Anonymous, But Not Forgotten: The Letter That Challenged All I Thought I Knew

I was 25, maybe 26, when I got my first “paid” soccer coaching job. I’d just been hired to take over the boys program at Southern Columbia High School, a small, rural school in Pennsylvania where football was (and still is) king, and soccer was still something of a novelty. The team was heading into its fourth year as a varsity program, and if memory serves, they hadn’t won a single game, or maybe one or two at best.

I was young. I was brash. And I thought I had it all figured out. (Something I try to remember now when my own kids carry that same energy.)

I’d played soccer my whole life. I even spent a year playing in college. And hey, hadn’t I just coached an AYSO girls U13 team to a winning season?

I had mentors. I grew up idolizing Joe Paterno and his “Grand Experiment” and “Success With Honor.” I admired Dean Smith and Coach K. Yeah, I know, a bit of a conflict, but I loved the way they carried themselves, the way they spoke about their players and their programs. Most of all, they seemed to care about the student in student-athlete. I wanted to coach with that kind of purpose and presence. I was ready to cast my lot and make an impact.

The season started with real enthusiasm. Daily doubles in the thick, muggy heat of a Northeast Pennsylvania August. We set out to build belief. These players weren’t going to be the easy win on everyone’s schedule anymore, we were going for it. And early on, it felt like everyone was bought in: players, parents, even the community.

We were competitive. We played in a lot of close games. I thought we were laying the groundwork for a successful program. But after a few tough losses, reality started to set in. I could sense a few cracks forming in the foundation. And then I received the letter, anonymous, typed, unsigned. (Pictured above.)

After reading it through a few times, my first instinct was to burn it and pretend it never happened. But instead, I brought it to the captains and asked for their input. I realized how much wisdom I could pull from the letter, if I allowed myself to let the sting of criticism roll off my back. If I could filter through the feeling of a personal attack and use it as a teachable moment. By sharing it, I think I opened something up with the team. I showed them that I can make mistakes (lord knows I’ve made my share), and that I’m willing to be accountable for them.

For the first time in my (very short) coaching career, my methods were being questioned, and I had to accept the possibility that maybe I didn’t have it all figured out. One of the most enduring lessons I took from that season was this: not everyone will buy in. Players, parents, administrators, everyone brings their own history, their own expectations, their own limits. And no matter how authentic, encouraging, or energetic you are, some people are just looking for a different bus to get on. And you know what? That’s okay.

We ended that first season with six wins, a few ties, and more losses than not. But what I learned from that moment, the letter, the reflection, the feedback, would shape how I approached every season after.

I became much more intentional about setting clear expectations and defining roles from the I made space for players to check in, to give candid feedback, and to feel heard. That didn’t mean everyone always agreed. We still had a handful of players, and a few parents, who weren’t happy with the system or the positions they were in. Or maybe, more likely, they were just generally unhappy and projected that frustration onto the staff.

The difference was, this time they had the chance to understand the thought process, to ask questions, and to be part of the conversation. And with that came a responsibility: get on the bus, or don’t.

I had to make some hard decisions, I had to sit some older, experienced players and lean on younger ones, but slowly, the culture started to change. And over the next two years, we went on to win 30 games.

I still have that letter. It’s been the first page of a scrapbook I kept about that team, a reminder of where it all started. At the time, I thought it was a challenge to my acumen or ideas . Now I see it as one of the first real gifts of my coaching career. It forced me to listen. To reflect. To grow. And maybe more importantly, it taught me that leadership isn’t about having all the answers, it’s about having the humility to keep learning, and the courage to build a culture that outlasts the season.

So, to whoever took the time to send that anonymous letter, thank you. You probably didn’t know it then, but you made me a better coach. And a better leader.