Dear Coach,
My child will be late to practice.
When your first line item at the team meeting was tardiness, I resisted raising my hand. Now that we're a few weeks into the season, I've decided to come clean. My child will be late to practice.
When you're sending those parent emails about the importance of promptness, I know you're talking to me, Coach. And I apologize. I know you don't need a million excuses, but I never want you to feel that my family and I don't value what you're doing here. So please, let me explain.
I don't know if you know this about us, Coach, but my husband and I work full-time downtown. We leave early to drop our kids at the before school program, and get home late after picking them up. Although we commute together, nearly every day we leave one car at the park and ride packed with equipment, snacks, and spare clothes. We stop there to divide up, then conquer the evening without spending the extra miles to go home. We do this for you, Coach. We take our family's commitment to this team seriously. So before you assign me any labels, there are a few things I'd like you to know.
I value your time.
I don't know who these parents are that work from home or get off early to consistently make it to 4:30 practices and 5 o'clock games, but that's not us, Coach. Now, I don't want to diminish your importance, but between doctors, dentists, school conferences, and sorry Coach, other sports, those 16 personal hours I get each year have to stretch. I have to be strategic.
Today, we mapped out a typical plan. I would work through lunch and leave early, while my husband would take the bus later to the park and ride. It was going perfect. But Coach, did you know the Twins had a day game today? Neither did I. My panicked sprint to the parking ramp was for not; the game had let out and traffic lines were already formed.
Twenty-five minutes ticked off before I was able to exit the ramp. Twenty-five minutes, Coach. I passed the time scream chanting "I hate the Twins!" Now, I understand that scream chanting disdain for the hometown team seems a bit un-American, but I was thinking about you, Coach. Those pokey baseball fans didn't care about your time. But I do, Coach, and they were stealing your minutes. If turning my back on the Twins makes me wrong, I don't want to be right. I want to be on time. For you, Coach.
I value your lessons.
You're always prepared, Coach. I like that about you. I'm always prepared, too.
When I picked up my child from school, he got his equipment on in the parking lot lickety split while I fed him a granola bar. It was some fantastic teamwork, Coach. We had this right up until the moment I noticed we didn't have his helmet. His $&@%ing helmet. How in the name of all things holy did we forget the helmet?
Do you remember story problems from math class? I wrote this one for you, Coach:
Little Johnny's practice starts in 15 minutes, but he's missing some equipment. The field is ten minutes away from his location. Johnny's home is also ten minutes away, but in the other direction. If Johnny goes straight to practice, he will be five minutes early, but unprepared. If Johnny goes home first, he'll be 15 minutes late (10m to home + 20m back = 30m total).
Q: If Johnny goes straight to practice, but then his mom runs home for his helmet and brings it back, how many minutes will Johnny be standing there unable to participate in practice?
Coach, I'm not sure how you calculated your answer, but I came up with a number greater than 15. So we did it. We went home first. But it was a sight to behold. My player jumped out while the garage was still opening and I was turning the car around. He had that helmet in record time, and never stopped running. We were a well-oiled, and now fully prepared team. Just like you preach it, Coach - hustle and teamwork.
I value your commitment.
Coach, my husband and I did everything right this morning.
All equipment packed in the car: check.
Car left at park and ride: check.
Work through lunch to catch the early bus: check.
Car keys ready when I got off the bus: this is where it fell apart.
In my hasty departure, I left my keys at the office. As I stood there taking stock of the situation, you were the only person on my mind. And then, I ran 1.4 miles in heels all the way home. I'm not going to lie, Coach, it kind of hurt all over. As I grabbed the keys, I thought it best to change into gym clothes and tennis shoes to speed the run back.
5:03, Coach. Can you believe it? All that disaster and I was only three minutes late! You looked me over and remarked that I should try harder to be on time. Now, this may have been the shin splints talking, but just then I wanted to punch you in the face. Not super hard, but definitely square on. I held it back though, Coach. I just wanted you to see my commitment the way I see yours.
I value you.
I've done your job, Coach. I know there are parents who take your effort for granted. I know there are parents who will never recognize all the practice preparation, game planning, conflicts, adjustments, and equipment malfunctions. I know some parents do the old no call, no show. That's not me, Coach. That'll never be me. I see you. I appreciate you. And more than anything, I value your role in my child's life. So I mean this as a standing courtesy with a sincere apology, my child will be late to practice.
Thanks Coach,
Carrie
