Part 3: The Mental Struggles No One Sees
Memoirs of an Old Ball Coach
Part 3: The Mental Struggles No One Sees
By Coach Chuck Banks
I’m going to take you somewhere today that most coaches don’t like to go.
Inside our own heads.
You see, in Part 1, I talked about the dark side of coaching. In Part 2, I discussed the sacrifices our families make and this what have you done for me lately society we live in.
Today, I’m going a little deeper.
I’m going to talk about something that we don’t discuss nearly enough in athletics.
The mental health of the coach.
And I’m not talking about X’s and O’s, wins and losses, or whether we should have gone for it on fourth and two.
I’m talking about the battles that take place when the lights go out, the stadium empties, and a coach is left alone with his thoughts.
I’m talking about anxiety.
Depression.
Self-doubt.
Fear of failure.
The pressure to be everything to everybody while sometimes feeling like you’re not doing enough for anybody.
And perhaps the most dangerous part of all?
The belief that because we’re coaches, we’re supposed to be mentally tough enough to handle everything.
Well, this old ball coach has something to say about that.
Sometimes we’re not.
And that doesn’t make us weak.
The Loneliest Place in the World
I’ve stood on sidelines in front of packed stadiums.
I’ve heard thousands of people cheering.
I’ve been surrounded by assistant coaches, players, administrators, parents, and communities that love their football.
But there’s something strange about coaching.
You can be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel completely alone.
Nobody sees what happens after a tough loss.
They don’t see you sitting in your office long after everyone has gone home.
They don’t see the film you’ve watched three times because you’re convinced you missed something.
They don’t see you staring at the ceiling at two in the morning, replaying the same four plays over and over.
Maybe it was a missed tackle.
Maybe it was a personnel decision.
Maybe you trusted your gut and it didn’t work.
Or maybe your team simply wasn’t as good as the opponent that night.
But in your mind, it doesn’t matter.
You failed.
At least that’s what that little voice inside your head keeps telling you.
And that voice can be louder than any crowd I’ve ever heard.
The Monster Within
I’ve talked about this monster before.
That competitive fire.
That drive to be better.
That refusal to accept mediocrity.
It’s what gets us out of bed before sunrise.
It’s what pushes us to study another hour of film, develop another practice plan, and find another way to reach a young man who might be struggling.
It’s part of what makes a coach a coach.
But sometimes that monster turns on you.
The same mentality that tells you to never quit begins telling you that nothing you do is good enough.
You win by 30, but you’re upset about the touchdown you gave up.
You have a great practice, but you’re worried about the three kids who didn’t seem focused.
You build a successful program, but instead of enjoying what you’ve accomplished, you’re worried about maintaining it.
When does enough become enough?
For some coaches, the answer is never.
And that’s a dangerous place to live mentally.
Because somewhere along the way, the pursuit of excellence can become the pursuit of perfection.
And perfection doesn’t exist.
We Teach Kids to Ask for Help. Why Don’t We?
Here’s something that has bothered me for years.
As educators and coaches, we constantly tell our young people to communicate.
We tell them to speak up when they’re struggling.
We teach them that asking for help is a sign of maturity, not weakness.
We talk about mental health.
We talk about suicide prevention.
We talk about building positive relationships.
We tell them our doors are always open.
But when the coach is struggling?
We put on the headset.
We smile.
We say we’re fine.
We go back to work.
And sometimes we’re anything but fine.
Why?
Because coaches are supposed to be leaders.
We’re supposed to have the answers.
We’re supposed to be the steady hand when everything around us is falling apart.
At least that’s what we’ve convinced ourselves.
But who coaches the coach?
Who checks on the guy who checks on everybody else?
Who asks the head coach whether he’s sleeping?
Whether he’s eating properly?
Whether he’s enjoying life?
Whether the pressure is becoming too much?
Sometimes nobody does.
And sometimes we’re too damn stubborn to admit we need somebody to.
Friday Night Doesn’t Stay on Friday Night
I’ve always believed one of the greatest challenges in coaching is learning how to leave the game at the stadium.
For years, I struggled with that.
