There are three coaches in my life who, without a doubt, were life changers. These individuals had such a profound impact on me that, as I reflect on my 60-plus years, I can identify how each of them shaped me into the confident and driven person I’ve strived to be. Two of these coaches, Joe Gossman and Mike Goebel, were long-term influences in my life. Coach Gossman, my high school wrestling coach, said something during one pivotal match that instantly changed my life for the better. Coach Goebel, another wrestling coach, repeatedly demonstrated why, in my opinion, he’s one of the best coaches not just in the state but beyond. I’ll share more about them later.

The third coach, however, was someone I knew only briefly. Yet, in just 20 minutes, he taught me a lesson that has impacted my life nearly every day since.

As a junior at Mater Dei High School during the 1976-77 school year, I was honored to be one of two students selected to represent our school at an event hosted by the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR). The DAR is a lineage-based organization for women descended from individuals involved in the United States’ fight for independence, promoting education and patriotism. This annual event was a prestigious occasion featuring a wonderful meal, the chance to meet proud descendants of patriots, and an inspiring speech from a local coach whose reputation preceded him.

The coach spoke with incredible passion about leadership, drawing on his experiences with his players and his love of the game. He reminded us that we could achieve any level of success we wanted—but only if we remembered one crucial thing: “You must take pride in who you are and what you do.” He emphasized working harder than your opponent and finding the resolve to push past self-imposed limits.

I listened intently, waiting for him to reveal how to achieve this mindset. Was there a trick or formula? Then he delivered a line that would stick with me forever:

“Pride is that which compels one to do their very best work… especially when no one is looking.”

As I absorbed those words, he elaborated on how his best athletes weren’t always the ones scoring the most points in front of the crowd. Instead, they were the ones who, after practice, stayed behind. When the gym was dark and everyone else had gone home, they turned the lights back on to keep working. Anyone could thrive in the thrill of the moment with an audience watching, but the ones who excelled were those who put in the quiet, unseen hours.

I grabbed a napkin and wrote down his words before they could slip away.

When he finished to resounding applause, I felt compelled to thank him. As the crowd began to disperse, I waited for my chance, then walked up and introduced myself: “Coach, my name is John Schroeder, and I wrestle at Mater Dei. What you said tonight really resonated with me, and I think it’s something I can use to better myself. Thank you.”

He shook my hand firmly, wished me well, and turned back to the others. I left the building that night clutching that napkin, grateful to have heard such an inspiring message.

When I got home, I told my parents about him. “This guy is going places,” I said, hoping to cross paths with him again someday. That night, I carefully transferred his words from the napkin to something more permanent and hung them under a Helen Keller poster my brother had put up in our room years earlier. The poster had its own inspiring quote: “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” Together, they created a wall of inspiration that I would turn to often.

Building Pride

As life returned to normal, I continued through high school. I played football, though as a small, 145-pound running back and linebacker, I knew I wasn’t catching the attention of college scouts. I loved the Friday night lights, the camaraderie, and the thrill of tackling opponents. Football talent did run in my family—my brother Jim played for Ball State, and a distant relative of ours, Bob Griese, was part of the 1972 Miami Dolphins team, the only perfect NFL team in history.

I continued to work hard at school, sports, and scouting, but I realized that wrestling was the area where I had the best chance to make a difference for my team and my school. It became clear to me that the lessons I learned in wrestling, combined with the words of wisdom from Coach Watson, were shaping not only my approach to athletics but also my approach to life. Every time I was alone, I felt a deep sense of pride in going the extra mile. Whether it was an act of kindness, choosing the moral and ethical path, or striving to be a leader amidst my peers’ more immature antics, I felt compelled to do my very best. My parents were my greatest role models, and making them proud motivated me every day.

As my senior year began, I knew it would likely be my last chance to take the sport I had competed in since second grade to its highest level. Mater Dei had only produced two state champions by 1978, and while becoming the third seemed like a daunting challenge, I believed I had a chance if I lived by the mantra on my bedroom wall: “Do your best work, especially when no one is looking.”

In wrestling, I learned that when two opponents were close in ability—similar in technique and records—the wrestler in better shape by the third period had the edge. Conditioning became paramount. I pushed myself through grueling practices that were physically and mentally punishing. Two-hour daily sessions included running, calisthenics, drills, and live wrestling. Wearing multiple layers of clothing under sweats to lose weight, we trained in “The Hole,” a room next to the school’s boiler system where temperatures often exceeded 100 degrees. Losing 4-6 pounds in a single practice wasn’t unusual. To this day, over 40 years later, those practices remain etched in my memory as the hardest thing I’ve ever endured.

