The bus ride home was two and a half hours.
I sat in the front seat. Headphones in. Head down. Stewing.
We had led 2–0 going into the fifth inning of a critical region road game during my first year as a head coach. Then came an obstruction call—one I still believe to this day was completely wrong—and I came unglued. I walked out onto the dirt to ask the umpire what my fielder could have possibly done differently. His answer was simple: “Nothing, coach. It’s just one of those plays.”
That was all I needed to hear to go completely sideways.
The opposing fans fed off my negative energy. Our dugout matched it. Within minutes, a domino effect of chaos took over the diamond: five runs, four walks, three errors. The wheels didn’t just come off; I was the guy holding the gas can. We lost 9–5.
I walked through my front door around midnight. I didn’t say a single word to my wife. I didn’t give her a kiss. I went straight to bed, tossed and turned, and left for the field early the next morning.
When she confronted me the next afternoon and said, “I didn’t appreciate that you didn’t even give me a kiss last night,” I snapped at her. I walked right past her to go play video games like a man with absolutely nothing to say.
That is a moment I am deeply ashamed of. But it was the exact moment the mirror showed me the ugly truth: My identity was sitting directly on the scoreboard.
Not just my career record. My actual sense of worth as a human being—my confidence, my peace, and my capacity to be present with the people who matter most—lived and died with the daily result. When we won, the scoreboard told me I was enough. The night of that obstruction call, it told me I was a failure. And I believed it.
The “Obsessed” Mirror Test
Years after that bus ride, I thought I had a tight grip on this concept. Then came the conclusion of our historic 2023 season—the best team in school history. We followed that peak with a grueling campaign that resulted in our first losing record in ten years.
I was desperately searching for ways to rebuild our culture without constantly referencing the 2023 squad. I didn’t want our current guys suffocating under an impossible, past standard.
During one of our fall player meetings, I introduced Jeff Janssen’s Commitment Continuum. It’s a leadership tool designed to plot where people sit on a spectrum of team investment: Resistant, Reluctant, Existent, Compliant, Committed, Compelled, or Obsessed.
Following the team-wide meeting, I sat down with our S.A.L.T. (Student Athlete Leadership Team) for our private leadership evaluations. I had them grade everyone in the program anonymously—including the coaching staff.
When the results came back for me, it was a massive wake-up call. Six of my leaders marked me down as Compelled. But one clear voice marked me down as Obsessed.
I had to take a major step back and self-analyze. The next time our leadership group got together, I asked them to be completely transparent about why they saw me hovering on that dangerous line of obsession. As we talked, it became obvious that multiple guys felt that way; they just hadn’t been sure what would happen if they checked that box on the paper.
They were completely right. I was always talking baseball. I was constantly pushing them to get out and practice. I was trying to out-grind a losing record. It goes right back to the ultimate coaching trap: your athletes will never care more about the game than you do.
Our S.A.L.T. guys helped me realize that I was dangerously close to letting the scoreboard dictate my worth all over again. They reminded me how vital it was that I invest in the person infinitely more than the baseball player. That exact breakthrough with my players is what ultimately drove me to write Red Letters and Red Dirt. I wanted to build a tool so other coaches could take this mirror test much more quickly than I did.
Red Dirt Architecture
The continuum is a phenomenal way to evaluate your program, but you cannot fix an identity problem with a new athletic strategy.
When you coach from an “obsessed” identity, every single loss is a personal threat. An assistant coach who questions a lineup decision isn’t just questioning the strategy—he’s questioning you. A player who transfers isn’t just changing schools—he’s rejecting your worth. You feel every single bit of it because you have no structural shield to protect your soul.
Secured worth is the exact opposite. It is an anchor cast into deep water before the first pitch is ever thrown.
“Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.”
— Matthew 10:31 (ESV)
When Jesus delivered that line, it wasn’t soft, poetic comfort. It was load-bearing corporate architecture. He was speaking directly to people who were completely terrified of what the crowd thought of them.
He was telling them: that is not where your value lives.
When your worth is secured in Christ, your leadership completely transforms on the turf. You can hold a standard of elite accountability because a player’s failure is no longer a threat to your ego. You can walk out to talk to an umpire with a completely calm pulse because you aren’t trying to rescue your self-esteem on the field.
And most importantly, you can walk through your front door after a brutal 9–5 loss and actually be a husband and a father, rather than holding your household hostage to your silence.
Your Playbook for This Week
This week, I want you to run your own identity diagnostic. Sit down at your desk and write out a three-sentence identity statement.
There can be zero mentions of your career record, your school, or your program. Write three sentences about who you are that remain 100% true after a terrible loss on a Tuesday night.
- “I am _______________. (An identity statement completely detached from sports)
- “I lead from ______________. (A core conviction, not a scoreboard output)
- “When my coaching career is over, the legacy I leave behind is ________________.
Once you write it, read it every single day before practice. Your mind requires intentional repetition to rewrite an identity trap just as much as a hitter needs repetition to recognize a slider.
I still coach hard. I still hate losing with a passion. Those things are not in conflict with God’s word.
But now, when I walk through the front door of my house after a long road trip, my wife has to actually ask me how the game went. She can’t read the box score on my face. She doesn’t have to feel the weight of a loss lingering in the living room.
That is exactly how it should be. For her sake—and for mine.
The scoreboard doesn’t define you. But how you lead when it turns on you just might.
Let’s get to work.
— Coach O
📩 Enjoyed this briefing? Leave a comment below with how you keep the scoreboard from following you into your home, and subscribe to the Weekly Standard at CoachShawnOliverLeadership.com to get these deep-dives delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday.
📖 Pick up your copy of my book, Red Letters and Red Dirt, anywhere books are sold online.
Leave a Reply