You can walk off the field, get in your vehicle, drive home, and sit down with your family.
But mentally?
You’re still on the sideline.
Your spouse might be talking about something important.
Your children might want your attention.
The television might be on.
But you’re thinking about third and seven.
You’re thinking about that timeout.
You’re thinking about whether you should have moved a kid to a different position.
And sometimes you’re thinking about what people are saying about you.
That’s the part we don’t like admitting.
We say we don’t care what people think.
We tell our players to ignore the noise.
But we’re human.
Of course some of it gets to us.
Especially when you’ve poured years of your life into building something you genuinely love.
One negative comment can sometimes drown out a hundred positive ones.
You know it shouldn’t.
But it does.
And then comes Saturday.
Film.
Adjustments.
Phone calls.
Questions.
Then Sunday.
More planning.
More worry.
And Monday morning, you’re back in a classroom or at your regular job, expected to give another hundred percent.
There are only so many hours in a day, and only so much a human being can carry.
The Price of Being Strong
I grew up in a world where mental toughness was celebrated.
You got knocked down, you got back up.
You didn’t complain.
You didn’t make excuses.
You found a way.
Those lessons have served me well throughout my life.
I still believe in them.
But I’ve come to understand something as I’ve gotten older.
Mental toughness and mental health are not opposites.
You can be incredibly tough and still struggle with anxiety.
You can be a tremendous leader and experience depression.
You can motivate an entire locker room while privately questioning your own worth.
You can be the person everybody depends on and still desperately need somebody to lean on yourself.
Mental toughness isn’t pretending nothing hurts.
It isn’t burying everything until it eventually explodes.
And it certainly isn’t sacrificing your own well-being to prove how committed you are to a football program.
Sometimes the toughest thing a man can do is admit he’s struggling.
Sometimes it’s making a phone call.
Sometimes it’s talking to his wife.
Sometimes it’s sitting down with a friend, a pastor, or a mental health professional and saying:
“I’m not doing okay.”
There’s courage in that.
Real courage.
When Your Identity Becomes Your Job
Here’s another problem nobody talks about enough.
After you’ve coached for 10, 15, 20, or 25 years, coaching can become more than something you do.
It becomes who you are.
People stop calling you by your first name.
They call you Coach.
At the grocery store.
At church.
At the gas station.
Walking down the hallway.
You’re Coach.
And there’s something special about that.
I’ve always considered it one of the greatest titles a person can earn.
But what happens when the headset comes off?
What happens when the program moves in another direction?
What happens when your body, your health, or your family needs you to step away?
What happens when something that has defined you for decades is suddenly gone?
That’s a difficult question.
Because sometimes coaches become so consumed with building their programs that they forget to build a life outside them.
I can tell you that stepping away from coaching gives a man plenty of time to think.
You miss the relationships.
You miss the preparation.
You miss the smell of freshly cut grass in August.
You miss the locker room.
You miss those moments when a kid finally understands something you’ve been teaching for weeks.
Hell, you even miss some of the things that drove you crazy.
But eventually, you have to recognize something.
You’re still somebody without the headset.
You’re still a husband.
A father.
A grandfather.
A friend.
A teacher.
A human being whose value cannot be measured by a scoreboard.
And that might be one of the hardest lessons an old ball coach ever learns.
The Young Coaches Are Watching
One of the reasons I’m writing this series is because I worry about the next generation of coaches.
I see some outstanding young men and women entering this profession.
They’re energetic.
They’re intelligent.
They care about kids.
They have ideas.
They want to build something special.
But I also see the pressure they’re under.
Social media has changed the world.
Everybody has a platform.
Everybody has an opinion.
Everybody can become an expert from behind a keyboard.
A coach can spend six months building trust with a young athlete, and one angry adult can undermine that trust in a five-minute conversation.
Think about that.
We wonder why finding and retaining good coaches can be difficult.
Maybe we ought to examine the environment we’re asking them to work in.
We cannot continue demanding loyalty, commitment, character, and sacrifice from coaches while treating them as disposable when the scoreboard doesn’t meet our expectations.
We have to give people room to grow.
We have to let them make mistakes.
