I had an interesting situation at work today. I’ve been working in a place where my grasp of the language is limited, so I scramble to decode and translate fast enough to move seamlessly. On top of that, I coach little kids in groups of 6–8; they don’t speak my language either, which makes “behave” a slow-learning curve. I’m laid-back by nature and figure they’ll pick up the rhythm gradually (I’ve only had them 3-4 weeks so far).

Enter today. I was working alongside a guy who barks orders like an old-school drill-sergeant every time the boys step out of line. Different era, different style—fair enough, to each their own. But today he crossed a line. One kid comes to the earlier session so he can squeeze in football straight after; he loves both sports. My co-worker spots him with the younger group and, once he learns the reason, lays into him: “Why waste time on football when you should be applying yourself here?” (My language skills are shaky, but the tone and body language said plenty.)

Then the guy turns on me, aggressive. I ask—calm as I can—if he can please speak to me differently. He refuses.

I’ve been coaching a long time. My way is to boost: convince them they CAN, and that I’m all-in for them. Night before, I’m chatting with one of my older athletes: “Any hobbies? Say we hit or miss the goal—what do you love for fun?”
“Darts,” he fires back. News to me. Now I’m itching to buy him a beer and lose a game to him (I’m hopeless at darts). I’m sliding deeper into the mindset that caring for the human in front of you beats obsessing over results. A meaningful day working beside someone chasing a goal feels rewarding—goal met or not.