About the Author

My Story: The Long Way Around the Gym

I didn’t grow up dreaming of being an author.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d coach for decades, raise athletes, or spend years thinking about how parents fit into youth sports.

I just loved the game.

Actually—games. Any game. Any ball. Any chance to compete, to belong, to feel something click inside me that made sense in a world that often didn’t.

I was raised in the foothills of the Oregon Coast Range, in a place so small it didn’t even feel small—it just felt normal. Logging towns don’t teach you much about dreams. They teach you about work, grit, silence, and showing up whether you feel like it or not. My father worked hard. My mother worked harder. Time, money, and attention were always in short supply.

Sports, for me, arrived quietly. A radio broadcast. A black-and-white TV. A borrowed ball. And then one night—a free-throw contest that changed everything.

I was eight years old when I walked into a high school gym by myself. No parents. No instruction. No expectations. Just a small kid surrounded by noise, lights, and possibility. I missed fourteen straight shots. Then I made the last one.

I lost the contest.
But something won inside me.

That moment—the crowd, the sound, the feeling of being seen—became a compass. I didn’t know it then, but it would guide almost every major decision I made for the next forty years.

Learning Without Witnesses

My parents were good people. Loving people. But they weren’t present in the way kids today often experience. They didn’t see the practices. They didn’t hear the locker-room conversations. They didn’t know what scared me, motivated me, or shaped me.

And because of that, I learned early to carry things alone.

Sports became my language. My outlet. My teacher. I played everything—football, basketball, anything that let me test myself. Coaches noticed. Mentors appeared. Men like Mr. Dunaway and Mr. Jambura saw something in me and named it before I knew how to name it myself.

One question followed me through high school and beyond:

“When it’s your turn, how are you going to pay this back?”

I didn’t have an answer then. I just kept playing.

When My Parents Woke Up

Something shifted when I became successful enough to be visible. When I started. When my name showed up in the paper. When winning became real.

Suddenly, my journey became our journey.

If you’ve lived this as a player—or a parent—you know exactly what I mean.

Expectations crept in. Advice multiplied. Confidence became fragile. Support sometimes felt like pressure. And pressure, even when well-intended, changes everything.

I didn’t understand it then. I only understand it now—because I eventually became both the parent and the coach.

Coaching, Ego, and Getting It Wrong

I started coaching young. I loved teaching. I loved strategy. I loved winning—if I’m honest, maybe too much.

When I coached my son, I crossed lines I didn’t know existed. I thought instruction equaled love. I thought correction meant investment. What he needed was approval. Presence. Safety.

I didn’t give that well.

That failure still matters to me. It shaped how I coach. It shaped how I parent. And it shaped why I write.

By the time my daughter came along, I knew better. I chose not to coach her. I chose to put her in an environment where she could grow without carrying my shadow. That decision confused people. It upset some. It was right.

Why I Wrote Can I Play?

After years of coaching girls’ volleyball—after watching confidence rise and crumble, friendships form and fracture, parents hover and retreat—I realized something:

Players don’t need more instruction.
They need mirrors.

Can I Play? was never meant to teach volleyball. It was meant to let players see themselves—to recognize their doubts, hopes, fear, courage, and quiet resilience. Keli Stennes isn’t fictional to me. She’s every player I coached who wondered if they were enough.

The response surprised me. Players connected. Parents cried. Coaches told me it opened conversations they didn’t know how to start.

That told me the work wasn’t done.

Why I Wrote They Made the Team… Now What?

This book wasn’t born from success.
It was born from mistakes.

I’ve been the absent parent.
The over-involved parent.
The ego-driven coach.
The quiet observer.
The one who didn’t know when to speak—and the one who spoke too much.

Club sports don’t need more hype. They need perspective.

Parents aren’t failing because they care too much. They struggle because no one teaches them what their role actually is once the team is made. No one prepares them for the emotional shift, the power dynamics, the silence, the letting go.

This book isn’t answers. It’s awareness.

Faith, Legacy, and the Quiet Work

My faith matters to me. Not as a platform—but as a foundation. I believe spirit matters. I believe who our kids become matters more than what level they play. I believe success without peace is empty.

Today, I sit at a different place in life. I watch my children raise children. I see the game evolving. I see parents trying—earnestly—to do better than the generation before them.

That’s all we can do.

I write now to pay it back. To honor the mentors who saw me. To admit where I failed. To give parents' permission to slow down, reflect, and choose presence over control.

I don’t have all the answers.

But I’m still in the gym.
Still paying attention.
Still listening.

And if you’re reading this—so, are you.

If you have more questions, feel free to contact me direct! 239-710-2712 - John

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