And for God’s sake, we have to remember they’re human.
Winning Doesn’t Cure Everything
This might surprise some people.
Winning doesn’t automatically make the mental pressure disappear.
Sometimes it makes it worse.
Because once you’ve won, you’re expected to keep winning.
A good season becomes the standard.
A playoff appearance becomes the expectation.
And suddenly, something that should have been celebrated becomes another source of pressure.
You stop enjoying victories because you’re already worried about the next opponent.
You stop appreciating the little moments.
The locker room laughter.
The bus rides.
The friendships.
The kid who finally gets his first varsity tackle.
The backup who works his tail off all season and gets his opportunity.
Those are the moments that make coaching special.
But when your entire identity becomes wrapped around winning, those moments can disappear right in front of you.
And that’s a shame.
Because someday those are the moments you’ll miss the most.
Check on Your Coaches
I want to challenge our communities.
Not just the communities I’ve coached in or the schools we cover through the Dog House.
All of them.
Check on your coaches.
Not just when they’re winning.
Not just when you need something.
Not just when your son or daughter isn’t getting enough playing time.
Ask them how they’re doing.
Thank their spouses.
Support their assistants.
Understand that sometimes they might be carrying burdens you know absolutely nothing about.
And coaches?
Check on each other.
Head coaches, check on your assistants.
Veteran coaches, mentor the young ones.
Athletic directors, remember that the people leading your programs need support too.
And when somebody tells you they’re struggling, listen.
Don’t dismiss it with some nonsense about needing thicker skin.
You have no idea what battle that person might be fighting when nobody is watching.
An Old Ball Coach’s Confession
As I sit here reflecting on more than two decades in education and coaching, I realize something.
I’ve spent an awful lot of my life trying to make young people stronger.
Trying to teach them perseverance.
Trying to prepare them for adversity.
Trying to show them that life isn’t always fair.
And I still believe those lessons matter.
But perhaps there’s another lesson I should have spent more time teaching.
That strength isn’t just about how much punishment you can take.
It’s also about recognizing when you need to rest.
When you need to step away.
When you need help.
When you need to put your family first.
And when you need to forgive yourself for being human.
I’ve made mistakes.
Plenty of them.
I’ve second-guessed decisions.
I’ve carried losses longer than I should have.
I’ve worried about things I couldn’t control.
And there were times when I allowed the pressures of coaching to occupy space in my head that should have belonged to my family and my own peace of mind.
I can’t get that time back.
None of us can.
But perhaps by talking about it, we can help somebody else recognize it before years have passed.
When the Lights Go Out
Here’s what I want you to remember.
The man pacing the sideline might be fighting a battle you cannot see.
The coach smiling during the postgame interview might go home and spend the night questioning himself.
The young assistant who seems quiet might be overwhelmed.
And the veteran who has spent 25 years teaching toughness might be struggling to find some peace of his own.
A whistle doesn’t make you invincible.
A headset doesn’t make you immune to anxiety.
And the word COACH in front of your name doesn’t mean you have to carry the weight of the world by yourself.
Football is a beautiful game.
It has given me friendships, relationships, memories, and opportunities I wouldn’t trade for anything.
I’ve loved the kids.
I’ve loved the competition.
I’ve loved being part of something bigger than myself.
But the game should never cost a person their health, their family, or their sense of worth.
To every coach reading this, young or old, winning or losing, thriving or struggling:
You matter beyond the scoreboard.
Your family needs you more than your program needs another victory.
Your players need a healthy mentor more than they need a perfect play caller.
And the people who truly care about you will still care when you take that headset off.
So when the stadium empties and the lights finally go dark, remember this.
You don’t have to carry everything home with you.
You don’t have to have every answer.
And you certainly don’t have to fight every battle alone.
Sometimes the strongest thing an old ball coach can do is finally put down the clipboard, take off the headset, look in the mirror, and admit that he needs a little coaching himself.
God bless our coaches.
God bless their families.
And God bless those young men and women who make all those sacrifices worthwhile.
Until next time.
— Coach Chuck Banks
Memoirs of an Old Ball Coach — Part 3
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