At 40 years old I can still recount the vivid details of the last inning of my last high school game--which we lost due to a grand slam over my head. Like the movie Hoosiers, that game on a remote field in Battle Ground, Indiana, was discussed for years, only with a "what if" ending. What if the pitcher hadn't hung his curve ball to a curve ball hitter? What if Pattengale had jumped a little higher at the fence (which I still think I could have)? What if Chip hadn't attempted his third stolen base? What if?

What did I learn from such a staggering defeat? Well, at least 10 lessons for this book--and how to help thousands of teens and collegians through the years to compete with excellence, to compete with character, and to chart a course to win on and off the field.

I often reminisce about my high school and college years. My coaches probably gathered that I wasn't destined for athletic greatness. I wonder though, how many of them thought that their decisions would influence me and so many others now working with kids--my own, my college students, the various Heads Up teams, and conference audiences. Perhaps to them it was simply a decision about the best stats, the perfect bunt situation, but I would like to think that my better coaches were interested in me as a person. My "whole-person" development not just the perfection of the "crow-hop" or the squeeze play.

Reflect with me on your involvement in sports. What are some of those noble wins and losses, personal triumphs, "magical moments," or recurring games that you keep replaying in your dreams.

I've watched friends compete at very high levels and walk away with silver and bronze Olympic medals--they considered themselves winners even when the world only celebrated the gold. I've golfed with a friend who shot a 34 in drizzling weather and considered it a noteworthy lesson because he had two senseless bogeys. I've coached in a state Senior League tourney and watched the ninth-batter take pride in his at-bats. I've sat with a college team that lost to Hank Gather's Loyola Marymount team, 163-138--we realized it was a noble loss (and a record point total for the NCAA).

I've watched a pretty good coach lose it in an important game and nearly run his index finger through my chest. I can still see his crooked bottom teeth, the sweat on his face, the hairy forearms. I've watched an all-star pitcher lose focus after surrendering a hit and then toss his mitt at an errant throw--which forfeited two bases and a run--a noteworthy lesson. I saw the same player make two brilliant plays at the plate, back to back, in a state tourney. I've seen kids withdraw from good teams because they've been demoted in the batting order due to their own hitting slumps. I've seen the smallest player on the team make the all-tournament team while perennial favorites watched from the bleachers.

Embarrassing moments-you bet! I've hit a 20-foot jump shot at the wrong end of the court in front of 3,000 high school fans. I've blown my shoulder out while lifting on television because my nervous spotter (a state champion) handed me the bar when I wasn't ready. I've been hit in the privates by an errant tee shot from an otherwise good athlete. I split my shorts while pole vaulting in college. I've been knocked out in front of a crowd by a 10-year old outfielder.

Every one of these events are vivid memories, well except for my time on the outfield grass with a bump on my head.

If I were an artist, I could paint you a picture of these moments. The Battle Ground snack bar, the tie-down bases, the wooden poles in the outfield, the catcher's gear, the banana-seat bicycle ride to the park, the mannerisms of Chip while he kicked the dirt and lured the pitcher to sleep, the treats after the loss. Twenty-five years later I can still time the ball from the bat and retrace my steps to the edge of my career as the grand-slam homer sailed by.

There are also those heroic moments. I've watched a lifting partner survive a torn bicep and go on to win the Police Olympics with a 720-lb. dead lift and a 680-lb. squat at 60 years old! I've watched Steve Stone run for miles after surviving cancer. My 10-year-old son's baseball career nearly ended when he was struck in the knee by a brilliant 12-year old pitcher. I watched him hit a homer during his first at-bat after the injury.

And what about those emotional moments. I've cried tears of joy while Adam got his first hit at age 11 in a Challenge League game. I've carried little Jaymie around the bases in the same game--and felt like Robin Williams in the soccer scene in Dead Poets Society.

I've watched Jack Brady spend hours with kids in wheelchairs and then we all benefited from their smiles when they got legitimate hits in a scheduled game. They, too, had learned to compete with character.

My journey, like yours, is special--but mainly for me. I've seen things from a perspective unique to myself. If my times at the ball diamonds were only fun times, only occasions for me to laugh, they still would have some meaning. But they are pregnant with so much more than smiles--they have berthed miles of meaningful lessons for this student of the '70s.

It's fun to win games, fun to see the joy on kids' faces as they hold up trophies. It's also heart wrenching to watch kids walk away defeated, especially if they have a misguided coach who puts winning first. The most important playing field is not between the first and third base lines. When the hundreds of thousands of ball players step outside those lines for the last time every one of us coaches and parents need to ask what we contributed to the next part of their journeys.

It's a journey where sponsors no longer pay for jerseys, where people no longer drive you to various cities to play a game. Life after the diamond doesn't have a clear set of rules. Some of us use the Bible as our guidebook, but many others will use questionable means to make personal gains. And we, ourselves, will be challenged and stretched, tempted and tossed about. There are few trophies after childhood games. Few awards days.

My memories of sports, coupled with my growth as Christian, have taught me some valuable lessons.

I need to be intrinsically motivated, not just extrinsically challenged.

We should do things for their intrinsic value--because they are inherently good. To comfort a friend in distress is not a step toward a trophy. But just like those days of comforting buddies on the bench, it's the right thing to do. Helping a neighbor with homework doesn't seem to help us toward greatness, but just like the starting catcher who gives tips to the rookie, it's the right thing to do.

Bad character will be revealed, but good character will stand the test of time.

Coaches and players spend a lot of time together, and before long, their true character shows. Players and coaches who try to make an impression, that's the impression they make. Good character traits will help him or her to become a leader in the community and will far surpass one's batting average.

Dying people don't ask for trophies.

When people near death, they might reflect often on special sports memories, but you don't see them clutching trophies. They don't ask to see a trophy store manager during their final hours but their pastor and relatives. I've never heard of a will being disputed over a trophy.

No, it's the lessons learned to and from the trophy stand that were most important in the journey through life. Usually, you'll find pictures, cards, and special reminders of special people with someone facing life's final hour.

I cheered for my sons' home runs this year, and winced when they struck out. However, I was most interested in their reaction to winning and losing, and with the lessons they learned in the process.

And the things you have heard me say in the presence of many witnesses entrust to reliable men who will also be qualified to teach others. 2 Timothy 2:2