Ups and downs are expected in life, especially in sports. The hills will give you a workout, just try not to get too sore.
That’s what they don’t tell you when you fall in love with a game, that it will break your heart sometimes. That it will test you in the quietest ways. And that it might, if you’re lucky, teach you something even greater than how to win.
For us, it started on Lucky Street. A road that winds through Fayette, Missouri. But for my brother Jaryt and me, it became something more. It was the first place we learned what it really meant to lose.
We were just kids then, fresh out of junior high, undefeated and full of belief. Coach Kevin Garner took us to our first team camp, Jeff Sherman’s Runnin’ Eagle Basketball Camp, at Central Methodist College (now Central Methodist University). We walked in with pride. We walked out with perspective.
The camp director had placed our freshman team in an older Junior Varsity division, against players bigger, stronger, and seasoned. In our first game against New Bloomfield, we scraped out a win. In the second, we crumbled against Eugene. We turned the ball over again and again. Each mistake meant push-ups. Coach was relentless, but not cruel. He was teaching us something, and we knew it.
We didn’t just get beat, we beat ourselves. The scoreboard wasn’t the problem. Our effort was.
Afterwards, we walked a mile from the recreation center on campus to Fayette High School for our next game. Silent. Humbled. Down Lucky Street. It felt like anything but.
Outside the gym, Coach pulled us together in the cafeteria. His voice rose at times. And then it would drop. And that somehow hit harder. There was disappointment in those words.
“You didn’t just get beat. You beat yourselves. That team didn’t out-talent you. They didn’t out-scheme you. But they did outwork you. And effort? That’s 100% in your control. And when things got tough, some of you shut down instead of stepping up.”
He looked around from player-to-player. Locking eyes with each of us.
“You can have all the potential in the world, but if your effort is inconsistent and your mindset isn’t right, we’re just going to keep beating ourselves, and that’s the worst kind of loss. Because I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’ve seen you execute. I’ve seen you compete. But this morning, we didn’t play to our standard. We played down. We played soft. And that’s not who we are.”
He paused. Let it hurt.
Then he challenged us.
One game left today. Christian Brothers College (CBC) Junior Varsity. A team with a name that carried weight across the state. He looked at us and said, “You need to walk into that gym and play your best basketball. Not because of who they are, but because of who you are. And who you’re becoming.”
We were ready. Or we thought we were.
Then, early in the game, Matt Johnson stepped up and took a charge in transition. It was textbook. But the referee saw it differently. A whistle. A foul. And then a second one. This time on Coach Garner, who had erupted in defense of Matt. Too many words, too much passion. He was tossed from the game. But it didn’t stop there.
“Coach,” a staff member said. “Not only are you gone. You can take your team with you.”
Our heads sank.
But then Coach did something none of us expected.
He didn’t storm off. He didn’t argue his way out the door. He gathered us back in the same cafeteria, sat us down, and looked each of us in the eyes once again.
“If I ever feel like you’re in the right, I’ll stand by you. Every time.”
We looked back at him, and we knew. He meant it.
He believed Matt had sacrificed for the team by taking that charge. And even if the ref got it wrong, Coach wanted us to know his reaction wasn’t about the whistle. It was about us. About standing up for your guys when it counts.
He’d go to battle for us, not just when it’s easy, but especially when it’s not.
Because that’s what loyalty looks like.
It wasn’t about the charge. It was about trust. About belief. About having your back when no one else does.
It was about always being there for us.
We don’t remember the final scores of that camp. We remember that. Those words.
The game isn’t just about wins and losses. It’s about learning. And growth. It’s about cold days that eventually warm. About the valleys you pass through and the roads that teach you where your light lives.
Two years later, Coach Garner would leave Clark County. Within a few years, he’d take Sullivan to the state tournament. I watched proudly from the Hearnes Center stands, remembering that group of boys walking down Lucky Street. Talented but untested, still learning what it meant to rise to a standard instead of settling for comfort. And I knew the team he now led had been taught those same lessons about effort, accountability, loyalty and being there for each other when it mattered.
Years later, Jaryt would get into coaching as well. And Coach Garner? He eventually stepped away from the sidelines entirely. But he didn’t leave the game. He became an Assistant Executive Director at the Missouri State High School Activities Association (MSHSAA), overseeing basketball across the state, with responsibilities like interpreting rules, working with student transfers, school compliance, supporting teams, and having the honor of handing out medals at the Basketball State Tournament.
In 2021, Garner announced his retirement after a stellar career in education and administration.
That same year, Jaryt’s Boonville Lady Pirates made a historic run, earning the school’s first-ever girls basketball state championship.
But something about that moment didn’t sit quite right.
Tradition holds that a school’s representative on the MSHSAA Board of Directors presents the trophy and medals for their region. That’s how it’s typically done.
But loyalty doesn’t always follow tradition.
Because it was never just about a missed charge call. It was about trust. About belief. About having your back. About showing up, even when it’s not required.
And then… there he was. Coach Garner.
He made the trip to Springfield, Missouri. Not out of obligation, but out of loyalty. Not for a ceremony, but to keep a promise. Garner wasn’t scheduled to take part in the weekend’s award recognitions. But the Class 4 trophy presentation, the one Boonville would be part of, was different. That one, Garner made sure he didn’t miss. That one, he needed to be there for.
Presiding over the official presentation, with medals in hand and pride in his eyes, Garner placed the medallion around Jaryt’s neck.
Because decades earlier, in a quiet cafeteria outside a high school gym, he looked a group of wide-eyed boys in the eyes and said, “I’ll always be there for you.”
Some streets are just roads. But Lucky Street? That was the beginning of everything.
A lesson in humility. A vow of loyalty. A reminder that the game will bring both ups and downs, and the best coaches, the ones who leave a mark, will also show up for you.
Especially when it matters most.
That’s the kind of road worth walking.
No comments:
Post a Comment