Don’t Look Back
November 23, 2011
In August of 1986, at the end of the one week of overlap between the previous MHSAA executive director, Vern Norris, and the start of my tenure, I found an envelope on my desk from Mr. Norris that read: “No words of advice. Just make your decisions and don’t look back.” That’s Lesson No. 5 of six in this series of blogs.
In our work, time is of the essence. We don’t have the luxury of long deliberations. The next game may be today; the next round of the tournament tomorrow.
In our work, staff is limited. We don’t have subpoena power. We have few staff spread thinly over many responsibilities.
In our work, because it’s in a competitive arena, people are sometimes disingenuous. Some have personal agendas, impure motives sometimes. They care who wins and loses; we don’t.
And most people have miserable memories. I’m skeptical that people recall well the details of events; and people are even worse when recalling details of conversations.
So, in our work, we make one more call and then, with good intentions and reliance on rules, we get on with the decision and try not to look back.
It’s hard to do, but a good deal healthier if we can.
In An Instant
August 4, 2015
The icebergs that enter the harbors along Newfoundland’s north shore started to form thousands of years ago. They broke from ice flows 10 times their size and then got caught in a current that carried them on a 1,000-mile, two-year journey to “Iceberg Alley.” Some of them drift into harbors and, with seven-eighths of their mass below the surface, they get grounded. Eventually they break apart and disappear.
My wife and I “discovered” one of these grounded ‘bergs near the shore of cozy little Coffee Cove. After a 15-minute hike, we got closer to this sparkling monster than third base is to home plate. We each snapped dozens of pictures.
Just as we were turning to begin our hike back to “civilization,” we heard what we thought was a loud gunshot. But what actually occurred was a portion of the iceberg breaking off and falling into the water.
What we had taken pictures of moments earlier no longer existed as it had at that time. In an instant, the iceberg had changed, without respect for the thousands of years in the making and the hundreds of miles of traveling.
A few days after we returned to Michigan, Rich Tompkins died, apparently healthy, just after waterskiing. Death came without respect for the miles Rich had traveled to serve student-athletes and coaches, and without regard to all the victories his teams had earned and MHSAA championships they had won.
I last saw Rich on Valentine’s Day at the first-ever Fremont High School Hall of Fame induction banquet where Rich and many of his athletes were honored. The pictures taken that night are of people and circumstances that can never be reassembled.
We need to more fully appreciate the miracle of such moments. They can be gone in an instant.