But it wasn’t enough to complete the regular practices. Inspired by Coach Watson’s words, I began staying late, training alone in the dark for an additional 30 to 60 minutes. I’d run, drill, and push my body further, convinced that if I worked harder than anyone else, I would deserve to win. By the time I reached the middle of the season, I was undefeated, and the philosophy of pride was proving its worth.

Remembering Coach Watson

I often thought about Coach Watson and looked forward to the chance to tell him how much his words had influenced me. That opportunity, however, would never come.

On the night of December 13, 1977, I was at home typing a paper and listening to music when the radio abruptly cut out. An announcer came on with the chilling news: a plane had crashed at Evansville Regional Airport. Within hours, it was confirmed that the plane carried the University of Evansville basketball team. There were no survivors. Among the victims was the head coach, Bobby Watson—the man who had inspired me so profoundly just months earlier.

The news hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt numb. Coach Watson wasn’t just another figure in the community; he was someone who had touched my life with his words, and now he was gone. As I went downstairs to watch the unfolding coverage with my family, I couldn’t stop the tears. My parents, perhaps unaware of the connection I felt to him, didn’t say much, but I was overwhelmed by grief. The crash claimed the lives of 29 people, including Coach Watson, a local sportscaster, and many others whose loss reverberated across the community.

In the days and weeks that followed, the newspapers were filled with memorials and stories of the lives lost. The tragedy, known locally as the “Night of Tears,” became a defining moment in our city’s history. As the community mourned, I found myself clinging even more tightly to Coach Watson’s message. His words became a mantra that carried me through the grief: “Do your best work, especially when no one is looking.”

Every time I was alone, I sought ways to improve. Whether it was picking up litter to beautify a space, offering a smile to brighten someone’s day, or helping a classmate, I tried to embody the values he spoke of. On the wrestling mat, I worked harder than ever, determined to honor his legacy through my actions. Years later, those quiet moments of striving translated into other pursuits, like designing a unique backyard landscape—another tribute to the pride he instilled in me.

Coach Bobby Watson was a man who truly valued the extra efforts of an athlete. To honor his life, I resolved to be the very best I could be by simply giving a little more. Every takedown, every standup, and every pin that season felt a little easier because now, I was motivated by a coach from a different bench. This secret boost of adrenaline was mine alone, and I didn’t need to explain why my season was shaping up to be so much more successful than the ones before. After each victory, I would smile, look up, and think quietly to myself, “Thanks, Coach. That one’s for you.”

For years, I wondered if I would ever tell this story. Deep down, I knew the timing had to be right—when my life was in a position to honor him properly. I shared it first with a few close friends, seeking their advice on whether to share it more broadly. Today, I am telling you, and my greatest hope is that by sharing this story, these words that inspired me so many years ago might inspire you as well. If you take them to heart and share them with those around you, you can become a better person—a better spouse, parent, employee, leader, or friend.

“Always do your very best, especially when no one is looking.”

Finishing that wrestling season, I embarked on a competitive journey to the Indiana State Tournament in the 155-pound class. I was likely ranked in the top six or seven in the state. My only loss that year was to a junior from Bloomington High School who would go on to become a two-time state champion.

The day I’ll never forget was the semi-state competition. There, I faced both Jay Wiley and the top-ranked wrestler in the state, Greg Dooley from Perry Meridian. Greg’s name had been looming over me all season; if I wanted to make it to the state finals, I would have to go through him. Back in 1978, only the top two wrestlers from each semi-state advanced—there was no consolation bracket for the top four.

What happened next is a story for another day, but thanks to an incredible coaching moment from my head coach, Joe Gossman, I managed to defeat a wrestler who, if we met ten times, would likely beat me eight. That day, however, Coach Watson would have been proud. I stood on the podium a bit higher than both the #1 and #2 wrestlers in the state of Indiana.

One week later, in the championship finals of the Indiana State Wrestling Tournament, I found myself being ankle-picked—twice. (If you’re not familiar with wrestling, ask someone what an ankle pick is; they’ll explain how frustratingly effective it can be.) My dream of finishing my last match with my hand raised in victory, calmly shaking hands with my opponent and his coaches in total control, wasn’t meant to be. It remains one of my greatest lifetime regrets.

That day, I stood on the second-place podium, just to the right and a bit lower than a better wrestler, Jay Wiley of Bloomington North. For years, I struggled with the disappointment of falling short in that final match. But looking back now, I’ve finally come to grips with what that moment meant.

Second place was God’s and Coach Bobby Watson’s way of saying, “You’re not finished… yet.”

Thank you, Coach Watson. Your brief moment of inspiration gave me a lifetime of motivation. I now have the rest of my life to see how your words can help change many, many lives.