Fired

A True Story

The School Board Chair called me up. “We’d like to meet with you today. Could you come to the office at 11:00?”

So, I went. I was twenty-one, still in college, and I had just landed the job of my dreams - head varsity girls’ basketball coach. The youngest head coach in the state of Washington. This was it. The beginning. A career, a legacy. A few years earlier, I had scribbled on a slip of paper, tucked it into my wallet like a secret prayer: “I will be the winningest coach in Washington state history.” It wasn’t just a goal; it was the whole of me, boiled down to a single, declarative sentence.

At the movie theater where I worked, they called me Coach. It wasn’t ironic. It wasn’t even aspirational. It was just what was true. They saw it in me, and so I saw it in myself. It became something I could lean into, step fully into. I was Coach. I projected it outward, and the world nodded back in agreement.

I walked into the office, heart pounding, a smile locked and loaded. Surely, this was a welcome meeting. A ceremonial handshake. A “happy to have you on board.” Right?

“We don’t think you’re ready to coach,” they said. “You’re too young. We want a woman to coach the girls’ team. So, we are going to look elsewhere.”

The words hit like a body blow. My lungs deflated, my stomach dropped. It felt like the time my high school girlfriend broke up with me because she was transferring schools. A sudden, shocking absence of what had been certain. The world tilting, spinning, changing shape. Rejection. Alone. Hopes dashed. Goals ripped up like scrap paper and tossed into the wind.

“But while we are looking for a new coach, we need someone to coach during the summer. You can coach the summer team until we find someone else.”

I don’t know many people who would say yes to that. We don’t want you, but go ahead and do it anyway, until we find someone better. Most people would walk away. I didn’t. I coached. How could I not? That’s who I was.

I had gone through four rounds of interviews. The Athletic Director. The Principal. A committee with a parent and a player. I had written a ten-page plan for the program. I had a vision. I had a roadmap. I knew how to get there. And yet - not enough. The board wasn’t impressed. Everyone else was.

I left the room dejected. Lost. Not fully understanding what had just happened. Across the hall was my dad’s office. Oh yeah, my dad was the Superintendent. That complicated things. He had no idea this was happening.

“Dad, the board just fired me. They don’t want me to coach. They’re going to look for a woman.”

My dad’s face darkened. Family first. That was our unspoken rule. And I carry that with me still - my wife, my son, they are my priority. But that day, my dad was hurt, and I felt like I had let him down. Brought shame to his name. And to make it worse, it was his birthday.

We were supposed to have a barbecue lunch with the staff in thirty minutes. My mom was coming. My sister was coming.

In our family, birthdays mean something. We go around the table, and each person says what they appreciate about the birthday person. We take time. We reflect. We speak life over them.

The whole staff was about to tell my dad how much he meant to them.

I called my mom. “Mom, I’ve been fired.”

I called my sister. “Cam, I’ve been fired.”

My sister feels things deeply. Too deeply, sometimes. She was driving, raging, too distracted to see what was in front of her. She turned too quickly. Bam. A car slammed into her. The car spun a couple of times before jolting to a stop on the side of the road.

The driver of the other car got out, saw the damage, and called 911. The ambulance arrived quickly. The paramedics pulled Cameron from the car, placed her on a stretcher, and sped away to Good Sam.

We knew nothing, but we saw the car. It was a mess. Totaled. We followed the ambulance and got to the hospital as fast as we could. Was she okay? How bad was it? What was happening?

The firing vanished in an instant. This was my sister. My only sister. She was all that mattered now.

We got to the hospital. The same hospital where I was born. Life comes from pain. The waiting was unbearable. But then, grace. Cameron was okay. Miraculously, completely fine. We sat there, stunned. Forty-five minutes. One thing lost, another nearly lost.

And then, in walked grace itself, in the form of my pastor, Lowell Bakke. He didn’t come with solutions or explanations. He came to sit. To be there. To be present.

My dad exhaled. “We have our family. We are safe. We are healthy. This is what matters. We are together. It doesn’t matter what else happens, we have each other.”

The grace of presence. The anchor of family. I carry this deep in my bones.

Sometimes God speaks in visions. Sometimes He whispers. And sometimes, He shows up in another person. In the act of showing up and being with one another, space is created. Space to pay attention. To be here, now. To listen, to connect. To remember that no matter what is taken away, love remains.

I coached that summer. The girls and I had a great time. We played well. We started to gel as a team. It was going to be an interesting year. The team had just come off their best finish at the State tournament - fifth place. Their best player had left to play at Western Washington University. But we had talent. We were short, but we were scrappy. I was getting excited, but I couldn’t attach too much. This team was going to be taken away from me.

The summer dragged on. No word of a new coach. Eventually, they asked me to stay on for the year. So, I did. I assembled a great staff. We got to work.

The season was a success. We went 16-4, came from 15 points down in the fourth quarter to win a must-win game for State.

After the season, members of the school board apologized. Parents apologized. “We were wrong.”

I understood their hesitation. I was 21, coaching 16- to 18-year-old girls. But I also saw something else - a young coach who was resilient, who stayed when others would have left, who cared more about his players than about wins and losses.

God shows up in the smallest moments. And when He does, we have a choice. We can pay attention, or we can miss it. Too many times, I’ve missed it. I’m glad I didn’t that time.

Two years later I got fired again…