Responsibility

During my first year of teaching, I was hired to be a girls track coach in Colorado. While I was an experienced track runner, it was my first time coaching that sport. I was a little thrilled and little terrified at the level of responsibility I found myself shouldering at the age of 26. I learned so many things that first year, but one lesson in particular is branded in my memory.

Our track team was competing in an invitational in Alamosa, a long hour and 45 minute drive south over Poncha Pass. I remember that it was a beautiful day with outstanding weather. Alamosa was a little lower in elevation than Buena Vista, which always resulted in faster times and personal bests. In addition, we were running on the Adams State Track, which had a premium surface, much nicer than the cinder track we had at home. In all, it was a brilliant experience and I was really soaking it all in. We waited for results with the buses full of tired and happy athletes reliving their favorite moments from the day, and I was warmly content, feeling like life really couldn't get any better than that.

Our bus was one of the last to pull out of the parking lot, and that's when I noticed a young man clad in the purple and yellow of our rivals to the north: the Lake County Panthers. He was sitting on a curb next to a duffel bag. His knees were drawn up to his chin, and he was sitting very still, alone. I asked the bus driver to stop. I got out and went to talk to him. Somehow, the poor young man missed his bus. He had no cell phone and he didn't know the phone number for anyone on his team, including the coaches. Fortunately, he did know his own phone number, so I told him to get on the bus while I called his mom and let her know we had him and would find a way to get him home.

I wish I could say he had an awesome time on our bus, making all kinds of new friends, but in truth he slid into an open seat, pressed himself tight up against the window, and watched the trees roll by, sniffling to himself quietly. I offered him some snacks and some water that we had along, but he didn't even acknowledge me. As we drove home, I found myself getting increasingly angry. We watched diligently, assuming at some point the Lake County bus would be returning to the track to look for their lost soul, and we prepared ourselves to flag them down.

The Lake County bus never even turned around.

Imagine what it must have felt like, being left alone, hours from home, and nobody - nobody - noticed you were missing. I studied this young man as we drove; he didn't look the part of a seasoned trackster. He looked pretty green; you can always tell who is new to the sport.

Track meets mostly run themselves...nobody tells you when your event is, when to report, or where to report. Everyone pretty much assumes you'll figure it out. The newbies are easy to spot. They wander aimlessly...a little too excited, a little bit anxious. Sometimes they even miss their events because they got caught up in the atmosphere or they just plain weren't paying attention - it's part of the learning process. The team typically holds each other accountable, seeking out their relay team members and encouraging each other to warm up and get ready.

But what happens if you're brand new, you don't have any friends, and you don't exactly possess the athletic physique or prowess to command the world's attention yet? Who do you suppose looks out for those kids?

Do you think if Lake County's star quarter-miler had been missing someone would have noticed?

That day I learned the most important lesson of my entire career. Up until that point, I had assumed my leadership qualities would be measured by my knowledge of the sport. By my ability to scaffold endurance training with interval workouts. By my knowledge of how to measure out long jump steps, or by my ability to teach my discus throwers how to spin. I thought wins and losses were a big deal, getting times down and helping kids qualify in their events so they could advance at Regions.

I was absolutely wrong.

It would not have mattered to me if Lake County's coach was the most decorated track coach in the State of Colorado - he left an athlete behind. Left him behind and never noticed - not once - that he was missing. I watched that kid wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve and stare at the scenery for an hour and a half, absolutely broken, and knew in my heart of hearts that the ONLY responsibility I had for the rest of my life was to make every single kid who ever showed up for me feel like he mattered.

Is there anything more important than that?

I find myself thinking about that kid a lot lately, because being in charge of something is hard work. This applies to everything - every kind of leader experiences this kind of pressure. It's not easy to be in charge; you have a lot to think about.  Not only is it your job to make sure everything runs smoothly, but good old American competitiveness will tell you that you also have to be good at it. Not just good, you have to be above average, approaching excellence. There are expectations for leaders. It's extremely stressful! Ask any teacher. Ask any coach.

Ask the bank manager. Ask the restaurant owner.

Ask the Governor.

I watch the social media feeds exploding with negativity, more and more every day. Criticisms roll in from every angle pointed in the direction of any person in a position of responsibility. The farther up the chain the complaints are directed, the louder and angrier it gets.

If I had a wish for those angry folks, it would be this: I wish that you had been sitting next to me that day on the bus. Until you get up close and personal with the person on the very bottom rung of the Importance Ladder, you have no idea the impact your decisions can make. For a leader to be truly great, he or she has have the utmost care for every member of the organization. The person on the bottom has to be just as important as the person on the top. Otherwise, you're not much of a leader.

I try to imagine what it must feel like to be Governor Walz. That day in Colorado, I had about sixty kids with me on that bus. I worried myself sick over the one pressed up against the window. What must it feel like to have to worry about every last human in the State of Minnesota? There are 5.6 million of us. I cannot imagine what he must be feeling, every minute of every night during this Pandemic.

He can't make everyone happy. He's probably going to get it wrong sometimes, because we're all human. But if the worst thing the man does is take too long to open up the State, or be too cautious in the interests of the health of his people, well, I can't fault him for that. He is doing the best that he knows how to do; he is enlisting the help of the experts and thinking about our weakest members.

Am I disappointed that we didn't get a Spring sport season? Yes, I sure am. Am I upset that there is no Prom, no regular Graduation, and nobody to color my hair until July 1st? Well, yeah. That's a bummer, for sure. I do get it, though, I do. I get that the experts have said that it's still too dangerous to open up fully. (I happen to be a solid believer in Scientists - they've done an awful lot for society, and the idea that there is a giant conspiracy that is so widespread that the entire world is willingly participating in it is ludicrous. Sorry, it is.)

I also know that I want to be led by the leader that's looking out for every member of his team, no matter what.

I want to be on HIS bus.