THE MESSAGE WAS RIGHT. THE DELIVERY WAS WRONG.

THE STORY

At Ohio State University, there was one part of our training that was entirely my responsibility.

Before our regular morning practice, I would take the forwards out to the training field for extra shooting work. The sessions were mandatory for our forwards, and any other player who wanted additional finishing work was welcome to join us.

We worked on different surfaces of the foot, bending and shaping shots, placement, composure, and being intentional about where you wanted the ball to go.

I believed strongly in this work because too many American players grow up simply kicking the ball at the goal as hard as they can. Shooting isn't just about power. It's about technique, decision-making, composure, and execution.

I would constantly remind our players:

Any shot over eight feet high has no chance of going in.

It sounds obvious, but watch players train and you'll see how often balls are blasted well over the goal. In a game, that's simply a wasted opportunity—a shot that never had a chance to score.

Our training field happened to give us a way to reinforce that lesson.

Behind the goal was a fence. If you missed badly enough to put a ball over the goal and over that fence, you had to leave the session, run around the fence, retrieve your ball, and then come back.

I liked that part.

It added an anchor to the lesson—a physical consequence to a poor shot. If you stayed composed and put the ball where it belonged, you kept training. If you launched one over the goal and the fence, you had to go get it.

You missed it. You went and got it.

One morning, one of our players put a ball over the fence. Instead of running around to retrieve it herself, she called to another player who happened to be on the other side and asked her to throw the ball back.

It was a shortcut.

And it absolutely set me off.

In my mind, she hadn't simply avoided running around a fence. She had eliminated the consequence that was intentionally part of the exercise. The entire point was to reinforce shooting with purpose.

My message wasn't the problem.

The way I delivered it was.

I went ballistic.

I cussed her out extensively. It was angry, excessive, and completely inappropriate. It was the kind of old-school coaching behavior that at one time was too easily dismissed as a coach being demanding or passionate.

There was no excuse for it.

The session may have ended right there. If it continued, I know this much: whatever learning environment existed before that moment was gone. I had made everyone uncomfortable.

And I knew it.

I called the player afterward and apologized.

I didn't tell her that she had made me angry. I didn't explain again why she should have gotten her own ball. I didn't give her an apology followed by a “but.”

I told her I was wrong.

My language was inappropriate. It wasn't an acceptable way to speak to her, regardless of how frustrated I had been. I took responsibility for it.

Fortunately, she was incredibly understanding.

She said something I've remembered ever since.

“Glen, that was so out of character for you.”

She thanked me for apologizing, and we moved forward. No grudge. No lingering hard feelings.

Looking back, I was fortunate. The incident didn't escalate to the head coach or the administration. In today's environment, it very well might have, and behavior like that could have had serious professional consequences.

I had spent years building trust and goodwill in the way I interacted with players. One bad morning didn't erase that history in this player's eyes.

But it also didn't excuse what I had done.

The trust I had built gave me some grace that morning. It didn't give me permission.

There is an important difference.

The Lesson

For years as a coach, I talked about accountability. That morning reminded me that accountability couldn't be something I demanded only from players.

I was right about the training. I was right that retrieving the ball was part of the lesson. And I was right that taking a shortcut undermined what we were trying to accomplish.

None of that made the way I spoke to her right.

That's an important distinction because we can sometimes use the correctness of our position to justify the wrongness of our behavior.

I couldn't control what happened after I lost my temper. I couldn't take the words back. I couldn't decide whether she would forgive me or whether the incident would go any further.

I could control what I did next.

That meant admitting I was wrong without defending myself, apologizing without adding a “but,” and accepting whatever consequences followed.

The experience also taught me something about trust. We build it slowly, through hundreds of ordinary interactions when nothing is wrong. Then one day we may need some of the grace that trust has created.

Her saying, “That was so out of character for you,” meant more than she probably realized.

She wasn't telling me what I had done was okay.

She was telling me that one bad moment wasn't the only thing she knew about me.

A Thought for You

Have you ever been so certain that you were right that you stopped paying attention to how you were treating someone?

Being right about the issue doesn't automatically make us right in our behavior.

And when we cross that line, an apology doesn't make us weak. Taking responsibility doesn't surrender our point.

Sometimes the strongest thing we can say is simply:

I was wrong. There was no excuse for the way I handled it. I'm sorry.

We can't always undo our mistakes.

But we can decide what we do next.