The Big Comeback Blog Posts
The Day Everything Changed
When endings feel like failure, but God is starting something new.
There are moments in life that split your story into two halves: before and after. The day I lost my job was one of those moments. I walked out of the building with a box in my hands, but it felt like I was carrying something much heavier—shame, confusion, and the sudden realization that the world I’d known for over forty years had collapsed beneath my feet.
People talk about losing a job like it’s a career issue. But when you’re a coach, it’s a heart issue. Coaching isn’t something you do; it’s something you are. It’s your identity, your ministry, your purpose. And when that purpose is stripped away, the silence is deafening.
In the days that followed, there were no playbooks, no whistles, no Friday night lights—just long talks with my wife, quiet prayers, and that hollow feeling of not knowing what comes next. But here’s what I learned:
God doesn’t waste brokenness.
He rebuilds with it.
I didn’t know it then, but the darkest moment of my career was the doorway to the greatest comeback of my life. And when I eventually stepped onto that new field with a group of boys who needed me as much as I needed them, I realized something:
Sometimes God ends a chapter because the next one is where the real story begins.
Why Friday Nights in the South Feel Like Church
Football isn’t a sport here. It’s a sanctuary.
If you’ve never been to a high school football game in rural South Carolina, it’s hard to explain the magic. The air smells like cut grass, diesel buses, and barbecue smoke drifting from behind the stands. Moms sit with blankets embroidered with their sons’ numbers. Grandfathers take the same seat they’ve held for 30 years. The band warms up. Kids toss a football under the bleachers. And when those lights flicker on, the whole town breathes in at the same time.
Football here is more than a pastime—it’s a gathering place, a tradition, and for some, a lifeline.
It’s where families reconnect after hard weeks.
It’s where boys become young men.
It’s where coaches become father figures.
It’s where faith shows up in quiet ways—a pregame prayer, a hand on a shoulder pad, a community believing in something together.
People sometimes ask me, “Why does football matter so much in the South?”
My answer is simple:
Because it brings us together.
Because it teaches us how to fight for one another.
Because in small towns, football isn’t just a game—it’s hope on a 100-yard field.
The Player Who Helped Save Me
Sometimes the teacher becomes the student.
I’ve coached hundreds of young men, each with their own story, their own fight, their own way of meeting the world. But every now and then, one comes along who teaches the coach more than he ever realized he needed to learn.
For me, that player was one of the first I met at my new school—a kid with a quiet presence, powerful eyes, and a calm leadership that didn’t need a microphone. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t look for attention. But he had gravity. The other boys followed him without hesitation.
In the early weeks of practice, when my confidence was still bruised and my identity shaken, he said something simple but profound:
“Coach, we’re glad you’re here. We needed somebody like you.”
He didn’t know it, but I needed somebody like them just as much.
That young man taught me that purpose doesn’t disappear when life knocks you down—it’s waiting for you to stand up again. He reminded me that leadership is not about titles, but about presence. And he showed me that sometimes God uses unlikely people—teenagers in shoulder pads—to lift a grown man back to his feet.
He helped save me.
And he never even knew it.
How a Team Becomes a Family
It’s not the wins—it’s the moments in between.
People think teams become families during winning streaks or postgame celebrations. And yes, those moments help. But real team chemistry is built in much quieter places:
In the heat of August practices
When sweat stings your eyes
When you don’t know if you can finish the drill
And somebody yells, “I got you!”
It happens in the locker room after a tough loss, where boys sit quietly with their helmets beside them and learn what resilience really means. It happens in the weight room when someone hits a personal best and the whole group erupts like he just scored the game-winning touchdown. It happens when players check on each other, hold each other accountable, and grow together.
A true team becomes a family when trust grows deeper than talent.
And in my comeback season, I witnessed something powerful:
A group of boys, from different backgrounds and different battles, came together and became each other’s lifeline.
By the time we reached the biggest moments of the season, they weren’t just playing for themselves.
They were playing for one another.
And that changes everything.
Starting Over at Any Age
You’re never too old for a comeback.
One of the biggest lies we tell ourselves is that time has passed us by—that we’re too old to change, too old to dream, too old to start something new. I believed that lie for a little while after losing my job. I thought my best years were behind me.
But starting over taught me something different:
A comeback doesn’t care how old you are.
New beginnings don’t check your birth certificate.
God’s calling doesn’t expire.
Purpose doesn’t retire.
Standing on that new practice field, surrounded by teenagers who didn’t care about my résumé or my past—only whether I showed up—I realized that life still had chapters left for me to write.
The truth is, starting over isn’t a sign of failure.
It’s a sign that you’re still in the fight.
And if there’s one message I hope readers take from my journey, it’s this:
You are never too old to become who you were meant to be.
