“Are you ready to coach a state champion?”

When my McGill-Toolen Catholic High School's head coach brought me on to help coach track and field—specifically hurdles, my favorite event—I was excited, but I was very quickly met with a couple of surprises. Firstly, my main hurdlers were all boys. I have never run a men’s hurdle race before, and their hurdles are much higher and sometimes spaced differently, so the strategies are different from what I’m used to. Additionally, these boys were already very talented, skilled hurdlers—not the beginners I had been imagining. Our head coach would look at me with a beaming grin throughout the season and ask, “Are you ready to coach a state champion?”—a question that both terrified me and made me feel like the biggest imposter in the world. I’d pictured myself coaching versions of my young self and past teammates, but these boys were so different from what I’d mentally prepared for. Here I was, years out of practice, never having truly coached before, and wondering what on earth I could say to help these already talented athletes. My excitement was rapidly replaced by a dreadful feeling that I had absolutely no clue what I was doing.

The imposter syndrome ate at me relentlessly until one specific moment at the indoor state championship meet. Two boys had qualified for the 60-meter hurdles, and they were so ready for that race. After giving some final reminders and encouragements at the starting line, I rushed to the stands to watch them run. I heard the gun go off…and then a second shot seconds later. Someone had false-started, which meant they would be disqualified—one of the worst feelings for a runner, but surely even worse being at the state championship, no less. I cringed at the thought, but my heart sank even lower as I watched one of my own boys walk off the track.

I had only false-started once as an athlete, but I when I did, the very last thing that I had wanted at that moment was to speak to anyone—let alone a coach. With that in mind, I was completely shocked when I turned around to see him standing behind me, his head down and eyes glossy. I listened as he talked about how great he’d felt during warm ups, how he was only the tiniest bit early, how badly he’d wanted to run a new personal record to end indoor season right and maybe even score some unexpected points for the team. There was nothing in the world that could make someone feel better at a moment like that, so I didn’t say much, and I honestly don’t recall much of anything I did say. He continued to follow me around, shuffling his feet, standing in disengaged silence when others would come up to talk to me, and occasionally mumbling to me the thoughts buzzing around his head. I felt his pain, yes, but I also could not understand why on earth another human being would be coming to me in a moment of such vulnerability—feeling safer here than with his friends, his teammates, other more experienced coaches, or even a space of solitude. For some reason I couldn’t fathom, this child trusted me in a way that made me feel a tremendous sense of both honor and responsibility.

As we moved to the outdoor season my confidence grew, and I found that as I built more rapport with the boys, I was able to start figuring out the little things that set them off and that we could tweak to enhance their performance. Shemar’s arms would throw off his form unless he kept his elbows bent, and he sometimes would get in his head too much. Heath and John had never learned to properly use blocks, which meant they had been struggling to have enough momentum to finish the race without overstriding. Anthony’s attention was always divided between multiple events, so the biggest thing was making sure he knew when to warm up and change his shoes and ice his hamstring and check in for his events (and sometimes it was also a bit of encouragement to run a relay for his team even when his legs really weren’t feeling it).

At the outdoor state meet in May, our head coach turned to me again and said what he’d been saying since December: “Are you ready to coach a state champion?” However, now, the fear and doubt was replaced with pride, anticipation, and a bit of nerves—I wanted so badly for my athletes to do well and to meet their goals that day! During that meet I watched the athletes that I’d been scared to coach months earlier crush their own personal records and fight to score points for their team. We did indeed win individual state titles in both men’s hurdle races, as well as a second-place team title for the boys overall. Our head coach had called it from the start, but I’d be lying if I suggested those accomplishments were because of me—they’re so obviously not my doing. Yes, I am inexperienced, but I do know the trust these athletes place in me, and I seek above all else to honor that trust with the skills I do possess. I realized that my coaching wasn’t about coming in with every solution to every problem, but rather, joining in the work that is already in progress and bearing with these athletes in struggles and in celebrations.

This year, when my athletes pop their heads in my classroom to cheekily ask, “Did you hear how fast I ran in PE?” or “Do you miss us, Coach B?” or “When can we start hurdling again?” I can’t help but smile as I look forward to next season—hopefully with a first-place team trophy this time, but certainly with more wonderful memories in store.