My dad, my coach

When reading the life stories of many athletes, a pattern seems to appear. Young man grows up never knowing his father, then overcomes the adversity to become a successful athlete. It’s a sad but common tale, especially among black athletes.

Stories like that lead to the eventual cruel joke I’ve often heard: “maybe to be a successful athlete, all you have to do is grow up without your dad.”

But then that got me thinking about my own dad.

Jon Sandberg never walked out on his family. He never left his wife and children unsupported. Hell, he wasn’t even the kind of dad who would constantly scream at little league coaches.

My dad was my coach.

For three seasons from 2000 to 2002, my dad coached my brother Justin and mine’s basketball teams in seventh, eighth, and ninth grades. And they were the best times I’ve ever had on a basketball court.

This ragtag little team of nine was the same group that was already schooled by my dad every weekend in the backyard “sports camp,” as he liked to call it. My dad would always complain about how there always kids coming around wanting to use our “fine sports equipment” to play basketball or football, and yet, despite his grumblings, he never hesitated to show us his patented two-handed reverse layup or teach us the basics of the 3-2 zone defense.

We just wanted to have fun, and as coach, my dad wanted to make sure that we had as much fun in league-play as we did horsing around on my backyard court. But in doing so, my teammates and I learned some of the most important facts of life.

Camaraderie. On game days, my dad would take us all out to eat healthy meals of Round Table Pizza or Whoppers with “whole heaps of bacon.” It was basically required that everyone on the team go, which meant that we had to cram nine or ten people into our car (to avoid injuring our starters, our backup forward Adalid once rode in the trunk). We all had this great friendship, and even if he never wanted to admit it, my dad enjoyed hanging out with us. Some of the best moments of my life were the times spent with my teammates.

Teamwork. Our team system that my dad installed was such that no one player was more important than the other. Everyone on the team had a unique role, and on a given night, it was time for that certain player to step up and help the team in their own way. No one player carried our team; our system was designed so that we needed everyone in order to be successful. Even now, you put me and Justin on the same team and we know exactly what the other is going to do.

Loyalty. It seemed like no matter where you looked, my dad had brought in our family members to help the team. My grandmother stitched the numbers on our uniforms. My mom was our official scorekeeper. Our point guard’s little brother was our “team mascot.” Our assistant coach was the father of one of our players. And it was all brought together by our head coach, my dad. As a team, we never had much, no fancy jerseys, no team bus, no matching shoes, but we did have each other. Our team was our family.

Perspective. At nights after games, I often found myself lying awake, turning the game over and over in my mind. I would walk into the kitchen, and my dad would always be there. We’d have long talks about the game: strategy, matchups, what we could have done better, what I could have done better. He would diagram me plays, and show me offensive schemes he drew up. But every one of those late night coaching sessions would always end the same way: he would give me a high five, and tell me not to lose sleep over something as small as a basketball game.

Our teams have been disbanded for nearly six years now, but those lesions I learned from my coach will always stay with me. That’s why I look so fondly back on my “playing days.” Not because I pine for some moment of great success, but because of the importance they had on shaping me as a man.

He did it all with an understated presence. He never intruded into our lives, or forced us to allow him to be involved. He didn't take control or require us to do what he thought was best, as so many parents force upon their athlete children. He knew what we wanted to do, and did his best to ensure that we did the best we could.

So no, my dad never left us, and I never became a successful athlete. But I am a better person for having learned from my dad. He was always there, always involved, even if it wasn't blatantly obvious.

That’s what makes him the greatest coach of all.

And now we wait...

Tick...tock...tick...tock...

The countdown has begun.

Baseball judgement day is finally upon us.

In less than two hours, the MItchell Report is set to be revealed. In it, there has been said to be nearly 80 names of major league baseball players who have had ties to steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs.

But the waiting, the anticipation and terror many are feeling regarding the names on that list, is the worst of all. Across the country, fans are all thinking the same things:

"It can't be my favorite player."

"Not from my team."

"No way, it couldn't happen."

But the sad reality is that the eye has passed and the storm is beginning already.

Just this morning, it was revealed that Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte are both named in the report. With two of the best pitchers from the league's most stories franchise being names, all bets are off on who else could have been involved.

Is it a bit of a witch hunt? Yes.

Are there due process infringements involved? Of course.

Is it something that needs to be revealed?

Absolutely.

Tick..tock..tick...tock..