The Art of Coaching
by Steve McGill

I would argue that any endeavor, at its highest form, is an art form. That’s why I’ve always said that hurdling is an art form before it is a race. Mastering the art form comes first; results follow without the need to chase for them. Coaching, too, is an art form. No matter how much knowledge a coach has acquired over the years, there is always the need to be present in the moment. Knowledge gained in the past might not always be helpful in the here and now. What worked with one athlete might not work with this athlete. A standard go-to workout might not be the workout that this particular athlete needs to improve. Being a good coach means constantly putting your ego aside, starting from a position of “I don’t know anything,” and then putting together a game plan to facilitate a particular athlete’s development.

The art of coaching, when it comes to track and field, and particularly when it comes to coaching hurdlers, involves coaching the individual. It involves coaching the whole person. Usually, when I start with a new athlete, they found me through my website or word of mouth or maybe through my YouTube channel or Instagram page. So, they contact me with some awareness of my background and credentials. But when we meet, I never bring those up. As I said to one athlete a while ago, “The fact that I coached Keni Harrison isn’t helping you any.” Meaning, the fact that I can put my name to a well-known athlete doesn’t in and of itself guarantee anything. Keni was an exceptional athlete with an exceptional mindset. There’s a reason why athletes like her are so rare. The fact that I coached her gives me credibility, but she was an individual whom I coached as an individual. 

Back in 2007 I was coaching three hurdlers who went on to become the #1 ranked high hurdler in the nation their senior year — Johnny Dutch, who was a senior that year, Booker Nunley, who was a junior, and Wayne Davis, who was a sophomore. Johnny was a laid-back guy who didn’t let anything faze him. Wayne loved to make a competition out of everything, and Booker was eager to get caught up because he came to our training group late in his high school career. 

With Johnny I did a lot of experimenting. He had a curious, inquisitive mind, and back then I didn’t have any set principles in terms of hurdling styles I preferred, so we experimented with styles. And to this day he’s the only hurdler I’ve ever coached who could mimic professional hurdlers’ styles. We’d be like, “Do Allen Johnson,” and he’d go over a hurdler looking exactly like Allen Johnson. “Do Terrence Trammell.” Same thing. “Do Liu Xiang.” Same thing. He had us dying laughing. But the serious part of it was, because he was so in tune with his body in that regard, I pretty much let him develop his own style. 

Wayne loved to compete. Every drill, he wanted me to time it. I personally don’t like competing in practice unless we’re specifically doing a race-prep workout. But Wayne loved the challenge of trying to reach a personal best even in drills. This motivated him and kept him sharp. So with him I converted standard workouts into competitions, and it actually had the effect of making practice a lot of fun. I had about eight hurdlers in the training group at the time, and they all enjoyed trying to best each other in the drills.

With Booker, he came to our group at a time when Wayne and Johnny had been training with us for 5-7 years, so he had a lot of catching up to do. He hurdled with a lead leg that locked at the knee, which is a no-no for me. But he was so quick and snappy with it that I ended up leaving him alone, and he had a lot of success with that style.

So with all three hurdlers discussed above, there came a point where I relinquished control and allowed that was natural within them to flourish. To me, that’s a key element of the art of coaching — knowing when to get out of the way, knowing how to avoid over-coaching, trusting the athletes to find their own way once you’ve established the foundation and provided them with inspiration to embark on a personal journey.

That’s what always happens when you realize that coaching well means knowing when to be silent as much as it means knowing when to speak up and take control. With Ayden Thompson, who just graduated and is now in his first year at Belmont Abbey College, I started with him the summer after his sophomore year. Back then, practices were all about me providing instruction and feedback. Gradually, he got to a point where he could feel and identify mistakes before I even said anything. By the end, he got to a point where he could feel mistakes that I wasn’t even seeing. One day he was having some trouble with his 7-step start, and I couldn’t figure out why. Then he figured it out: his back foot wasn’t on the pedal firmly, so he wasn’t getting any push off that foot out of the blocks. Hence, he was taking off too far away. He made that adjustment, and the problem was solved.

The irony here is that even though I wasn’t the one who identified the problem, that example serves better than any other example of what the art of coaching is all about. It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about freeing the athletes to think independently, so that the relationship becomes more of a partnership. Once a deep trust is established between coach and athlete, there are no limits to the athlete’s potential. 

Back in 2003 I was coaching a kid named Joe Coe who didn’t like the quickstep workout. Like, really? That was my favorite workout, and I had used it a ton the year before in helping another athlete, Cameron Akers, to become my first-ever national caliber hurdler. Joe didn’t like it. Too many reps, not enough rest. Yeah, that’s the whole point, Joe. But Joe was a safety on the football team. He liked short full-speed bursts, not this endurance hurdling stuff. Finally I switched things up with him. We’d go over the first three hurdles full speed, out the blocks. The first four, the first five. He loved those workouts. And it ended up giving us what the quickstep workout would’ve given us, just in a different way. Again, the art of coaching is the art of coaching the individual. 

Finally, one of the most important roles a coach plays is that of an emotional support. Self-doubt is a very real thing in track and field. Confidence levels can fluctuate through the course of a season, and even in the course of a single workout. As I said to one of my athletes not too long ago, “You might not always have your best day, but you can always give your best effort.” With some athletes, when they’re in their feelings, they need a quick, “Come on, let’s go!” to snap out of it. Others might need to be pulled aside and given a pep talk. Others might need to vent about something that has nothing to do with track but is affecting their performance on the track; in that case, my role is to listen, and, if asked for it, to give advice.