Heart of a Champion

Pat Busteed

In my third year as a high school athletics coach, I gave a speech telling students and parents about the benefits of football. I gave the same speech each year, aimed at recruiting new team members: I talked about how football isn't just for star athletes, how everyone can benefit from the discipline, team spirit and so on and so forth. This year, a worried-looking couple approached me after the speech. Their son, who had had a sickly childhood, really wanted to play football. They'd tried to talk him out of it, but he had his heart set on joining the team.

When they told me his name, my heart sank. Michael was five feet, ten inches tall and weighed about 108 pounds. He was a lonely kid, the constant target of other kids' jokes, and as far as I knew he had never participated in sports. I knew Michael would never make it through football practice, let alone as a player. But so close on the heels of my "football is for everyone" speech, what could I say? I told them we could give it a try.

On the opening day of practice, Michael was the first player on the field. We did 30 minutes of warm-up before starting a one-mile jog around the track. I kept my eye on Michael. At 50 yards he fell, and I helped him to his feet. Michael," I said, "why don't you just walk the mile?" He looked like he was going to cry, and said that he wanted to run with the others. So I let him go on. Repeatedly he fell, each time picking himself up. After one lap, I couldn't watch anymore, so I pulled him aside.

The same thing happened every day for weeks. I assigned an assistant coach to give Michael special attention, and Michael put his whole heart into the training. As the season progressed, Michael gained strength both socially and physically. He began to laugh and joke with team members, and most of them started to see him as a crazy kid brother. Instead of laughing at him, they became touchingly protective

By the last week of practice Michael could run the mile without falling. We had won only one game that season, yet the team cheered louder for Michael's run than they had during our lone victory. Afterward, Michael approached me, and I told him how proud I was of him.

"Coach," he said, "I didn't get a chance to play this year—but I really want to next season. What do I have to do?"

I sighed and told him to stop by my house sometime and I would put together a schedule of training exercises he could work on his own.

Michael wasn't in any of my classes, but I saw him every evening as I left school. He would be doing exercises or running, and it was obvious he was sticking to the program. Then one night I heard a knock at my door, and there was Michael—about ten pounds heavier and with some healthy color in his face for change. He wanted me to beef up his training program since it was becoming too easy for him. I laughed and added a few more exercises.

At the start of the next season, Michael ran the opening mile faster than anyone. And although he had tough time with some of the training, he kept up with the rest of the team pretty well.

The following Monday after practice, the team captain came up to me. Steve was talented, but lazy and undisciplined. He was an honor student even though he rarely studied, and he was popular with his peers even though he could be heartless. In other words, everything came easy to Steve. Too easy.

Steve pointed to the field where Michael was jogging all alone and asked me why he was still out there. I told Steve to ask him. The next night, I was surprised to see Steve exercising right next to Michael.

Several weeks later, we were preparing for one of our most important games. At the end of a very tough practice session I dismissed the team. To my surprise, only two kids left the field. The rest were gathered around Michael, who was leading them in yet another workout!

Finally our big game came—and by the first time-out we were losing by twelve points. I could see that some of the kids had already lost heart. But not Michael. He was playing as hard as he could, begging the team to keep trying—and no one had the heart to disappoint him. We won that game by one point in the final ten seconds—and finished the season as one of the top teams in the state.

At our end-of-the-year celebration dinner, we always give a big award to the most productive player, based on a strict point system. The team captain, Steve, had scored the most points that season, and everyone cheered as he came to the front to receive his award.

"As much as I honor this award," Steve said, "there's someone who deserves it more than I do." The crowd fell silent. "Everything I accomplished this season, and everything the team accomplished, is thanks to one person." He turned to Michael. "Michael, you always said I was your hero. If I were half the man you are, I would be proud, because there is no doubt that you are my hero."

The entire team cheered as Steve turned the prize over to the player who had inspired them all.

Michael and his parents always tried to tell me how much I had helped him. I don't think they realize I was just a bystander. I know I never found the words to tell Michael that he had done more for me than I had for him. There are a lot more Michaels out there—kids who will never be stars but who give and get more from sports than the gifted athletes. It's those kids who make me proud to be a coach.