Southern Style Cooking
When the right recipe is read the wrong way
It can hit 90 degrees before the sun even shows its face on a sweltering August morning in the South, and without hesitation, I had somehow scheduled the most hellish, heart-pounding practice these athletes had ever endured. I didn’t have the heart to tell them this was only the warm-up.
Just Add Heat and Stir
It was the first week of our fall cross-country campaign, but don’t let the word "fall" fool you. The South doesn’t acknowledge anything resembling autumn—there’s no crisp air, no cooling breeze. In fact, the idea of a Pumpkin Spice Latte doesn’t even exist below the Mississippi / Tennessee line. The air hung heavy with humidity, and even before dawn, the heat index inched above 100. And there we were, gearing up for one of the most grueling practices these athletes had ever faced.
Our team was an interesting mix—a roster of 30 athletes, half of whom I’d trained during the previous spring season, and the other half, brand-new recruits. The returning athletes had been drilled as the de facto leaders, and I had spent weeks meticulously teaching them the nuances of our warm-up routine. It wasn’t just a random series of stretches or jogs—everything had a purpose. From stretching the bottoms of the feet to activate the Achilles tendon, to dynamic movements targeting the calves and glutes, to progressively intensifying runs designed to get the heart racing. It was a full-body preparation that, when done right, would ensure they were physically and mentally ready for the work ahead.
But I knew that this day would be a test like no other. The brutal heat and the fact that 50% of the team had never experienced this routine before created the perfect storm of unfamiliarity. It wasn’t just that the warm-up was difficult—this would be a shock to their system. As I watched the leaders step up to guide the recruits, I hoped that they would not just execute the movements but convey the purpose behind them. Little did I know how quickly things would fall apart.
Children Imitating Their Parents
As the athletes rushed through the gates and onto the track, the chaos that had once been cloaked in darkness was now palpable in the bright morning light. Hyperventilating and wide-eyed, they sprinted past me, their gazes pleading for mercy. I turned my head to the side, almost as one might do before witnessing a car wreck, but more so out of shame, knowing the ordeal they were facing was a direct result of my oversight.
The anointed captains sprang into action, barking commands with an urgency that felt misplaced. “Come on, get over here! We have things to do!” A 22-year-old dropped to all fours, awkwardly maneuvering through motions intended to loosen up the hips. Meanwhile, the underclassmen scrambled to form a crude circle, shaking their legs in a frantic attempt to imitate what they thought they had observed. I had hoped to see my leaders not just going through the motions but explaining the rationale behind each movement, offering personalized encouragement to any newcomers struggling to keep pace. Instead, I was met with a decidedly authoritarian approach—an implicit message of “Do it because I told you to.”
I could hear whispers of doubt among the boys: “This can’t be right! How can this be the warm-up? I’ve never done anything this hard in my life!” But there was no room for whispers when you were gasping for breath. For a moment, I felt a swell of frustration towards my captains. They had been entrusted with the responsibility of teaching, telling, and transmitting the knowledge I had shared with them just a few months prior. Yet, as I stood there, it dawned on me: everything I was witnessing—the confusion, the chaos—was a reflection of my failure. How could I expect these young leaders to motivate and encourage their teammates when I had not equipped them to do so properly?
Intentional Warm-Up / Unintentional Instructions
The warm-up routine was not just a series of movements; it was the culmination of years of intentional effort and scientific experimentation. Several generations of athletes had endured the rigors of early morning hyperventilation, each one contributing to the iteration that my current guinea pigs were experiencing. I had made countless mistakes along the way, and many had suffered as I refined this process. I was confident in the validity of what I had taught them that spring, but I recognized that my delivery of that information had been fundamentally flawed.
While I believed I was making a concerted effort to ensure that my young learners not only heard my instructions but also understood and could apply them, I had neglected to focus on the long-term impact. There was a glaring absence of ongoing feedback and adaptation to their unique needs. This oversight is not uncommon in many aspects of life. It became painfully clear that my poor explanation of expectations had led to disappointing performances, frustration, and potentially diminished buy-in from the team.
These communication failures extend beyond athletics; they echo in workplaces where unclear instructions lead to disengagement and turnover. Many cite a lack of communication and dissatisfaction as reasons for jumping from one job to another.
