Growing up in a sports-obsessed small town was like living in a sitcom where the laugh track was just me nervously chuckling as a dodgeball flew past my head. My dad was the high school PE coach, author of The Winning Playbook (yes, really), and the small-town celebrity of sports motivation. Meanwhile, I was out in left field… not playing, just literally out there because someone told me it was “safe.” Spoiler alert: It wasn’t. If you’ve ever wanted to know what it feels like to have all your classmates silently agree you belong on a team only because they have to pick you , imagine the slow, soul-crushing walk to the back of the lineup. My “athletic contribution” was a combination of standing very still and perfecting the art of shielding my face from incoming balls. Coordination? Optional. Confidence? Well, let’s just say I was still figuring out which arm to swing forward while walking. Then there was dodgeball, the gladiatorial event of elementary PE. I quickly learned there was a kind of unspoken dodgeball survival code: if you stood in the back corner, right behind the other dodge-avoiders, you could almost guarantee safety. Why risk the painful slap of a rubber ball when you could let the brave (or overly confident) kids soak up all the heat? Call it cowardly; I call it strategy. But then came the Army, and things took a surprising turn. Who would’ve thought the kid hiding in the corner of dodgeball games would one day be chosen to run the Olympic torch for their Military Police company? Turns out, avoiding projectiles prepares you surprisingly well for things like ruck runs and shooting competitions. I even snagged some shiny medals along the way—not bad for someone whose childhood athletic career peaked at not flinching too hard when a dodgeball came close. And let’s not forget the added charm of being “Coach’s kid.” In a town where “we killed them” was a perfectly normal thing to say about a game, people didn’t see me—they saw “Coach’s Son.” My younger brother, on the other hand, was the star athlete, leaving me in the unfortunate role of “His Brother.” Who knew “His Brother” could be a full-time job title? Here’s the kicker: Years later, after leaving that small town, I came to find out they still didn’t know my name. But this time, they had upgraded my title. I was now known as “the smart one that left.” No first name required, but hey, I’ll take it. The best part? I learned to laugh about it all. Who needs a touchdown when you can nail a punchline about how bad you are at catching? These days, I see those old gym classes as the training ground for my real talent: storytelling. The Takeaway: Redefining the Game What if your worth wasn’t tied to how well you could throw, catch, or score? What if the kid dodging dodgeballs was actually a future Olympic champion in creativity? It’s not about fitting into someone else’s playbook; it’s about writing your own rules. And if those rules involve never going near a dodgeball again, well, that’s just good strategy. So, to anyone out there who feels like they’re “His Brother,” “Last Pick,” or just plain invisible, know this: You might just be warming up for your real sport. And if that sport is storytelling, torch running, or being “the smart one that left”—congrats, you’re already winning.
