I built champions. Some of them still speak to me.
Thirty-two years. That’s how long I coached football at Jefferson High School in Millbrook, Ohio. I won 247 games. Lost 89. Exposed countless young men to the kind of discipline their fathers should have provided but didn’t. And I watched the participation trophy destroy everything I built, one plastic statue at a time.
My methods were simple. You fail, you run. You complain, you run more. You cry, you run until you stop crying. I made boys into men. Some of them thanked me later. One of them thanked me at a gas station in 2019—came right up and said “Coach Renfro, I think about you every day.” He was shaking a little when he said it. That’s respect.
The Participation Trophy Ruined Sports From The Inside
I remember when the rot set in. 1998. Youth league championship. The losing team’s parents demanded their kids get trophies too. “They tried so hard,” the parents said. I told them trying doesn’t matter if you lose. Several of them complained to the league about me, even though I wasn’t officially involved in youth ball. I was just observing. Loudly.
By 2005, half my incoming freshmen had never experienced real failure. They had shelves full of plastic garbage that meant nothing. So I taught them what losing felt like. I made them run until someone dropped. Then I made them run more so they’d know that dropping wasn’t the end. A few kids quit the team. A few parents called the school board. My first wife said I was “bringing it home with me.” She didn’t understand what was at stake.
My Best Player Proves My Point
Tommy Kendall, class of 2003. Best player I ever coached. Lost the state semifinal his junior year on a fumble he caused. I made him watch the film seventeen times. I made him run the play in practice until he got it right, which took most of the summer. His mother asked me to “ease up.” I told her champions aren’t built by easing up. Tommy didn’t fumble once his senior year. Went to Ohio State on a full ride.
I tried to call Tommy a few years back to see if he’d speak at our awards banquet. His wife said he was “unavailable.” I left three messages. I’m sure he’s just busy. Successful people often are. The point is: my methods worked. The fumble film worked. You can’t argue with a full ride to Ohio State.
The Retirement Banquet Said Everything
I retired in 2019. They threw me a dinner. Forty-three former players were invited. Eleven showed up. My second wife said that was “actually a pretty good turnout” which I think was her way of being supportive. The athletic director gave a speech about my “intensity” and “old-school approach.” He used the word “complicated” twice. I don’t know what that means.
You know what they gave the kids who went 0-10 that year? The same size plaque as mine. For “participation.” Thirty-two years of championships, same recognition as showing up. I pointed this out in my speech. The room got quiet. My second wife squeezed my arm, which usually means I should stop talking.
I still drive past the school sometimes. New coach has them doing yoga. Yoga. I’ve thought about stopping by to offer guidance, but the athletic director suggested I “give it some time.” That was three years ago. I’m sure he’s just busy too.
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Coach Dale Renfro is a retired high school football coach from Millbrook, Ohio. He won four regional championships and maintains detailed records of every player who hasn’t returned his calls. He is available for speaking engagements.
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