Coaches’ Blog

Admittedly, I made some quick assumptions about Adam Brosh before I even met him face to face.  In fact, one I wouldn’t even call an assumption.  It was a certainty.  I was convinced of his ability to “put it all on the line” from the first email he sent me.  It was a pretty easy to deduce.  Anyone with the handle raiderfan4life217 can’t possess even a modicum of self preservation.  To inflict the Oakland Raiders on themselves…for life.  Someone that hardened and calloused, that’s someone I need on my team.  And trust me, I’m raising a Bills fan.  I’m an expert on self-deprecating lifestyles.

Lucky for both the team and myself, Adam extended this trait into running life.  He knew exactly what he wanted from running at Tufts.  To squeeze every last drop out of his legs and maximize his complete experience.  He wanted to battle at championships and help his teammates become all they could.  Trust me, his path was not an easy one.  But it was one that he was committed to.

Throughout the year, I use (probably overuse) the metaphor of chopping down a tree.  Day after day, we take a swing at the trunk.  And day after day, the tree seems completely unphased for the most part.  From a distance, it even might seem completely intact.  But we keep chopping, swing after swing.  And then one day, we break through and the tree comes crashing down.  It might seem like it was that last swing that made all the difference.  But we all know that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

As a runner, maybe we’re inclined to feel the same.  To feel like our final tune-up workouts cause the break-throughs.  But that’s not any more truthful.  It’s the months and years of sweat and miles that topples the tree.  Adam personified this.  Not a day would go by that Adam didn’t take a chop.  Day after day, Adam would take a small step forward.  And eventually the tree came toppling down.  That’s the reason Adam was a part of the 2^nd fastest 4×8 in school history.  More specifically, I should say that’s the reason that relay ran the 2^nd fastest time in school history.

Athletes like Adam are the glue that held our team together.  He pushed the guys in front of him to be faster.  You’re kept honest because if you let up for a moment, he’s in front of you with his effort tacitly saying “you should be bringing more.”  And at the same time, he’d turn around and give a vote of confidence to the guy right behind him.  He’d pull him aside and help him process a race or workout.  Our entire team was made better because of Adam’s presence.

In sport, we have no shortage of unknowns that we can’t control for.  In fact, there are very few that we have any impact on at all.  As a result, our program works hard and has fun doing it.  Pretty much that’s all we can do.  Track can get a bit repetitive if you don’t make it fun.

Above all else, I thank Adam for helping me with this.  His perpetual positive energy and love of the sport made the monotony of running in circles an absolute joy for me and his teammates.  Your energy made it easier for others to chop their own trees.  Also thanks for putting your body on the line and for the continuous support you had for your teammates and friends.  You set the standard for selflessness.

Failure.  As adults, it haunts us.  To many, it rules our choices.  People are frozen into inaction by the mere thought of being judged a failure.  I hate it.  Because rather than trying, people let potential failure become guaranteed failure by preventing them from trying.

On the other hand, children attack the world unencumbered by these definitions of success and failure.  Some say that children lack the cognition to determine success from failure.  It’s an evolutionary advantage.  Every child tries to stand…only to fall.  Tries to walk…fall.  Tries to run…fall.  But I’ve yet to see an infant try to walk, fall, and then say to themselves, “Well, I gave it the yeoman’s effort, but I guess I’ll never walk.  I’ll stick to this crawling thing.  It seems to be working.”

No, they wobble themselves back up and put one foot in front of the other.  And they have the bruises to prove it.  Show me any 2-year-old’s knees and I’ll show you a string of cut and bruises.  It’s a beautiful thing.  They’re badges of honor.  The rewards for personal growth.

Where am I going with this?  Well, this roundabout intro is taking me straight back to Lawrence Xia.  Because whereas most of us lose this wisdom of childhood as we age, Lawrence held onto it.  We let our bruises cease being badges of honor.  We redefine them as brands of failure.  But not Larry.  For the right cause, Larry will take on any challenge.  He’ll set out completely uninhibited by any potential outcome.  The journey and the cause are everything to Larry.

Larry possesses an ability to attack life with the joy of youth, yet supported by the experience of age.  Add to that a work ethic that few can muster, a stubbornness to attack only biggest goals, and a tenacity to push through any obstacle laid before him, and you can see how Larry was an incredibly unique and powerful addition to our team.