Perhaps the most striking example can be seen in the relationship between parents and their children. We often set rules without providing the rationale behind them, expecting compliance without question. However, this blind adherence can lead to rebellion, particularly during those formative teenage years when children begin to seek understanding. When they don’t grasp the underlying values of the teachings imparted to them, they may push back.
Where is this disconnect happening? It’s evident that as coaches, employers, and parents, we are sharing vital information with our athletes, employees, and children. Yet, the teachings may be heard in many instances without being understood or retained.
True Now Just As It Was Then
This morning, as I was reflecting on my experience, I turned to Psalm 78, and the first five verses resonated deeply with the story I had just recounted:
1 Give ear, O my people, to my teaching;
incline your ears to the words of my mouth!
2 I will open my mouth in a parable;
I will utter dark sayings from of old,
3 things that we have heard and known,
that our fathers have told us.
4 We will not hide them from their children,
but tell to the coming generation
the glorious deeds of the Lord, and his might,
and the wonders that he has done.
5 He established a testimony in Jacob
and appointed a law in Israel,
which he commanded our fathers
to teach to their children.
The psalmist, one of King David's right-hand men, emphasizes the significance of not only listening to teachings but ensuring they are truly heard and understood. His words serve as a reminder that effective communication is a two-way street. He speaks not just to the youthful generation but also to the elders, urging them to fulfill their responsibility in this exchange of knowledge.
Transmission of knowledge is inherently relational; it requires clear communication and active engagement from both parties. It demands empathy—an understanding of the learner's needs and a willingness to adapt to meet them. These principles are as relevant today in modern workplaces, athletic coaching, and parenting as they were 3,000 years ago.
If you ever find a moment to read Psalm 78, I encourage you to do so; it will take you about eight minutes—about the same time it took for the first part of that grueling (but important) warm-up. Within its verses, you'll uncover specific actions, ideas, and behaviors that the author encourages readers to adopt. More importantly, it highlights what not to do. This caution is crucial; recognizing the pitfalls can often be as valuable as knowing the right path to take. It was when I could sit down with my athletes, reflect on the missteps, and discuss why things had gone awry that I realized my teachings were beginning to take root.
We Utter Things, Lessons of Old
That scorching August morning served as a wake-up call—a stark reminder that I couldn’t rush the vital lessons needed for growth, both in my athletes and myself as a communicator and teacher. As the weeks went on, we refined that warm-up routine. We improved our communication, but what filled me with the most pride was witnessing the leaders’ willingness to acknowledge their mistakes openly.
Psalm 78 chronicles the repeated misjudgments of the children of Israel, reflecting on their fickleness and hard-heartedness—stubborn, rebellious, and often unfaithful. Yet, through it all, they found favor in God’s eyes, given countless opportunities to correct their course. Much like the trips to and from Jerusalem for major celebrations, I found parallels in our journeys to cross-country meets. On those long bus rides, I heard my leaders recount the lessons passed down to them—stories of wisdom and warnings learned through experience, starting with my slipups.
I took time during those rides to share my blunders in teaching the warm-up, confessing how my lack of clarity had spiraled into chaos. Rather than pointing fingers, my vulnerability opened the door for my future leaders to step boldly into their roles, free to embrace the challenge of doing things right.
I think of Sam, who often started his 1500 meters too slowly, only to unleash a powerful sprint at the end, ultimately coming up just short of victory. And then there’s Sarah, whose pre-race nerves would sometimes send her running to the bathroom to throw up. Both athletes recognized their errors as their own and took ownership of them. They weren’t afraid to share their experiences, creating an environment where we could all openly discuss our struggles and learn from one another.
This dynamic echoes the teachings of Psalm 78—a long list of misguidance followed by opportunities for correction. When we take the time to share our lessons from the past, reflecting on our challenges while empathetically guiding those in our care, we empower them to avoid the same pitfalls. It becomes our responsibility to slow down, ensuring that our teaching is not just about imparting knowledge but nurturing understanding, connection, and growth.
Ultimately, it’s through this shared journey of trial and triumph that we cultivate a culture of learning—one where mistakes are not merely setbacks but stepping stones toward something greater. After all, growth is not just about the lessons we impart; it’s also about the legacy of understanding we leave behind.