Leaders of Many: Alternative Models of Coaching a Just Future

COVID-19 has allowed many to see behind the curtain of sports. It spotlighted a sporting culture that put the health of players as secondary at best; it spotlighted a culture where profits and market were the only compass, where primarily Black athletes generated obscene amounts of money to benefit so many others. It revealed the gross gender inequities. It also revealed the importance of sports in their absence as well the power that athletes could wield in ushering change inside and outside of the sporting arena. While 2020 told a lot about all sports, it was especially revealing within the collegiate realm.

While commonplace to discuss the ways that these unpaid student laborers pay for the athletic experiences and scholarships for primarily White students competing in swimming, soccer, and other nonrevenue sports, it is less common to lament how this money goes into the pocket of the so-called leaders of college sports, those otherwise known as coaches. “The prevailing model rests on taking the money generated by athletes who are more likely to be Black and come from low-income neighborhoods and transferring it to sports played by athletes who are more likely to be white and from higher-income neighborhoods,” writes Craig Garthwaite and Matthew J. Notowidigdo in “The COVID-19 pandemic is revealing the regressive business model of college sports.” Highlighting what the transfer of wealth to coaches reveals about the nature of collegiate sports, they further note, “The money is also transferred to coaches and used for the construction of lavish (and perhaps overly lavish) athletic facilities. With COVID-19 shutting off the money spigot, schools are being forced to publicly acknowledge that their athletic departments depend on regressively transferring money from athletes who grew up poor to those who grew up in richer households and to wealthy coaches” (2020).

In the face of lost income because of game cancellations, empty stadiums, and a pause in advertisement dollars, it was coaches who needed to take temporary pay cuts; it was coaches who were furloughed; it was the fifth offensive line coach and the seventh quality and control QB coach that would be given a pink slip. While difficult and sad for those involved, the fact that budget cuts would take place within the coaching ranks is reflective of the economics of collegiate sports. The money, the spoils of an exploitative and abusive system, is with the coaches. No matter the hegemony of narratives that elevate those coaches to role models, leaders, sources of discipline, father figures, or any number of cliches that seemingly justify their excessive paychecks, coaches were not immune from the financial troubles resulting from COVID-19.

The explosion of NIL (Name, Image, and Likeness) deals for some student-athletes, shielding universities from rightly compensating those who generate billions for others, has further amplified the fact that primarily Black collegiate athletes are laboring, on the field, in communities, and on Instagram, to the benefit of multimillion-dollar coaches. Similarly, the expressed outrage from coaches of how NIL monies or new transfer rules are ruining collegiate sports (i.e., messing with their pockets and making their futures less clear) further illustrates that the charade of “leaders” and “teachers” who are modeling young people into adults is just that, a mythological narrative that seeks to preserve the economic, cultural, and social power of America's coaches.

Evident in the pieces within this special issue, coaches are a window into the economic and racially exploitative nature of college sports. Their place within broader narratives and frameworks is equally reflective of the ways that race and gender shape the sporting fields. In hiring practices, media coverage, and the widespread discourse surrounding coaches, we can see the ways that whiteness and maleness shape the ways we define and see intelligence, leadership, perseverance, and toughness—the qualities said to be essential for coaching. Each of the authors within this special issue demonstrates the ways that race and gender shape the coaching ranks. To be a coach is to be seen as smart in part because of the ways that White men occupy this position. To succeed as a coach requires intelligence and given the ways that whiteness and maleness are associated with notions of intellect, it is no wonder that White men have long been able to dominate the coaching ranks (Leonard, 2017).

In a similar vein, we can see the ways that race and gender shape who is seen as a leader and how leadership is defined. White men are seen as “natural leaders.” Because of their intelligence, courage, level-headedness, and selflessness, White men remain the most, it not only, legible (Neal, 2013) inscription of leadership. The only one legible as a natural leader shapes opportunities all while empowering White men in sports to be vocal, to be political, to lament NIL or the increased power of 18-year-olds, and to otherwise leverage their immense platform across the political spectrum. In other words, to be a White male football coach is to be anointed and celebrated with narratives about leadership, wisdom, and intelligence.