Larry was a 400m runner.  But 2013 had a slew of strong 400m runners, Larry among them.  What we lacked was a 400mH.  Larry’s response: Become a 400mH.  Not because the event called out to him.  Not because he had an innate love for the hurdles.  Not because a coach pushed him in that direction.  But because it could make the team stronger.

The path was not a smooth one.  A missed touchdown led to a nagging knee injury.  Some low trail legs led to torn up ankles.  But with each scrape or fall, Larry got up shook his legs out and trotted back to the blocks for another run.  With his body screaming “Stop!” Larry kept all judgments at bay.  His best chance to strengthen our cause was in the 400mH.

Weeks later, Lawrence backed into the blocks at the NESCAC Championships as our lone 400mH representative.  Bruised, but not broken, Larry attacked the race with an inspiring vigor.  If he ran safe, he could have easily ran 2-3 seconds faster.  But Larry wasn’t there to run safe.  He was there to go after 1 point for the cause.

In many ways, that race personified Larry.  His vigor.  His vivaciousness.  His determination.  It definitely epitomized our approach to the day – emotion, momentum, team.  Larry put himself on the line for a cause.  He did it for his teammates.  And as he crossed the finish line, he may not have scored that point, but it’s easy to see how Larry’s emotion kept our momentum rolling.  He kept us from letting up.  And because of Larry, Tufts was represented every battle that day.  We didn’t win every one.  But we fought the fights worth fighting.  And Larry made evident that his team would not back down from any challenge, ever.

To Lawrence, thanks for your tenacity, your stubbornness, and your determination.  Thanks for turning the drudgery of repetition into the joy of the process.  And most importantly, thanks for battling to make our weaknesses into strengths.  Please, never stop seeing your bruises as badges of honor.  Because if it isn’t hard, if you don’t struggle along the way, and if you don’t earn a few badges of honor, then it might not have been worth doing.

Where to start?  Admittedly, I’m struggling to decide which anecdotes to use to describe Mike Blair.  As a decathlete, I probably spent more time with Mike than any other member of the senior class.  He and I spent hours in my beat up Jetta.  Just me, him, 3 javelins, 4 discuses (discii?), 1 shot put, 3 pole vault poles, 6 pairs of shoes, 6lbs of trail mix, 3 protein bars and enough Endurox to hydrate an ox.  Towards the end, we added in some pedialyte, a hamstring sleeve, a foam roller, and some duct tape – because you never know.

I guess I should start at the beginning.  And for simplicity’s sake, this story’s opening height is 5’8”.  That’s the height that Jeremy Arak and I couldn’t get Mike to clear during his freshman spring.  He cleared 6’5” in high school, 6’4” in his first indoor season, and couldn’t get his lanky self over 5’8” all spring.  It’s not uncommon to see a freshman struggle.  In fact, it’s completely common and almost expected.  It’s a long year, fraught with stressors.  But 5’8” was a bit excessive.  And Mike would agree.

So there I am, standing next to Jeremy in the drizzling rain at MIT watching Mike miss his opening height at 5’9”…again.  We’re set to host NESCAC’s the following weekend and our best high jumper can’t even qualify for the meet.  I’ve accepted the fact that I’m going to have to wildcard a 6’5” high jumper into NESCAC’s when somehow Mike wills himself over 5’9”, leaving the bar wobbling nervously on the standards.  It was ugly.

Jeremy tried to crack a joke and cheer me up, but I still had the vision of that clearance echoing in my head.  NH, NH, 5-9 was not the best progression heading into the NESCAC Championships.

It’s amazing what a difference a week makes.  We went from storm clouds over MIT to blue skies and sun at Tufts.  We went from the anxiety of anticipation to the excitement of competition.  And Mike made his own shift.  He was dialed in and focused.  He was intense and determined.  He was a NESCAC Champion.  And I officially knew who we had in Mike Blair.  A pure competitor.

For better or worse.

Mike had a gear when it was on the line.  A little extra pop that he could call upon when his team needed him most.  The problem was that Mike couldn’t turn it off…and he had ankles made of glass.

Enter intramural basketball.

She was his siren.  And she was cruel.  She’d call to Michael as he walked past the courts…Michael.  Michael. We’re such a great pair, you and I…he’d listen…he’d compete…and his ankles would lose.

But Mike did what all athletes must do if they want to make the jump from being good to being great.  He sacrificed.  He focused.  He made his weaknesses become his strengths.  And now I have to find a photo of Mike to blow up to hang beside his All American certificate.

