The Captain

            I was the star, the four-year starter, the guy named one of the “Players to Watch” by the local newspaper, the player all the fans were going to want to see. I was the goalkeeper for the Marshall Hilltoppers soccer team and entering my senior season as the captain of a heavily favored squad. Expectations of my team were high, tolerance for failure was low, and anything but a State Tournament berth would leave a sour taste on our season. I entered the first day of practice as senior captain with an aura about me, a certain cockiness that could only be achieved by the truly gifted, or the completely unaware. I ended up as the latter, and it was this day I would shed my ignorance and begin to learn. It was this day I realized that talent and leadership do not coincide, and, in fact, require entirely different traits.

            August in Duluth, Minnesota acts as a sauna, leaving poor citizens soaked in their own sweat, complaining of global warming and lack of appropriate shade. On most days I would have joined them, but, for me, this day was different. This day automatically trumped all other days and my excitement did not allow time for petty distractions such as temperature.

            I arrived at the practice field 30 minutes early to get in a jog and a stretch. This is what I’d trained for my whole life, my senior season, and it began now. As the rest of my team filtered in, we started our warm-up routine. Coach Sengbush was late, as was the norm, and everyone looked to me, their captain. I could’ve suggested drills; I could’ve suggested sprints; I could’ve suggested anything and they would have done it.

            Thinking not of the good of the team or the need for practice, I recommended a popular game called “World Cup.” I took my place in goal and for the next 15 minutes, we played. During that game we pushed each other, we fought each other, and we made each other better. But it was still a game, something played during impromptu pickup games during the summer and not on the first day of practice. A high school team with such aspirations as ours should have been focusing on the finer points of the game, the meticulous ins and outs that separate the good teams from the great ones.

            As the game progressed, we heard from behind us, “Everybody on the line.” To any athlete, that is an unwelcome sound, as it is always followed with a dose of heavy conditioning. Coach Sengbush had arrived, and to say he was displeased would have been an understatement. He was a serene man, never saying much but always conveying his feelings. This time was no exception. He seemed to stroll to midfield, taking his time as if to gather his thoughts and decide our fate.

            “Ten full-field killers,” was the punishment Coach declared was ours, and his words were followed by eighteen young men shuddering at the pain they were about the experience. During the course of one killer a player sprints a little over 250 yards, and we had just been given ten. However, if we were unprepared for that, we certainly were not expecting what came next. “Zach runs double,” continued Coach.

            The heat of the mid-August day suddenly put an unbearable weight on my shoulders. Sweat beads abruptly dripped down my face. As the team took off running in front of me, I remained motionless. I looked at Coach for some kind of explanation, but all I got in return was a blank stare. I was embarrassed, humiliated at the fact that he had singled me out. I forced myself to move, though, and didn’t stop again until I had fulfilled my sentence.

            After practice, I was still steaming from my Coach’s actions. They were actions I thought were completely unjustified, and I wondered if this season would turn into a train wreck before it even began. How could he could do that to his leader? To his keeper? To his friend? I took him aside and as I began to protest, he raised his hand to quiet me.

            He paused, and finally spoke. His words were simple, “Zach, you are the captain of this team, the unquestioned leader. You’ve always been a great player, but your talent is not enough this year. You are going to be held responsible for the actions of this team. Make sure you can be proud when people speak of the 2006 Marshall Hilltoppers. This team is supposed to go places, and we can, but only if you lead us there.”

            I nodded and replied, “I understand. I’ll get it done.”

            He smirked, motioned to the field, and with a glimmer of pride in his voice said, “I can’t wait to watch you boys play on this field.” With that, he walked away. We didn’t talk about the issue ever again.

            That was it. Ten extra killers coupled with a simple conversation and I was transformed as a person. Never before had I considered that I would need more than talent, but on that day I realized how much more I had to learn. My senior season I won many awards, accepted many accolades, and received many compliments, but none meant more to me than what Coach Sengbush taught me on that humid summer day. To truly be a leader, one must transcend raw talent and strive for more. They must endeavor to become a student of the game, if only to set an example for the people around them. A leader is not the most talented player, but rather the most committed, to the game and to their teammates. And for three short months of my senior year, that was me.