached the playoffs, even when changing lineups each game, I was confident in our rotations and which pairs and triads performed best together.
I am a practice coach, preparing players and empowering them to perform. We emphasize decision-making in nearly every practice drill so I do not have to dictate decisions or explain things during games. My primary job is done before tipoff, and my game coaching is focused on elevating players’ performances, not devising strategic answers. My in-game focus is much more on their emotions and psychology than their technical or tactical skills.
I trust the players because of our practices. I constantly watch, evaluate, and question. I remain flexible. I am willing to change. I do not have fixed beliefs about players. I have my biases, as does everyone, but I attempt to stay open-minded. In February, I envisioned a 10-player rotation without our finals MVP, as I saw other players ascending as he struggled. However, over the last two months, he was the best performer in our practice competitive cauldron. He plateaued in the middle of the year, but peaked at the end. If I had been less flexible or if I had played an eight-player rotation, we may not seen his playoff peak; I may have buried him behind a player who peaked in March.
Coaching is not what we see from the stands. Many behaviors (yelling, stomping) championed by fans tend to have negative effects on players. We remember the great after timeout play from our favorite coach that set up a victory, but often, these plays are practiced well ahead of time. The coaching genius is not the drawing of the play, but anticipating the necessity of the play and preparing for the situation. The best coaches understand their players and adjust their behaviors and messages to match their players’ needs at the time. They are flexible and emotionally intelligent. They remove their ego and give the players what they need. The game is not a personal battle with the opposing coach.
Using one’s eyes and ears effectively over one’s mouth is a life lesson of which we all should strive. Players learn differently when they ask themselves what is the coach hearing or seeing. It helps internalize the conversation with themselves.