Succeeding as a decathlete is like summiting Everest.  You need more than a guide who knows the way.  You need grit, stubbornness, and the ability to focus on the step in front of your face.  It’s incredibly taxing and not everyone can make the climb.  I pointed out the path to Michael, but he clawed his way to the top.  It wasn’t a smooth climb and there were definitely set backs and mistakes along the way.  His body took a beating, but, oh, the view from the top.

Mike – Thanks for your growth, your introspection, and your energy.  Thanks for the conversations that had nothing to do with track.  Thanks for trusting me when I said a freshman was capable of more.  But more than anything, thanks for becoming a senior who set his own standards and did whatever it took to get there.

There are a few quotes that I surround myself with to keep myself in check.  They’re meant to remind me to be the type of coach (and person) that I want to be.  These are two.

Only what is still can still the stillness in others.  Men do not mirror themselves in running water.

Learn from the athletes.

Throughout our lives, we all stray from our desired path at certain points and the guide who helps you find your way back can come in very unexpected ways.  Over his four years at Tufts, I think Sam Haney taught me as much as I taught him.  And I don’t know if he even realizes it.

Haney’s a rock.  He makes race pace look like a jog.  He makes the battle of the 5^th mile look like mile 1 of a tempo run.  I can only imagine how much this needles his competitors.  They’re struggling to hold pace and breathing hard.  Meanwhile, they glance over and see Sam Haney stone-faced and seemlingly in total control.  It breaks people.

Sam has the impressive balance of stoicism and passion.  One that I personally strive to attain everyday.  Externally, he’s a constant.  He’s surefooted, confident, and calm.  Rarely ruffled, he takes everything in stride.  Yet, internally, he’s a raging fire.  Passionate to a level that he’ll never accept anything but his best.  Sam pushed his body to the limits.  Every year he sought ways to make himself stronger, faster, better.  He was a machine.

If you didn’t know Sam well, it would be easy to brush him off as disengaged and uninvested.  You couldn’t be more wrong.  Sadly, too many people take stoicism for disinterest.  But this couldn’t be any farther from the truth.  In Sam’s case, it was his heightened resolve and determination that lead to his intense focus.

Sit Sam down with a Rubik’s cube and I think he’d get so dialed in that he’d skip meals until he mastered it.  This is probably is a bad example because I’m fairly certain that Sam can solve a Rubik’s cube in less than 30 seconds.  But you get my reference.  Now just replace the cube with “PR in the mile, PR in the 5k, or win NESCAC’s.”  Sam’s focus could narrow like a sniper looking through a scope.  With task and goal in hand, Sam could set foot to path and brush off any potential distraction or impediment.  Luckily for us, Sam didn’t skip too many meals helping us achieve our goals.

To Sam Haney I say, thanks for the passion.  Thanks for making those around you better.  By pushing yourself, you made others raise their complete level.  Thanks for listening.  Thanks for talking.  Thanks for challenging yourself.  And most of all, thanks for proving that the stillness can be achieved.

18.  This spring, we watched 18 Jumbos hand in their uniforms for the final time.  That’s a big class.  That’s more than the entire basketball team.   It was a tight group that kept each other motivated, challenged, and on task.  Goals were made in the spring of 2010 and followed through upon in the spring of 2013.  They will be missed.

Now typically, I like to say a little something about each senior at our final team dinner, but scheduling and class size made that unmanageable this spring.  As a result, I’d like to take some time and thank each of them.

18 seniors.  18 posts.

Where to start?  The All Americans?  The school record holders?  The New England Champions?  Nope.

I’ll start by admitting one thing to you.  That there are a few days each year that I really hate my job.  One of which is when I declare my three wild cards for the NESCAC Championships.  Invariably, I have to tell an incredibly dedicated and passionate athlete that he won’t get the chance to suit up at NESCAC’s.  That he won’t get the opportunity to fully experience what was his motivation and driving influence for the last year.  Now although this conversation is difficult for me, it is 100x harder for them.  Twelve months of sacrifice and sweat and I’m forced to tell him that he’ll be on the sidelines.  This past spring, I had that conversation with Youssef Maguid.