Football has long been a space where coaches use their power, visibility, and presumed leadership to participate in politics, in critical discussions, and in addressing social issues. Unburdened by narratives of “shut up and coach” or that panics about how their activities will “divide the locker room” or be a “distraction,” football coaches have long used their position to stifle dissent, to thwart change. The 1960s saw countless examples of football coaches coming out against the racial justice movement. In their rhetoric and in their efforts to discipline and punish Black athletes engaging in resistance, the football coach has long been an agent of politics. Coaches have long been an instrument of power and hegemony, immune from criticism directed at (Black) players. While nothing new, the recent examples are endless: Mike Leach supporting Donald Trump (Schrotenboer, 2016) opposing Colin Kaepernick (Axson, 2017) or others protesting during the national anthem; Mike Gundy's embrace of OAN (Allen, 2020) (following protest, he would ultimately disavow the news organization); Nick Rolovich's refusal to get the COVID-19 vaccine or answer questions as to how such a decision isn’t an abdication of his job as not only a leader but someone who is empowered to protect, nurture, and guide a group of individuals to put aside their own desires for the good of the team (Seattle Times Editorial Board, 2021); Kelly Loeffler, then franchise owner of the Atlanta Dream, whose reactionary politics compelled her team to endorse her opponent (Zirin, 2021), or countless others who have not only undermined struggles for justice, offered political commentary, but punished, surveilled, and disciplined those who sought to work for change.

While public pronouncements that “All Lives Matter” or endorsements of political candidates or political positions elicit media coverage, the ultimate marker of the privileges afforded White male football coaches and their cashed-in politics rests with their silence. To be a coach is to be silent on athlete protests, whether those protests focus on the harmful consequences of playing football (concussions; COVID-19), or the exploitative nature of collegiate sports (#NotNCAAProperty; NIL battles; various lawsuits). To be a White male coach is to be silent about sexism, whether that is the abuse directed at women reports, or in the scapegoating of Title IX or rape culture within collegiate football and broader campus culture. The culture of football is one where the privilege and power rest with the affirmation of White male hegemony.

The politics exhibited by many football coaches both in the professional and collegiate ranks continue to be in the furtherance of the status quo, in the furtherance of anti-intellectualism, repressive politics, racism, sexism, and fascism. Coaches have always been instrumental in preserving inequity within and beyond the football field.

At the same time, recent years have also seen a slight shift in the role of coaches, with several coaches (most outside of football) publicly supporting player involvement with protests following the killing of George Floyd, and few others joining the protests. Still, football remains a space that gives legitimacy to the status quo inside and outside of the arena. While NBA coaches have continued their platform in the name of justice, receiving praise for their activism (Becker, 2020; Bianchi, 2020; Clark, 2021; Friedell, 2020; Letourneau, 2020; Media, 2021; Spears, 2016; Wise, 2017; Zirin, 2020), it has been Black women coaches, and White women coaches, in both the WNBA and the collegiate ranks, that have embraced the role of speaking truth to power. They have embodied what it means to lead on and off the court, using their platforms to stand on the right side of history, and in doing so reimagining the role of the athlete in the twenty-first century.

Coaches = Leaders, Activists, and Organizers

Just as Black women have been at the forefront of struggles for justice, from the civil rights movement to Black Lives Matter, Black women have also leveraged the platforms afforded to them as coaches. While easy to see the connective tissue between coach and power, privilege, whiteness, maleness, and the replication of hegemonic norms and values, we must not lose sight of the ways that Black women coaches, and women coaches in general, have not only challenged glass ceilings within their ranks, but demonstrated the potential and possibilities of coaches as agents of change. Dawn Staley, basketball coach at the University of South Carolina, has consistently embraced the role of leader, teacher, and truth-teller, all alongside her job as orchestrator of wins and championships (Gamble, 2020). Through her actions, she has not only leveraged her platform and microphone to spotlight injustice within and beyond the sporting arenas, but modeled what leadership, allyship, and activism can look like for student-athletes, coaches, fellow educators, and fans alike. For example, in 2020 alone, Staley raised concerns about voter suppression, about the continued dearth of Black women in the coaching ranks, about systemic violence directed at Asian American communities, and about police brutality. According to Lindsey Schnell, “Staley refuses to lose sight of her job as a ‘dream merchant’ — for other Black women coaching right now, and for the next generation of Black leaders in basketball and beyond” (2021). Two moments from Staley's recent history further illustrate that the story of athlete resistance and activism is equally a story of coaches, of courageous coaching and leadership coaches. As much as the current revolt has been led by the likes of Colin Kaepernick and Natasha Cloud, Lebron James and Naomi Osaka, Layshia Clarendon and Stephen Curry, Serena Williams, and countless other lesser-known high school, collegiate, and professional athletes, it has been a moment where Staley and a few others have led.

In the aftermath of the killing of George Floyd, Staley (2020) penned a piece in The Player's Tribune. While recounting her own family's story, while giving voice to the righteous anger that fuels the Black Lives Matter movement, and while calling on people to vote, Staley used this piece to speak on her role as coach, one that transcends Xs and Os.

