When I retired from full-time teaching, I wasn’t quite ready to be done.
I still wanted to coach basketball. I still wanted to teach a couple of classes. I just didn’t want the entire load that came with doing both full-time.
Lighthouse Christian seemed like the perfect fit.
Part One of “A Different World,” a series about what a tiny Christian school taught an old public-school coach.
I Knew It Would Be Different
I had spent most of my career in public education, including many years at Twin Falls High School, one of the larger schools in Idaho. Now I was headed to one of the smallest schools in the state — and a Christian school on top of it.
I knew it would be different.
I had no idea how different.
That’s what this series is about.
Not why one school is better than another. Not why public schools are wrong and Christian schools are right. And definitely not about some old coach riding into a little school with 35 years of wisdom and fixing everything.
Quite the opposite.
I arrived at Lighthouse thinking all those years of experience meant I had plenty to teach them.
It didn’t take long before Lighthouse started teaching me.
And one of my first lessons was pretty basic:
Never assume your players know which basket they’re defending.
I Thought I Knew How to Explain Basketball
For most of my coaching career, I thought I was pretty good at giving basketball instructions.
Then I got to Lighthouse.
At Twin Falls, we had talented players, successful teams, and kids who had been playing organized basketball for years. There were certain things I didn’t really have to teach anymore.
Flash to the block.
Close out with your hands up.
Don’t give up an easy layup.
Pretty basic stuff.
At least I thought so.
Moving to Lighthouse was an entirely different experience. I expected the talent level and numbers to be different. What I didn’t fully appreciate was how different the basketball experience would be.
Some of the things I’d taken for granted for years weren’t things I could take for granted anymore.
I learned that one night in spectacular fashion.
The Night It All Came Together
There was a loose ball, and two or three players from each team went diving and scrambling after it. Bodies were everywhere.
Eventually, a player from the other team came up with the ball.
In all the confusion, he got turned around.
Completely turned around.
He took off toward our basket.
For a split second, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Then I realized what was about to happen.
This kid was going to score for us.
Now, we weren’t exactly an offensive juggernaut at the time. Points were precious. If the other team wanted to contribute a couple to our cause, I wasn’t going to complain.
I was probably the happiest guy in the gym.
Go ahead, young man.
Finish strong.
Unfortunately, one of my players had other ideas.
He came flying across the lane and fouled him.
I couldn’t believe it.
I immediately called timeout.
He Had Me
My player came walking toward the bench, and I asked the obvious question.
“What are you doing?”
He looked at me like I was the confused one.
“Coach, you said never give up an easy layup.”
I stared at him.
He stared at me.
And the worst part was…
He had me.
I had said that.
Apparently, somewhere during my previous three decades of coaching, I’d forgotten to add:
“Unless the other team is accidentally shooting at our basket.”
I gathered everybody around.
“Guys, listen. We have a hard enough time scoring ourselves. If somebody from the other team wants to shoot at our basket, LET HIM SHOOT. We need all the help we can get.”
I don’t remember whether we won that game.
I’m guessing we probably didn’t.
But I remember that timeout because it taught me something I desperately needed to learn at Lighthouse.
Maybe They Just Didn’t Know
I had spent years coaching players who already understood the language of basketball. Because of that, I’d started confusing knowing something with having taught it.
There’s a difference.
When I first arrived at Lighthouse, I sometimes got frustrated because players didn’t do things I considered basic.
Why aren’t you flashing to the block?
Why aren’t you rotating?
Why don’t you know where to go?
It took me a while to realize something.
They weren’t necessarily being lazy. Sometimes they just didn’t know.
And getting angry at a kid for not knowing something you’ve never properly taught him isn’t coaching. It’s assuming.
I had come to Lighthouse thinking these kids needed to learn how to play basketball.
They did.
But I was beginning to discover something else.
I needed to relearn how to coach.
And apparently, we were going to start with which basket we were defending.
Next week in “A Different World”: after 37 years of coaching, I thought I’d seen just about everything at basketball tryouts. Then a kid stopped practice, disappeared into the locker room, and came back carrying paperwork proving Coach Harr was wrong. That was a first.
If you want the longer version of what those Lighthouse years taught me, start with “I Thought They Didn’t Work Hard. I Was Wrong.” and “Nobody Told Me This About Starting Over”.
This story first appeared on Matt’s Substack. Read the original post — “A Different World” — and subscribe to the newsletter for short stories and practical lessons like this one every week.