He was a top-15 ranked hammer thrower in the conference, but he was also the 5^th man behind 4 All Conference hammer throwers.  I could see the pain on his face as I told him.  That was obvious.  What dedicated athlete wouldn’t be disappointed.  To make matters worse, at the time that I told him, it wasn’t just the end of his season, it was the end of his career.

But he looked me square in the face and said, “Whatever makes the team stronger.”  As a coach, it was one of those rare moments that makes such a challenging job worthwhile.

We all have moments when the little angel and little devil start screaming at us in each ear.  I have no doubt that this was one of those moments for Youssef.  I have no doubt that the little devil was screaming a profanity laced tirade right then and there.  But Youssef took a deep breath, ignored him, and proved just how big a man he could be.  He’s a thrower.  He’s a big man.  But it wasn’t until that exact moment that I truly saw him for who he was.

That’s because there are only a few scattered moments in this life when you can see a man’s true heart.  You can’t see it in his moments of glory or victory.  You can only see a man’s true self when he’s got his back to a wall, when he’s been knocked down, when he’s had everything taken from him.

A man who’s never been tested cannot know himself.  I know Youssef.  And he should know that.  With that in mind, give me a full squad of Youssef’s and I’ll give you a team that faces every foe head on, with equal parts tenacity and humility.

We do something unique here at Tufts and every Thursday we do PreMeet Objectives for the upcoming competition.  With NESCAC’s around the corner, Youssef’s was “Bruise my chest.”  That will mean very little to you if you weren’t sitting in our NESCAC Team Meeting, but take my word for it, Youssef was team-centric to the core.  His voice, passion, and self-sacrifice helped propel us to a NESCAC title.  I don’t know if he actually bruised his chest, but I can definitely say that he left it all on the field that day.

To Youssef, I say thanks for your dedication.  For constantly demanding the most from yourself.  For pushing the pile.  For bruising your chest.

Well, two things happened today that basically mandate that I put up a blog entry for our trip so far.
First, my wife spent a good 3 hours acquiring us a suitable satellite uplink so that I’ll have internet. Honestly, it was quite a fun excursion depending on your definition of fun. Start of by finally finding a store that sells them after trying to get sold something else for 3x it’s value at 4 other stores. Find out you need a sim card. Finally find out where the sim card’s are sold. Find out that that isn’t where the sim cards are sold. Finally, finally find out where the sim cards are sold. Be told that you need a passport photo of yourself and a photocopy of your id in order to buy it. Give up trying to find out where to get a photo of yourself and just have an Ethiopian coworker buy the sim card. Upload the program to use the uplink. All the while have the bajij (taxi) drivers try to charge you the tourist rate. I thought that the big hassle was going to be the computer software. Oh, how I was wrong.
Second, we tracked down a computer that actually has an actual, functioning “shift” key. I don’t think that you fully understand how much you use your shift key until you don’t have one. How many ?’s do you use? And how annoying does it get to hit CAPS LOCK before and after every capitalization. I’ll tell you… a lot.
Well, that’s the post.
We’re here. We’re healthy. We’re having a blast. Especially Echo. With donkeys, cows, chickens, goats, and sheep just wandering the streets, what’s not to love for a 2-year-old. Turns out, I love Ethiopian food. And Marion is getting some good research in. See you all in a few weeks. Pictures with the next post…I hope.

So, we leave tomorrow for a month in Ethiopia.  My wife has to pump out the first phase in her PhD research and Echo and I are tagging along for a great vacation.  The little man and I should have plenty of 1-on-1 time to explore and get to know our way around.  We’ll be staying for a bit in Addis Ababa, Bahir Dar, and Awassa.  It’s going to be an incredibly memorable experience…well at least for Marion and I.  Echo probably won’t remember any of this in 10 years.

Emotionally, I’m a pendulum swinging to the extremes.  There are things that I can’t wait to do and others that I’m nervous about.

I’m really looking forward to…

The boat ride to look at hippos in Awassa.

A german sausage on my 6-hour layover in Frankfurt.  Sure it will be 2 AM my time.  Whatever.

An ancient monastery tour in Bahir Dar. (Gonna have to just be Echo and I.  Females aren’t permitted to set foot on the island.  Sad.)

Crashing at Haile Gebrselassie’s hotel.  Maybe he’ll be there.

Tons and tons of injera.

The coffee ceremony.  We did one at home with the coffee Marion brought back and it was great.  I have to imagine that it will be even better there.

My first time leaving Boston for more than 2 weeks in over 11 years.  Wow.