I’m not afraid to be speaking out. I’m a black woman first. I coach young black people. I coach young white people, as well. But this is on my heart. It's heavy on my heart. …

I feel like I have to do something to save the next person.

There are a lot of allies out there. But there are too many white people who still don’t get it. Honestly, they don’t know. They can’t relate. There are some great people in this world that really sympathize with what's going on. And then there are all the other people….

They won’t get it, no matter how many black bodies they see under the knees of the police.

When you are privileged — when you are the privileged race, you don’t have to think about what we think about daily.

You just see the world through your own eyes. And it's a lot different than it is through a black person's eyes. A lot different. Say what you wanna say, but it's a lot different. I’m talking to you as somebody that has been very successful in my profession. I’ve made a lot of money in my profession. My individual situation does not compare to what's going on in the real world. But that doesn’t put blinders on my eyes.

That's why I have to constantly ask myself: Am I doing right by our players?

Are they learning? Are they understanding? Are they being equipped to navigate the world as a black woman in our society?

By acknowledging the differences within her team, Staley refuses the cliched trope of the team that demands homogeneity, suspension of individualism, and the erasure of a player's humanity and experiences. At the same time, she defines her role as a coach to be facilitator, teacher, and truth-teller. This would not be the only moment where Staley would make clear that speaking up and speaking out were central to her job description and broader purpose.

During 2021 March Madness, the immense disparities between the men's and women's tournaments were on full display (Blinder, 2021). After players highlighted the nonexistent weight room afforded to the women in comparison to their male counterparts; and after players highlighted the different food options, “swag,” and overall treatment from the NCAA and their media partners, the gendered reality that women athletes knew all-too-well was on full display to the broader public. In the face of current and former players speaking their truth, highlighting systemic inequities within the NCAA, Staley used her position to advocate on behalf of her players and others. “What we now know is the NCAA's season long message about ‘togetherness’ and ‘equality’ was about convenience and a soundbite for the moment created after the murder of George Floyd.” Highlighting their hypocrisy and the role NCAA's perpetuation of injustice, Staley concluded, “Women's basketball is a popular sport whose stock and presence continues to rise on a global level. It is sad that the NCAA is not willing to recognize and invest in our growth despite its claims of togetherness and equality. … (It is) time for the NCAA leadership to reevaluate the value they place on women” (Brehm, 2021). What is striking is not just her leveraging her platform, her speaking truth-to-power, or her advocating on behalf of players, but rather how she sees coaching as an opportunity to lead and educate, to facilitate critical conversations within and beyond the locker room.

Unlike so many other people, businesses, and universities that have done a 180 in less than 4 years, refusing even the performative, Staley has shown what true leadership looks like across multiple years and issues. In response to anti-Trans legislation and the panics surrounding “trans athletes destroying” college sports, Staley responded to question a question about whether “‘biological males’ should be able to play women's sports” was clear and without reservation: “I’m of the opinion of, if you’re a woman, you should play. If you consider yourself a woman and you want to play sports or vice versa, you should be able to play. That's my opinion. You want me to go deeper?” (Zirin, 2024). She also joined 10 current and former athletes (only 1 other coach, Steve Kerr) as co-chair of “Athletes for Kamala Harris” (Nivision, 2024). Leading her team to national champion, which is always about guiding her team toward a larger calling, and leading society toward justice are central to her purpose.

Staley is not alone in demonstrating the power and potential of coaches as teachers, leaders, and truth-tellers. After members of the Tennessee “Lady Volunteers” kneeled during the National anthem in the aftermath of the 2021 attempted insurrection at the United States capital. Coach Kellie Harper, who is white, expressed ample support for these student-athletes, noting the team environment, which not only fostered conversations but encouraged action. “We were educating each other, ourselves, staff players, our Black players, our white players, our international players – everybody was educated this summer, and we shared a lot,” noted Harper. “And it was good for us, because it gave us a really good understanding of the person sitting next to you – where she's coming from, and what her background is. Those discussions were really good. They were difficult at times, but that's OK.” Making clear that it was bigger than basketball and that her role was more than inbound plays and defensive schemes, Harper made clear that their goals transcended titles. “We can help be the change, maybe a positive light” (Voepel, 2021).

Such leadership and a willingness to speak to truth power are not limited to collegiate sports, as WNBA coaches have also been at the forefront of using their power, visibility, and role as leaders to address inequalities within and beyond the sporting arena. Cheryl Reeve, Minnesota Lynx coach and president of basketball operations, has not only been outspoken in her support of players using their voices and otherwise participating in the struggle for Black lives but has also encouraged them to be agents of change (Barnes, 2021). In these statements of support, she has contested the orthodoxy of “shut up and play,” challenging the racist and sexist demonization that shapes so many narratives. “Black people are not here just for your entertainment,” noted Reeve. “Maybe white owners that have a hard time with a player kneeling … maybe if you don’t have us at all, maybe if it really hits you where it hurts, you’ll listen. But isn’t that sad? That might be the only way that you make progress is if the billionaires don’t make their billions off of Black athletes” (Davidson, 2020).

