Build the Boat
In the fall of 2009, our basketball team kicked-off the season by competing in a pre-season tournament in the Virgin Islands. We were on the heels of our program’s second Final Four appearance, but we had just graduated our leading scorer and rebounder, along with her twin sister who was a major contributor, and a walk-on turned captain who had become our glue. The world was watching with a side-eye to see how we would fare.
It was only November, but the pieces of our newly formed squad were already fitting together in a way that felt lidless. Possibility pulsed with every trip up and down the floor. We had size, speed, shooters, and a pre-season All-American who made people better by how she played. Right up until she couldn’t, that is.
Somewhere about half-way through the first half of the second game in a gym in the middle of the jungle, our sophmore sensation, Whitney Hand, loped down the right lane of the court, received a run-of-the-mill outlet pass, and promptly crumbled to the floor in a heap. Her shrill cry needed no explanation. She clutched her knee toward her chest as our trainer raced out to the floor. We didn’t need a doctor to tell us what she’d done. When an ACL pops, you know it. She had torn hers and she was finished. Now what might become of us?
Our halftime locker room of cement walls was a tomb. We made some strategic and personnel adjustments while trying to focus on the twenty minutes that remained, but everyone was thinking about what might happen next. After the next twenty minutes, after the game the next day, after the flight back home, after the shock wore off…who would we be and what could we do? Our lynchpin sat in the back of the room on a bent metal chair with ice cellophane-taped to her knee, snot dripping from her nose, and a sweat-soaked towel draped on top of her head.
After the final buzzer blew, we returned to our pre-and-post-game cell where the air felt even more water-logged than it had before. It was heavy and thick along with the fear that was palpable in the room. It was so early in the year—so much basketball was left to be played--but it felt like we were standing on a shoreline with a vast sea out before us and not a boat in sight. I didn’t sense doubt from our players about whether or not we could still do what we set out to do, but I did sense that our band of believers needed to know where to start.
I told them we had all we needed sitting inside that room.
They didn’t need to try to be our fallen player. It would be disastrous if they did. Not only would they not be able to do it, but they would be less of themselves for trying to be somebody who they weren’t. What they did have to do was each be two percent better versions of themselves. Ny needed to make a couple of more threes a game. Amanda needed to make a couple of more free throws. Drob needed to get an extra steal or two. Abi needed to grab a few more errant rebounds. Carlee needed to finish just one or two more fast breaks. As we went down the roster, we cumulatively covered our stat sheet’s sudden deficit in a matter of minutes.
As ominous as the water was that stretched out before us, we now could see how we might be able to make it to the other side. If we were each just two percent better, none of us would drown.
And then without a nudge or a prompt, our guys moved seamlessly on to the pauses between the notes. Carlee said we have to the know the scouts like the back of our hands. Abi said we have to take care of our bodies because we are all going to be called on to play more minutes a game. Ny said we’re going to have to quit fouling because now we don’t have much depth. Jas said everybody has to talk more because Whitney’s voice is what we rely on in those times when we’re not sure.
And just like that, our team committed to building a boat that could take us across the sea.
My friend, a high school football coach, was recently asked, “What is the biggest differences between your 9-1 state championship team and your 6-4 also rans?” We waited to hear….Was it talent? Was it off-season approach? Was it an overhauled offense? The addition of a “cheetah” to the secondary? A strength coach, a special teams specialist, a data analyst—some extra expert who gave you something your teams until then had not had?
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“Not that much was different, if I’m being honest,” the coach shruggingly said. “The team ‘talent’ was in a like range. Our staff was the same, our schemes were similar. The championship team and the just-over-500’s did basically the very same things. The title team just did them all a tiny bit better. They arrived to practice just a few minutes earlier. They lined up a little faster. They ran routes tighter. They wrapped up cleaner. They did the same stuff we always do, they just did it a percentage point or two better all the time.”
“Build the boat” I heard the voice in my head say, “one day at a time in a row.”
We sometimes think the chasm between champion and chump is ginormous. Especially when we’re the ones trying to become the champ. It can almost swallow us whole. But when we focus on tiny improvements, the distance often shrinks right before our eyes.
Back in the states as the 2010 season progressed, we’d win a few and lose one. Then win a bunch in a row and take one on the chin. But by the end of the regular season, we had earned a ticket to the NCAA tournament, and by the time it closed its doors, we were one of the last guys standing, playing in the Final Four.
Two plus two plus two percent better across the board of a roster suddenly equals a lot. Small gains compound. It’s the remarkably unremarkable way to get to the other side.
P.S. Vince Lombardi