What Makes a Team Special?

I might be biased, but my high school basketball teams were special. Not every moment, of course, and not the moments you might expect, but there was something about my experience that was unforgettable.

Sometimes when I reflect on my glory days I think of our team’s greatest moments - buzzer-beater wins over our rivals, cutting nets down after winning region championships, and a triple overtime defeat in the State Championship. Those moments were exhilarating at the time, but they land differently today. There’s something else that tugs on my heart as I look back at those teams, and despite a desperate search, I cannot find it in these memories. There’s a feeling I can’t quite put into words.

Those memories often linked to newspaper clippings and old trophies fail to capture what it felt like to be us.

I grew up in South Carolina, and for those who have never had the pleasure of summer conditioning in the south, let’s just say it’s not easy. I can still feel my t-shirt cling to my chest during summer practices in our high school gym—no air conditioning made those workouts brutal. Our team was shaped by this shared hardship, a trial we endured together, but it was not where we truly bonded. That happened later, in an empty parking lot outside the gym, sitting on the tailgate of a Chevy Blazer owned by my teammate Ian Roof.

Ian’s Blazer was literally and figuratively our vehicle to becoming us. I don’t know what the maximum occupancy was in that beast, but I am certain we exceeded it more times than I can count on our way to Bojangles for breakfast after 6am practices or after school. Whenever someone needed a ride, Ian and his Blazer were there. We drove hundreds of miles together on our way to nowhere, just roaming around town.

Sometimes, the Blazer was the destination - tailgate down, Ian’s legs swinging from the back, a welcoming smile waiting for everyone no matter their role or status on the team. Looking back, it was Ian who was most responsible for what it felt like to be us. The Blazer was a place that felt like home to everyone - even those who didn’t know what home was supposed to feel like.

Ian wasn’t a great basketball player, and he would be the first one to admit it. But he was the glue that held us together. His self-deprecating humor and  knack for making everyone feel included changed the way you felt about yourself whenever he was around. When Ian graduated, our team was never quite the same.

In The Captain Class, Sam Walker argues that what separates the good teams from the great ones isn’t the presence of a Hall of Fame coach, or once-in-a-generation talent. Great teams have a locker room leader like Ian who lifts others up first, foremost, and always.

That leader not only shows the way, but makes the way okay. They don’t just model behavior, they embody the team identity. They demonstrate what it means to be us.

Ian did that in so many ways. He was relentlessly optimistic - never getting too high or too low. He always saw the best in me, even when it was obscured by my own ego and pride. He connected with everyone regardless of their role, status, or ability. Everyone thought they were Ian’s best friend on the team. That’s just the way he was.

Every special team has a leader like that—and a space where the leader invites others to feel what it means to be us.

When I won three Shamrock Bowls in Ireland with the UL Vikings, it was leaders like Liam Ryan, and that space was found in the team houses. Those rundown homes weren’t much to look at. They made the Delta Tau Chi fraternity in Animal House look luxurious. But it wasn’t the house that mattered, it was the way you felt walking in. Everyone was welcome. Everyone was equal. Everyone mattered.

Ask any coach about their favorite team, and you will no doubt discover the story of a captain and a space. College apartments, dorm room lounges, postgame meals at the local hangout, family basements… the actual space could be anywhere. This is where so many miss the point - it’s not the creation of a physical space - it’s the feeling one has inside those walls that makes all the difference.

Companies are spending millions on the creation of space - pool tables, gourmet meals, nap pods, and game rooms - all designed to chase a feeling only a leader like Ian can create.

There is intense competition among universities to build the best, state-of-the-art athletic facilities. I saw this firsthand at the University of Texas not long ago - underwater treadmills, sleep pods, recovery pools, gaming lounges, endless healthy snacks. It was jaw-dropping, and it felt nothing like the back of that Chevy Blazer.

Athletes are craving a place to truly belong, a space to arrive just as they are. No judgment. No pretense. No need to hide. Simply a place where I can be me, you can be you, and we all belong just the same.

While all of these fancy amenities would have been nice to have growing up in South Carolina, I wouldn’t trade any of it for that Chevy Blazer and the leader that gave us the space to be.

The Legacy of a Leader

When I coach athletes—Olympians, pros, college players—I often ask them: How do you want to be remembered?

Their answers are always the same. It’s never about stats, titles, medals, or money. They want to make an impact on those around them. But how?

Too often the examples that we celebrate are superficial speeches like Ray Lewis firing up the Ravens’ defense, or Tom Brady extolling the Patriots’ offense. We see the clips of Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant holding their teammates ruthlessly accountable to their standards in practice - yet fail to recognize how they alienated those around them for the sake of glory.

At the end of the day, every athlete I have worked with wants to be remembered as someone who was loved, and who loved well. They may not use those exact words, but that is the impact they long to have.

In reality, most fall short, not because they don’t care, but because they don’t realize the power of simple moments. That love manifested in all the little things Ian did for each of us. He was a master at knowing what to say, how to say it, when you needed to hear it the most.

I will always remember his scrappy play, his welcoming spirit, his ability to talk to me when I got into my own head. I still use to this day some of his funny sayings. He just had a way of making you feel like you belonged, and anytime you were around Ian, you did.

Ian Roof knew how to lead, and how to love.

On January 25, 2023, Ian passed away after suffering a series of massive strokes. Over 500 people lined up outside the church and down the street for his funeral. Hundreds gathered at his parents’ home late into the night to celebrate a life well lived. A year later, he was inducted into our high school’s Hall of Fame as the best teammate to ever walk the halls of Cardinal Newman High School.

As I reflect back on those old memories, I realize I am more interested to remember what it felt like to be us.

One thing became abundantly clear as I reflect on the many stories I heard about Ian’s life. His future teammates in the MRI room at the hospital, or at a Gamecock tailgate, or in the living room of his home, all had the same experience we did on our basketball team. Every space he inhabited felt like home. He made people feel like they belonged.

Maya Angelou famously said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget  how you made them feel.” 

Ian made people feel like they mattered. And in the end, that’s what makes a team—and a life—truly special.