Such leadership is commonplace within women's sports, especially in comparison to the silence and complicity that define the culture of football coaches. Such leadership and embrace of this important role must be seen as we look at the heightened involvement of NBA coaches in struggles for social justice. To only talk about Steve Kerr and Gregg Popovich, or Doc Rivers and David Fizdale, as examples of activists coaches ignore the longstanding work of countless women who have challenged the sexism within sports all while leveraging their institutional place to challenge injustices outside the sporting realm.

The work of Staley, Harper, and others also demonstrates that when looking for examples of coaches who are leading, that are speaking truth to power, that are leveraging their platforms, and otherwise embodying the mantra “more than a coach,” we don’t have to look very far. Sure, basketball is distinct in several ways compared to football, yet the similarities are more than we realize. Each remains a White world.

While we want to attribute the outspokenness, the activism, and the leadership to the diversity of basketball coaches (Rhoden, 2019), especially in comparison to football, the numbers tell a very different story. In 2021 only 13 of the 176 “Autonomy Five” head coaches in men's collegiate basketball were black (Mason, 2021).

For women, the story is not much different, although six out of the 14 coaches in the SEC are Black women (Backus, 2021). The successes of Vivian Stringer and Dawn Staley are not indicative of change as “Black head coaches in college hoops [remain as] rare as unicorns” (Hallman, 2020). Of the 64 teams participating in the March Madness, only eight were led by Black women (Schnell, 2021). Writing in 2019, Bill Rhoden noted that every March brings a clear reminder about the state of college basketball:

The other customary sight is that most of the players’ coaches are white and male. This is a curious and underdiscussed aspect of big-time, revenue-producing college basketball.

The pool of playing talent has remained black while the coaching pool has stubbornly remained predominantly white.

How does this happen? African Americans have dominated play at the highest collegiate levels of basketball for three decades. You would think this would have created a rich talent pool that produced Power 5 head coaches.

It has not (2019).

While there have been increases since 2021, with over 20 Black coaches among the “big 6 conference” in men's basketball (SEC, Big 10, Pac 12, Big 12, ACC, and Big East) as of 2024 (Rhoden, 2024) and less than 15 (as of 2022) in women's basketball (Feinberg, 2022), this group has also brought a different level of politics, especially within the men's game. “The Black coaching bench seemed deeper in the past, but perhaps that was because Thompson, John Chaney at Temple, Nolan Richardson at Arkansas and George Raveling at Iowa and later USC, had such huge personalities and were loud advocates for young Black coaches,” writes Bill Rhoden in Andscape (2024). “Today's generations of Black coaches in men's basketball have depth but do not have as much potential to force change. The environment has changed dramatically since Thompson, Richardson and Chaney. The nation has seen the election of a Black president and has also seen the backlash to Obama's eight years in office. We are in the throes of a conservative shift in the country, with diversity, equity and inclusion being attacked”

Basketball, like football, like the rest of higher education, and America's other institutions, remain dominated by White men. Sports, especially football, not only embody dominant ideologies but are a protector of them. As evident throughout this special issue, to look at the place and narratives surrounding coaches is to understand sports, to understand the economics, the racial and gendered landscape, the politics, and even the potential of sports.

We can also look to sports to find new models of leadership, organizing, and truth-telling. To look inside sports is to see a new paradigm for coaching, one where coaches refuse to speak for power, standing on the side of the marginalized and the silenced, the disenfranchised and the left behind. To be a coach should mean to be an accomplice; a facilitator; an organizer, one who stands alongside their players and fights so that they and we can fulfill our greatness. So many coaches of women's basketball are showing a different approach, giving hope where little can be found among the “leaders of men.”

As America's sports media celebrates the courage of Brian Flores; as others situate his efforts within a larger history of struggle, let us not forget the countless number of Black women coaches who have refused a culture of sexism, racism, and homophobia, who have fought glass ceiling and color lines, and who have used their own power, voices, and courage to speak out and fight against injustice within and beyond the playing fields. Flores not only stands on the shoulders of Art Shell and Johnnie Cochran, but builds on “the heritage” (Bryant, 2018), which in recent years has been exhibited by Black women basketball coaches as they fight to make Black Lives matter on the court, in the structures of sports, and within a nation that where the dream of justice, of a fair shot at a job, or simply living free from state violence, remains illusive.