“So, what’s it going to be?” invites the savvy supervisor, loathe to micromanage, slow to bail out her team, and dead determined not to have the last word.
I grew up in a grade school where once we put kickball behind us—somewhere north of age ten—football became pretty much all there was until summer. The only flat surface outside the school was a paved parking lot. So, when the snow came, we shifted from touch to tackle and just kept banging away. Looking back I can’t escape the mental image of a kid named Dan Crandall dragging three winter coats, their wearers still inside them and hanging on for the duration, fifteen yards before all four players collapsed in a heap of charcoal wool across a goal line obscured by inches of ice beneath feet of snow.
If parking lot snow football was rugged, play calling back then was simple. There are really only two ways to manage the snow once the ball is snapped. You can hand it off to Dan and watch him ‘carry’ on. Or can you run what is still known to some as The Scott Thomas Play. Named for my best mate Scott Thomas, its huddle included some variation of the following:
Scott: “OK. Everybody go out.”
Further variations might include:
First Down: “I’m gonna give the ball to Dan. And in case he can’t get anywhere, the rest of you go out.”
Second Down: “I want you, you, and you,” Scott pressed a confident but non-menacing finger on each boy’s chest, “to stay back and block. The rest of you go out.”
Third down: “You know the drill: everybody go out.” And after the huddle breaks, “Alan, I want you to set up right, go straight for ten, and then cut across the middle. If you’re free, yell out.”
In the straight-forward style of grade school ball, The Scott Thomas Play proved a steady winner. Scott knew how to pick his receiver and was as adept as any at sending the ball where they would be in the three seconds it took to reach them. But when Dan didn’t get the call, or Alan couldn’t break free, the play was designed to devolve into a distracting cacophony of shouts.
“Throw me the ball!”
Everyone is yelling it, even the defensive players.
“Scott, I’m open. Throw it.”
This could go on for as many as 30 seconds.
Scott! Scott! Scott! I’m free. Hit me.
And when the snow crystals finally aligned—
Throw! Me! The! Ball!
—Scott would then toss the perfect strike.
In Super Bowl 58, Kansas City Chief tight end Travis Kelce was famously captured going chest-to-chest with Chiefs’ head coach Andy Reid. In what might have been the frenzied aftermath of a Scott Thomas Play gone south, Kelce appeared frustrated he wasn’t getting the looks he felt could make a difference in a close-run contest. In no uncertain body language and for all the world to see, Kelce pleaded his case to Reid that he wanted the ball. Although we’ll probably never know Kelce’s exact words to Coach Reid, some analysts have asserted that the eruption sparked an important turning point in the game.
Notwithstanding the protestations of enthusiasts who love to play or watch the game, football is not life, and life is not football. But we’ve all been in meetings when the hard thing that needs to happen emerges as not just obvious but inevitable.
“So, what’s it going to be?” invites the savvy supervisor, loathe to micromanage, slow to bail out her team, and dead determined not to have the last word.
Team members look not at her but evasively at the table top or out the window. Someone clears his throat only to say nothing. Crickets chirp. The elephant in the room is about to blow its horn. Still, like a Super Bowl countdown, time on the invisible clock ticks mercilessly away.
[Begin Irresistible Sidebar:
No offense to the profession, but the above scenario captures the absurdity of my favorite Lawyer Joke.
You’re jogging along the beach and you see out in the surf, fighting for his life, a lawyer about to drown. Do you, A) lie down and take a nap? or B) Go to the movies?
End Sidebar]
Those who want the ball are not showboats. Nor need they apologize false-modestly for what some might judge to be pride or unsuitable aggression. In my experience, it is the rare ‘tight end’ that craves glory. Quite the opposite. When anyone confident enough in their own skin to proceed in the direction of not just their own dreams but those of their team, they want the ball because they know what to do with it. They want the ball because, not vainly or somehow in competition with team members, they know from experience and wisdom they are in the best position to score. They want the ball because they are, above all else, team players. They know how teams are built and how they work and that if they don’t get the ball, the elephant will not just blow its horn; it will stampede roughshod over everything their team has worked tirelessly to build.
So, next time the elephant shows its invisible face, check out this playbook:
Managers: Throw Alan the ball.
Teams: Make sure he catches it and that you cheer him all the way.
Everyone: Whenever there is a ball, and you know legitimately you are the one to catch it, demand it be thrown in your direction.
This post is from a LinkedIn Newsletter called Human Changing. Subscribe on LinkedIn
