They Were Just Kids Playing for the Girl They Once Were

The bus ride home after the Gold Medal game was anything but quiet. The girls were blasting, singing, celebrating, full of pride. The sound filled every part of the dark space – with laughter, tunes and an unfiltered joy that didn’t ask for permission. As they should be, finishing second in the world is no joke.

I just sat there.

Not angry, ashamed, but still stuck in a moment in time.

Somewhere between tired and reflective.

Somewhere between pride and something that felt like a slipped opportunity.

I looked out into the distance – wondering why I appeared to be such a miserable bastard. Out on that court during the ceremony all I wanted to was go back to the locker room and get away from the noise. My body felt heavy, and like my ears were underwater so I could only hear about 25% of what was going on. Like I had missed the signal that the tournament was over.

They were glowing. I wasn’t there yet.

Not because I didn’t care, but because I did.

Maybe too much or maybe in the wrong direction.

I was happy for them, deeply. But I wasn’t with them yet. Not emotionally. Not fully. Their celebration highlighted a distance I hadn’t expected to feel.

I kept replaying moments in my head. Thinking of decisions that could’ve been made, potential risks we could’ve taken, potential mistakes that may have happened.

We were close. Close enough to wonder about what if. Close enough to wonder about 3-5 decisions that might have helped us shock the world.

And yet... here these innocent, euphoric girls were. Singing. Crying of laughter. At so much peace with the story that actually happened, not the one we almost wrote.

It was beautiful.

And it broke me a little.

Because they weren’t playing for the reward.

They were playing for the girl they used to be – the one who dreamed of wearing green and gold before she ever knew what a medal was.

Had I coached for those girls?

Or had I just been coaching for the reward at the end of the tunnel – who needed it to mean something. I don't think so, but I had to ask the question.

They reminded me it already did mean something.

Over the next 72 hours, I sat with that feeling for a while.

The distance between their celebration and my silence.

I continually wrote and asked – why didn’t I feel what they’re feeling?

Was it because we didn’t win?

Was it because we were that close?

Or was it something harder to name?

Maybe it was about how much I’d poured in without even realising.

Maybe it was about wearing a shield of composure.

Maybe I am more results driven than I realise.

Maybe I got caught up in the process so deeply, that when it actually stopped, I didn’t have a clue - how to smile, in the messiness of almost.

Beneath all that, a deeper question began to surface.

Do I even let myself feel joy?

Not that kind that is earned, but the kind that just is.  

I think that sat with me longer than the loss.

The realisation that I had protected myself from disappointment so well, maybe I had also blocked the joy.

Was I so focused on fulfilling my own identity of being steady, measured and helpful.

That when it ended I forgot to be fully present?

And it was a group of teenage girls, singing on a team bus, that showed me what I was missing.

Somewhere between getting off that bus, heading back to my room and an hour later – I somewhat let go. Not of the belief that we could’ve done more – but of the idea that pride had to wait for perfection. I saw them – wrapped in each other’s joy, holding that silver medal like it was the whole world but simultaneously irrelevant. It was so beautiful.

They weren’t carrying disappointment; they were carrying each other. That is what greatness looks like. Full hearted effort, connection. And the courage to be seen and still sing.

And in a few quiet moments, 72 hours later in a quiet coffee shop in Port Melbourne; I felt it too. Not loudly, not all at once – but enough.

Enough to know that this group, this journey created such a unique imprint on my own coaching.

Not because we won.

But because they reminded me what mattered most when we didn’t.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments in coaching don't come from winning.

But from sitting in that bittersweet space.

Where growth and grief hold hands.

And that might just be the best reward.