I’m a little nervous about…

An 8 hour flight, 6 hour layover, and 6 hour flight to get there.  Echo can make or break it.

Echo getting travelers diarrhea and me dealing with the diapers.

Keeping an eye on Echo, Echo’s stuff, and my stuff while still looking out for pickpockets.  I guess Bahir Dar has more than it’s share of Artful Dodgers.

Rain.  It’s rainy season so I’m hoping that Echo and I won’t be stuck inside too much.  Not that a little rain will stop us.

Blogs in the summer are tough to come by. After months in front of this screen, it’s difficult to motivate to sit down and pump out an eloquent post. With that in mind, I’m simply going to list off a bunch of random train-of-thought statements.

7 days until we head to Ethiopia for 4+ weeks.

Unbelievably excited.

Would have never done something like this without my wife.

Glad I found someone who challenges and balances me.

I still get fired up when I relive 2012 XC NESCACs and 2013 T&F NESCACs.

Crazy how long natural highs can last.

Thinking about 2013 XC and 2014 T&F gives me a similar jolt like a cup of coffee.

But they’re paired with a hint of anxiousness too.

Great job for me.

A lot of energy with almost no predictability.

I’m really fighting the urge to get another tattoo.

That natural high must have worn off.

Really fighting it.

My next post might be a rundown on how a flight to Ethiopia was with Echo.

Let’s clear something up right now.  I’m going to completely ramble in this post.  This is going to be complete train-of-thought and I’m not going to apologize for it.  So strap in and let’s go.

Sixteen years ago, I sat in my freshman dorm room on Stew 2 at Middlebury College and vowed to win a NESCAC championship.  In December of my freshman year, I wrote the number 8.40 in permanent marker on the back of my door.  It was what I ran in my first collegiate race.  With each PR, I crossed off the old mark and wrote in another.  Needless to say, I vandalized that door quite a bit over the indoor and outdoor seasons.  I kept the list dropping until I reached the 14.87 that Doug Burdett had run when he set the previous school record.

Funny how that sophomoric freshman in college had absolutely no idea how long it would take him to actually accomplish that team goal that he set for himself.  He had no idea it would take him four full undergraduate careers to finally get there.

Why did everyone let me keep those sideburns for so long?

My father is famous (or infamous) for saying that “If it isn’t hard, it isn’t worth doing.”  I’ve always embraced this thought, but only recently have I begun to appreciate the utter magnitude of that statement.  Especially now that I’ve spent the last 16 years pursuing this goal.  I’ve never really taken a moment to reflect on it much because after missing it one year, I would just immediately turn my attention towards the next.  I never stopped to pause and think about it and the time just kept passing away.

Until Saturday.  And then it gave me pause.  16 years?!?  That’s almost half my life.  16 years?!?

While I was sitting in that 2^nd floor room in Stewart Hall, somewhere on the planet there was a 2-year-old Bryson Hoover Hankerson and Mitchell Black still soiling diapers.  Brad Nakainishi had just turned 5 and Graham Beutler was doing his best blonde-Harry Potter impersonation.

Expelliarmus!!!

Yet, here I am, a 33-year-old who had to wait for those toddlers to grow up in order to cross that goal of my 50 Life Goals list.  Thanks guys.  And thanks to your parents for making you the hungry, loyal, trusting, dedicated people that you are.  (All of you should take a moment and thank your parents for this title.  You wouldn’t be at Tufts, competing, or half the person you are without them.  Right now…call your parents…say thank you…say you love them.)

Then I thought of Echo.  He’s 2-years-old now.  Somewhere, there’s a silly college freshman who’s waiting for Echo to grow up.  Neither of them know it yet.  And neither of them know each other.  But there’s a chance that they’ll change each other’s lives forever.  I only hope that I can guide him to be that loyal, joyful, hungry, and dedicated.

I have to do what in 16 years?

After this meet I immediately drove to Brunswick, ME to attend a friends wedding.  11 hours of NESCAC track and a 2:30 drive.  Hooray for track!  My wife was already there.  This experience alone epitomized why I love and need her to do this job.  Not only does she support me when it gets tough and give me the freedom to spend 11 hours of a Saturday at the Oval but she’s my outlet to all things non-track.  Every time I bury myself in my job and this team, she’s the rational thought telling me to step away for a bit.  Marion, thanks for giving me my balance.