Typically, leadership shows up with a title attached. A captain’s armband, a corner office, a name on the door. We often wait to be named before we’ll lead.
I learned otherwise on a borrowed basketball court, from a spot at the end of the bench.
The kid who barely made the team
I was a baseball player who loved basketball. Unfortunately, I wasn’t very good at it. I made the high school junior varsity team by a thread. In fact, I was selected so late I missed being in the team photo for the yearbook.
Candidly, I spent most of my time watching from the bench. That was fine by me. I was excited to wear the uniform, and I’d made peace with my role as a supporting player. Being part of the team was enough, and I meant it.
My job at practice was the scout role. While the starters ran their offense, I played the defense they’d see on game night. Bench guys like me were the live obstacle the starters worked against.
So I knew exactly where I stood. And I knew it wasn’t in the spotlight.
The day the starters coasted
One afternoon we practiced in a nearby school’s gym because ours was taken. Strange building. A sunken court you reached by walking down through several rows of bleachers, the seats rising all around you like a small stadium.
Our starters were confident and talented, and they’d earned that confidence. That afternoon, though, they didn’t bring it. They went through the motions. The coach noticed. He turned up the intensity, asked for more, and the response never came. The guys executed, but nowhere near game speed. You could feel his frustration build with every whistle. I could see the players exchange dismissive looks.
I made a quiet decision. I’d give them a real game.
Every possession, I treated like it counted. I broke up plays. I jumped passing lanes and stole the ball. I dove for anything loose and took a charge or two.
After running plays, practice would usually end with us running conditioning ladders, which are grueling, timed, full-court sprints where distance increases and decreases between baselines, foul lines, and halfcourt.
When we finished our ladders, we were typically finish. Not this time. Our coach took advantage of the environment and had us run the stadium steps. By the end, during those brutal runs up and down the steps, I pushed until I nearly got sick.
A couple of the starters told me to ease off. “Relax, it’s just practice.” I didn’t. If I’m honest, part of me wanted their respect, wanted to prove I belonged. But the bigger part wanted the team to be better than it was being that day.
The name I didn’t expect to hear
At the next game, the coach read the starting lineup. He got to the last name.
It was mine!
You could feel the surprise in the team huddle. I felt it too. Later, I heard the murmurs in the gym when the announcer read my name. My mind raced and heartrate spiked.
During warm-ups, my very first layup clanged off the backboard so hard the ball bounced back to midcourt. I caught the coach turning away. In that second, I felt about two inches tall. Embarrassed. Exposed. Alone in front of the whole student body.
That feeling stayed with me for years. When I later coached youth sports, I made a rule for myself. I never reacted to a kid’s mistake with a wince or a turned back. If a player looked to me after a blunder, I made sure to hold their eyes and give them a look that said you’ve got this. No child on my watch would feel what I felt in that gym.
The light returned
Here’s the part I treasure.
Our captain didn’t turn away. He walked over. A few starters came with him. They ribbed me a little, loose and easy, and told me I’d earned the spot. “Just relax and play.”
These were the same guys who’d coasted at practice and rarely gave me the time of day. The same ones who hadn’t been leading when their coach asked them to. In the moment I needed it most, they became exactly what they hadn’t been a few days earlier. Leaders that wouldn’t let me fail!
I settled down. The whistle blew. I started in front of the entire school, played real minutes, and held my own. I didn’t light up the scoreboard. I didn’t need to. But I also didn’t embarrass myself or the team, and I’d been carried there by teammates who chose to lift me.
What the bench taught me about light
The most-admired leaders don’t stand in the spotlight. They shine a light on others.
Leadership traveled in two directions that week, and the direction is the whole point. At practice, with no title and no spotlight, I set the standard the team needed that day. Then it reversed. When nerves got the best of me during warm-ups, the players with the status stepped into the character they’d relaxed at practice and lit the path back for me.
A lighthouse doesn’t chase ships. It doesn’t leave its post to win applause. It stays put and stays lit, so others can find their way. That’s the kind of light a leader carries. You don’t need a title to give it. And the light you give has a way of finding its way back to you.
The lessons I carried off the court
A few things from that gym still travel with me into every room I lead in now.
- Set the standard from wherever you sit. I ran the scout role, not the offense, and still got to decide how hard the team worked that day. Your seat doesn’t set your standard. You do!
- Effort is a language everyone reads. I never said a word about wanting respect. Diving for loose balls said it for me. People hear what you do far louder than what you announce.
- Coasting is contagious, and so is its cure. The starters drifted together. One person playing for real can pull a whole group back up. Intensity spreads when somebody refuses to fade.
- Watch your face when someone fails. The coach turned away, and I never forgot it. The captain held steady, and I never forgot that either. Where you look in someone’s worst moment teaches them what you think of them.
- Light given comes back around. I spent myself for the team with nothing to gain. When I needed it, the team spent itself for me. Generosity has a long memory.
Parting Thoughts
You may be early in your career, far from any title, wondering whether you’re allowed to lead yet. You are. Lead from your seat. Invest your light on the people around you. More often than you’d guess, it finds its way home.
If you’re an organizational or functional leader, know that your team is always watching you. When they make a mistake, their first glance will likely be to you. Resist the urge to react with disappointment or judgement. The coaching point can come later. In the moment, hold their gaze, reassure them, and simply be there for them.
Those are the leadership lessons I’d loved others to learn from my experience. I’m grateful a borrowed gym, an empathetic captain, and other team leaders taught it to me young.
Be clear. Be kind. Lead with Light! ✨
Feeling generous? Share this post…
Discover more from alviller.com
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.