Coach's Corner

On a warm summer day in Atlantic City, a 17-year-old African-American teenager worked quietly in the bathhouse along the white-only beach. He spent hours each day washing, folding, and neatly arranging the bathing suits of beachgoers. Most of the time, he stayed invisible, the rhythmic work passing in silence.

Today, however, he had found a rare moment between tasks to open his copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. The worn pages were smooth under his fingers as he scanned the lines he’d come to love, losing himself in Whitman’s words, which spoke of freedom, self-discovery, and the beauty of the American landscape.

As he read, a white woman entered the bathhouse with her bathing suit draped over her arm. Her gaze fell on the young boy and lingered on the book in his hands. "That’s an interesting book you’re reading," she said, a hint of surprise in her tone. "Do you understand what you’re reading?"

Without hesitation, the young teenager looked up and replied simply, “Yes.” His answer was firm yet respectful, holding his gaze as he turned his attention back to the page.

The woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, handing him her bathing suit before disappearing into the showers. Once alone again, the young boy returned to the book, drawn in by Whitman’s words like a hidden melody. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of the woman’s question lingering in the air. Did she think he couldn’t understand? He wondered, mulling over her expression as he went about his work, scrubbing, rinsing, and folding her bathing suit until it was as clean as the ocean breeze.

When she returned, he was still reading, the book on his lap. She approached the table where her neatly folded bathing suit lay, her face again touched with curiosity as she looked from the teenager to the book. “Do you really understand what you’re reading?” she asked again, now weighted with something unspoken.

The young boy felt a spark of irritation but answered as before: “Yes.” His eyes met hers, conveying a quiet dignity that left the woman thoughtful.

She began to leave, gathering her things, but she paused just as she reached the door. Turning back, she asked a final question that seemed to echo across the quiet bathhouse. “Then what are you doing here?”

Those six words struck in a way the teenager hadn’t expected, leaving him motionless in their wake. They weren’t meant to be cruel, yet they carried a meaning that shook him deeply. What am I doing here, he thought, feeling the question unfold in his mind like the pages of a book.

Years later, this young man would tell his son that those six words changed the trajectory of his life. They set him on a path of education, ambition, and determination, propelling him toward accomplishments no one in his family had ever dreamed possible. That brief exchange had planted a seed of possibility in his heart, sparking the resolve to create a life filled with purpose and fulfillment.

As his son, I’ve carried my Dad’s story with me, a reminder of the strength, resilience, and vision that were his legacy. My father’s courage and pride in his identity as a Black man gave me the fortitude to walk my own path, achieving things that echoed the dreams he first glimpsed that day in the bathhouse, with Whitman’s words as his guide.

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman (excerpt from one of the poems my Dad read to me that was used in the Volvo commercial.)

Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth, I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here is realization,
Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,
The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All seems beautiful to me.

Since reading Robert Greenleaf’s essay The Servant as Leader in early 1995, my approach to teaching, coaching, and working with colleagues changed in ways I never anticipated. The 10 characteristics of servant leadership—listening, empathy, healing, awareness, persuasion, conceptualization, foresight, stewardship, commitment to growth, and building community—became the cornerstone of how I interacted with my students, athletes, and fellow educators. By focusing on the development and well-being of others, I was able to create a more supportive and empowering environment, which led to remarkable outcomes. That same year, I had the honor of coaching a state-championship girls' soccer team in the fall of 1995 and a state-championship baseball team in the spring of 1996. While personally gratifying, these achievements reflected what happens when a team is nurtured with trust, empathy, and a shared sense of purpose.

Beyond the athletic field, applying servant leadership enhanced my relationships with colleagues and students alike. I learned that by actively listening, being empathetic, and committing to their personal and professional growth, I could positively influence the dynamics of my work environment. My relationships with colleagues, already strong, deepened as we collaborated with greater understanding and mutual respect. I credit this to the heightened awareness and thoughtfulness that servant leadership fostered. This shift in my leadership style not only helped me achieve tangible successes but also allowed me to build a stronger, more engaged community around me.