Coach Shively

Football didn’t make me who I am, the people who led me did.

Although it might shock the people who know me only as today’s version of Jeremy, my earliest lessons in leadership and teamwork were learned on a football field. From ages eight to fifteen, football was my whole world.

Yes, I played football.
Yes, little (well, lol) Jeremy was strapping on pads.
And yes, I was pretty good… until I very suddenly wasn’t. But we’ll get there.

Some of my favorite memories are tied to those fields, which I would no longer survive on today. I was always the youngest kid on the team (shoutout to July birthdays for humbling a child), and I spent my entire first season as the third-string player who apparently did not know that, on defense, you’re supposed to tackle the person with the ball. Who knew!

But those early years gave me something far more important than stats or playing time. My dad was an assistant coach on all my junior league teams, and those seasons became the foundation of our relationship. He hasn’t coached me on a field since 2008, but learning how to be coached by him taught me something I still use daily: how to be held, shaped, and challenged by someone who genuinely wants my growth.

Of all the seasons I played, two stand out the most. Two seasons that crystallized what leadership and teamwork would mean to me for the rest of my life.

When it came time to choose a high school, football was (unsurprisingly) one of the deciding factors. My middle school team was the strongest in the district, and most of my teammates were heading to Westerville South. I was districted for Westerville North, a school whose football program hadn’t won a single game in two years.

Let me repeat that:
Two. Straight. Winless. Seasons.

Tell me that wouldn’t make you want to jump ship.

But I stayed at North. And that decision changed my life in about a hundred different ways.

One of the first people I met was Coach Don Shively, the head coach of our freshman team. Coach Shively had history at North. He was the kind of coach who remembered what success looked like because he’d helped build it before. Our freshman team rarely interacted with the JV or varsity teams, which honestly felt like a blessing.

For everything Coach Shively knew about X’s and O’s, he cared more about what was happening between our ears than on the field. He and the other freshman coaches, Coach Crumrine and Coach Kline, to name a few, cared deeply about us as people first, players second. And it showed.

We started the season 4–0.
JV and varsity? 0–4.

That tells you everything.

Coach Shively was the first person to teach me “accountability” in the way I understand it now. And listen: imagine being a 14-year-old boy. Don’t stay there long; it’s dark and full of Axe body spray. I didn’t want to talk about feelings. I didn’t know how to articulate goals beyond “be less awkward.” The idea of sharing any of that in front of my peers?

Then came the Accountability Cards.

Every Monday, we’d file into the choir room for film. What I remember isn’t the film, it’s the damn index cards. Coach would hand each of us one and say something like:

“This is your accountability card. On the front, write one thing you’ll do to be a better player/teammate this week, and one thing you’ll do to be a better man. Then you’ll come to the front, choose a teammate to hold your card, and you two will hug it out. They’ll check in with you all week.”

Mortifying? Yes.
Transformative? Also yes.

Those cards built something real between us: Vulnerability, trust, brotherhood. And with that came results. While varsity wrapped up another 0–10 season, we finished 6–4. Parents begged the school to hire Coach Shively as head coach when the varsity coach left. It felt obvious: he changed lives, he won games, he built culture.

They didn’t hire him.

And the person they did hire became one of the most challenging leaders I’ve ever worked under.

I’m not sharing details to shame anyone. However, I learned firsthand that intention doesn’t cancel out impact. Overnight, I went from being led by a coach who taught me to be a man grounded in empathy, accountability, and listening, to a leader who functioned through intimidation and patriarchal notions of “toughness.” At fifteen, I was being cussed out by grown men for asking questions. Laughed at for trying to be helpful. Talked down to constantly.

And just like that, I fell out of love with football. Not gradually. Overnight. One person’s leadership undid seven years of joy.

I didn’t know how to tell anyone, so I didn’t. I just stopped showing up fully. I played carelessly. I got injured doing something stupid in practice, my first real concussion. I ran to the athletic training room, threw up behind a shed, and missed a week of school. I think I quit football that day, even if I didn’t say it out loud.

A few weeks later, after missing some practices, my coach pulled me out of math class, into the hallway, and said:

“You think you’re suiting up after missing practice? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I wish he had asked why.
I know now I wouldn’t have had the words.
But the question would have mattered.

(And yes, before you ask: the team went 0–10. Then 3-7. Then 2-8. Then 0–10 again. Leadership matters.)

Looking back, those two years taught me more about leadership than football ever could. I learned that vulnerability and accountability build loyalty in ways fear never will. I learned that people rise to expectations when they’re grounded in dignity and connection. And I learned that the impact a leader has on a person’s life is often invisible to them, but unforgettable to the person who carries it.

Coach Shively passed away a few years ago, and I still think about him often. Even years after coaching me, he’d comment on my college and grad school posts: “Proud of you, young man.” He never stopped coaching me.

I hope to keep being the kind of leader who would make Coach Shively proud. I hope you have a Coach Shively in your life.