You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

When "Hulk Smash" Fails as a Negotiation Tactic

I was absolutely livid. Apoplectic. Unhinged. When I think back on that day, I cringe at my behavior—the raw anger, the loss of control—but it was an important lesson I needed to learn. It was the 2023 Conference Outdoor Track and Field Championship. Our men's team had narrowly clinched the indoor title by a mere ten points, and going into this outdoor event, we weren't favored by any means. But the men’s steeplechase—that was our shot, our sliver of hope to edge out a win.

I had two fierce competitors in Jan Lukas and Christian. Jan Lukas was the heavy favorite, a national qualifier and the clear standout in the event. Our top rivals had stacked their roster with talent, four strong competitors ready to give us a fight, but none of them had the credentials or the grit of Jan Lukas. Christian, on the other hand, had been struggling—physically, mentally. A sickness earlier in the season had shaken his confidence, and he wasn’t the same. But Jan Lukas, the leader he was, had a plan.

“Stay on my hip,” he told Christian before the race. “Just follow me, no matter what.” It wasn’t the first time I'd seen Jan Lukas take charge like this, and it didn't surprise me that he would mentor his sophomore teammate. If anyone could pull Christian out of his mental slump, it was Jan Lukas.

The race started with the usual chaos—elbows flying, legs tangling—but slowly, methodically, my two lanky steeplechasers began to pull away from the pack. They moved in sync, like clockwork. Jan Lukas led the charge, his eyes focused ahead, while Christian clung to his every move. I could see it in Christian’s face, though—he was hurting, starting to doubt himself again. And as he began to fade, falling a step behind, Jan Lukas kept glancing back over his shoulder, barking commands, pointing to his hip.

He wasn’t asking; he was demanding. “Get up here. Stay with me.”

Christian, ever the fighter, found something deep inside and clawed his way back. With two laps to go, they bumped fists—an unspoken promise that they were in this together. Then, like a switch flipped, Jan Lukas took off, unleashing his full speed, leaving Christian in a secure second. It was a beautiful moment—a testament to the power of teamwork, of leadership, of believing in one another. First and second. It was happening.

They crossed the finish line, arms raised, embracing each other in celebration. But then I noticed something—a huddle forming near the officials. That’s never a good sign. As I watched the scene unfold, I saw a few of my athletes lean in, their faces twisted in confusion. Then they turned to find me. I could read their body language. Something wasn’t right.

I walked toward the finish line, doing my best to stay composed, but my pulse quickened with every step. The head official broke from the huddle, his shoulders slightly raised, palms open in that all-too-familiar gesture—the universal sign of bad news. He was coming for me.

What happened next… I’m not proud of.

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

“Now, Matthew,” he said, trying to calm the air between us. "The head track official has indicated that your two athletes were improperly aiding each other—that one was pacing the other—and because of that, both of them have been disqualified."

They say when you take a punch to the liver, it doesn’t register immediately. It takes a few seconds for your brain to process that one of your vital organs has just been pulverized. That’s exactly what it felt like—the official’s words entered my ears, bounced around in my brain, and for a moment, I felt nothing. But then, like a delayed reaction, it hit me. My first instinct, my natural tendency, was to stay calm. I tried. But there was something about the importance of that race—about Christian’s incredible grit, about Jan Lukas’s leadership—that triggered something deep inside me. And I lost it.

“They got disqualified for what?” I belted, my voice carrying across the track.

The head official—not the one who made the call, but the one in charge of all the officials—remained steady, explaining it again as if I hadn't heard him the first time. "The lead official says Jan Lukas was pacing Christian. It’s considered providing assistance."

Now, unfortunately for everyone within earshot, I’m a smart *ss by nature, and my knowledge of the rulebook gave that side of me all the ammunition I needed. Proverbs 15:1 says, 'A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger,' but I must have left that proverb at home that morning. Instead, I was doing my best impression of a hornet, buzzing around, searching for something—anything—to sting.

I smugly pulled the rulebook from my bag, flipped through the index, and found what I was looking for: Section 14—the exact definition of providing assistance by pacing. With all the poise of someone about to win an argument, I read it aloud, word for word, right there in front of the official. I wasn’t just reciting rules; I was practically daring him to challenge me.

But here’s the problem: it wasn’t what I said—it was how I said it. I could’ve de-escalated the situation with a calm, measured response. I could’ve asked questions, opened up a dialogue. But no, I was a fool pouring out folly, as Proverbs 15:2 warns. I vacillated between moments of intellectual smugness and outright hot-headedness, and I did it in front of everyone. My team, the athletes, other coaches—they all saw it. This was a new look for me, and not one I was proud of.

The official, still composed, told me I had the right to protest. Sure, I could challenge the ruling—but of course, there was a process. All I had to do was walk 17 miles over to some little white tent, fill out a piece of paper—probably in Braille—then have it decoded by the Enigma machine from World War II, submit copies in triplicate to the Department of Motor Vehicles, and then they’d maybe think about it.

THE CALM WITHIN THE STORM

Now, I must say, what happened next is the redeeming quality of this story—the moment that gave me hope for the environment I had tried to create, even though I had lost control. My assistant coaches, along with Christian, came over to me. One of my coaches put a hand on my shoulder and said, “We’ll take care of it. You need to focus on the next race.” Christian leaned in, calm as ever, and said, “Coach, it doesn’t matter what happens. I know you’ll take care of it. Whatever happens is fine with me—I got the race I needed, and they can’t take that away from me.”

How sobering. Proverbs 15:7 says, “The lips of the wise spread knowledge, but the hearts of fools are not upright.” In that moment, Christian became the one spreading wisdom. His words were like balm for my frayed nerves—reminding me of the bigger picture. His calmness showed me that while I had let the moment get the best of me, my athletes were the ones carrying the perspective and wisdom I had hoped to instill in them.

I turned to the head official and apologized for my behavior, then calmly explained the intention of the rule as written in the rulebook. Proverbs 15:23 rang in my ears—“A word in season, how good it is!” I had finally found the right words, spoken at the right time. I then asked my assistant coach to handle the explanation and stepped back. I knew the situation would be taken to the games committee, and I trusted that it would be overturned. I didn’t need to continue behaving the way I had. Christian was right—what really mattered was that we had already won in the ways that counted.

CALMING THE STORM

In the midst of all the chaos, I missed the women’s steeplechase—a race where another young sophomore, Bre, crossed the finish line as the champion. She didn’t need me anyway. I was too busy flitting around like an irate insect, lost in my own swarm.

In the end, my assistant coaches and the games committee managed to reinstate Jan Lukas and Christian. The disqualification was overturned. But what I learned that day went far beyond winning or losing. As Proverbs 15:28 says, “The heart of the righteous ponders how to answer, but the mouth of the wicked pours out evil things.” I had to face the hard truth that while I was in charge of the team, I wasn’t in charge of my own mouth. My emotions had run wild, and I let my words follow.

The key to the pursuit of wisdom, I now realize, is not just about leading with strength—it’s about learning to respond with a soft answer, avoiding the anger that stirs within and around us. That day, I wasn’t the leader I wanted to be, but I learned the importance of restraint, humility, and a quiet, thoughtful response. It’s a lesson I won’t forget.