COACH GULDEN
You might say that a good coach produces a winning team and improves your athletic skills. But a great coach changes your life forever.
For so many of us who ran, jumped or threw for him, Art Gulden will always be our coach. His influence is imprinted on our lives and on how we live our lives, whether we like it or not. And there were times, no doubt, when we did not like it.
Mine is just one story of hundreds, but I propose that it is a good example of both the power he unlocked in us and the evolution of an athlete.
During my first two years at school, I made friends, drank lots of beer and survived my classes as I always had - as a jack-of-all-traders and master of none. This was who I was, and who I figured I’d always be.
A master of none! Did it matter?
By my junior year, it started to matter. After dropping out of track my sophomore year, I had become curious about how good I could be. I also recognized the simple fact that our coach provided us with a choice. We could reach our potential if we listened and obeyed him, or we could skate along in the world of “masters of none.” For me, this crossroads was the ultimate presentation of a choice between excellence and mediocrity.
A year later, I was running times that I never thought were possible for me. But discipline was only the prerequisite to the second stage of my athletic education. Now that I had achieved acceptance, felt a part of the circle, a member of the team and a contributor to a string of championships, it was time for a life lesson of much greater importance.
I had anchored a two-mile relay and run two seconds faster than I had ever run in my life. Although I hadn;t won the race, I was secretly ecstatic that I had run as fast as I had, and I was fairly certain that our coach would bestow at least a grudging compliment for my performance.
But I was very much mistaken. He did more than scold me; he said I should have won the race. I was so shocked by his reaction, I didn’t even hear most of what he had to say. It took some time for it all to sink in, but after awhile, I realized the salient point of his lecture was I should have won the race. I had never considered this, but upon reflection - because when our coach talked to us, it generated hours of reflection - he was right. I had let the satisfaction be conscious and winning be unconscious, and so I had not won.
And that’s when I began to learn how to compete.
By my junior year, it started to matter. After dropping out of track my sophomore year, I had become curious about how good I could be. I also recognized the simple fact that our coach provided us with a choice. We could reach our potential if we listened and obeyed him, or we could skate along in the world of “masters of none.” For me, this crossroads was the ultimate presentation of a choice between excellence and mediocrity.
A year later, I was running times that I never thought were possible for me. But discipline was only the prerequisite to the second stage of my athletic education. Now that I had achieved acceptance, felt a part of the circle, a member of the team and a contributor to a string of championships, it was time for a life lesson of much greater importance.
I had anchored a two-mile relay and run two seconds faster than I had ever run in my life. Although I hadn;t won the race, I was secretly ecstatic that I had run as fast as I had, and I was fairly certain that our coach would bestow at least a grudging compliment for my performance.
But I was very much mistaken. He did more than scold me; he said I should have won the race. I was so shocked by his reaction, I didn’t even hear most of what he had to say. It took some time for it all to sink in, but after awhile, I realized the salient point of his lecture was I should have won the race. I had never considered this, but upon reflection - because when our coach talked to us, it generated hours of reflection - he was right. I had let the satisfaction be conscious and winning be unconscious, and so I had not won.
And that’s when I began to learn how to compete.
The preceding tribute was penned by Kevin Donovan ('83), originally published in the Bucknell World alumni magazine
