Patty Gasso: Creating Leaders On and Off the Field

I slid into a booth at IHOP across from a backup freshman pitcher for the Oklahoma Sooners. I leaned across the table. “Tell me what’s going on in your life outside of softball,” I said.

The player seemed startled. “Am I in trouble, Coach?”

“Gosh, no.” I got why she was nervous, though. A Division I college head coach taking a freshman athlete out for breakfast?

“I want to get to know you as a person, not just a player,” I said. Then I sat back and told her about my dogs—“One’s named Una and the other Dos”— and their many antics. Dogs are always a good icebreaker.

The young woman re­laxed. “Honestly, I’m a lit­tle lonely,” she said. “I’m shy, so I’m not comfort­able around new people.”

“I know what that’s like,” I said. “I grew up in California with a single mom who scraped to­gether money to send us to Catholic school. Some of my classmates had big houses on the beach. We lived literally on the other side of the tracks. I didn’t have what the rich kids did, and I always felt as if I had something to prove.” I took a sip of cof­fee. “That got in my way sometimes.”

I told my player a little more about my mom, who still lived in Southern California, and how difficult it was being away from her, especially now that she has Alzheimer’s disease. That’s another thing I wouldn’t have done years ago—shared my vulner­abilities. The rest of breakfast, I let the athlete talk and I listened.

“Thanks,” she said, as the server brought the check. “This was great. Was there something you wanted to tell me about my pitching?”

“We’ll get to that later,” I said. “For now, just focus on having fun.”

Walking to my car, I thought about how different things had been—how different I had been—when I became the University of Oklahoma’s head softball coach. That was a while ago, in 1995. We played our games in a public park back then. At OU, football was king, with six national cham­pionships. I was determined to cre­ate a competitive softball program. I dreamed of one day coaching in the Women’s College World Series.

My love of the game and my blue-collar work ethic came from my mom, Janet Froehlich. I was the middle of three latchkey kids. Mom was a secre­tary and gave us strict orders to play in the park next door until she got home. Mom would join in, not even changing out of her miniskirt, panty hose and go-go boots (this was the sixties), as into the game as we were, whether it was flag football, basketball, softball or just catch. Mom was a great athlete, but most of all, she loved being in the moment with us kids. She showed me what it was like to play a sport for the sheer joy of it.

When I was seven or eight, Mom was asked to coach a softball team at the park for 10- and 11-year-olds. She pulled some strings so I could join the team too. I was smaller than my team­mates, and I had to go 100 percent, all out on every play. Mom told me that she’d always dreamed of playing on an organized team, but there just weren’t the same opportunities for girls when she was young. That’s what planted the seed for my dream of having a ca­reer in sports.

I was a shortstop in college. That’s where I met my husband, Jim, who also wanted to become a coach. Jim was a spiritual person who prayed about everything. He taught me to seek the Lord and be more open to God’s leading.

I landed a job as the head softball coach at Long Beach City College. There I built a team that had success. The college’s athletic director had ties to Oklahoma. One day, she told me the Sooners had an opening for a soft­ball coach.

It would mean a jump to Division I, the highest level of college sports, the teams that compete to play in the Women’s College World Series. But Oklahoma was so far down the peck­ing order, I would have to take a pay cut. Our older son, JT, was six. I was five months pregnant with our young­er son, DJ. All of our family and friends lived in California. It seemed like the worst time to move. Yet, when Jim and I prayed on it, it felt right. I called it a lateral step up.

I thought the transition would be easy. I knew how to motivate athletes. I knew how to win. I was so naive!

One of our very first games, I met with the opposing coach and the um­pire before we took the field. Both were men. They talked to each other as if I weren’t even there. As we turned to walk to our dugouts, the other coach finally met my gaze. “Good luck, Paula,” he said. He couldn’t even get my name right.

That disrespect fired me up. I want­ed to build a team that was not only competitive but also fearless and re­lentless. My ultimate goal was to get to the Women’s College World Series, or WCWS.

It took five tough years. We made it to the WCWS as underdogs in 2000, then took down UCLA, a perennial contender, to win the title. My dream had come to fruition sooner than I’d expected.

But that one championship wasn’t enough. Playing in the WCWS the next year consumed me. Win­ning became everything. Every night, I was on the phone with recruits, try­ing to sell them on Okla­homa and our program. Between calls, I’d read a bedtime book to my younger son, so exhausted that I would nod off mid-story. Hearing DJ say, “Finish, Mom! Finish!” I would jolt awake. Then I’d be back on the phone or studying game film.

That year and then several more went by without us winning another national championship. I worried that the WCWS might never happen again for our team. I drove our players—and myself—harder and harder. More drills, more film, more recruiting calls and trips. “You’re killing your­self,” Jim told me.

After a frustrating practice during the 2010 season, I went home and threw myself on my bed. I’m not the type to cry, but I broke down.

“This isn’t working, Lord,” I said. “I thought this was what you wanted for me.” Yet I wasn’t succeeding as a coach or as a mom. I wasn’t winning. I was ready to walk away from my dream career and the game I loved.

But I couldn’t manage to get out the words “I’m quitting.” Instead, my breath turned shallow, and every­thing quieted.

You’re doing this wrong. God wasn’t speaking out loud but in my mind. I didn’t bring you here to win ball games. Focus on your players. Let them see you living out your faith. You open the door, and I’ll do the rest.

Slowly I exhaled, and it felt as if a weight had been lifted, a weight that had been there all my life.

Since I was a kid, I’d been intent on proving myself. But God knew my true worth. He loved me for me, not my win-loss record. Had I been send­ing our athletes the wrong message? That winning was the only thing that mattered? That their worth was deter­mined by their batting average, field­ing percentage or ERA?

I thought about how my mom had coached me. She showed me I mat­tered by sharing the joy of the game with me. By being present, giving me her full attention even when she must have been worried about having to feed us hot dog and bean casserole at the end of the month, when her pay­check ran out.

That’s what I could do for our play­ers. Share joy. Be present. Talk less, listen more. Show them I valued them beyond what they did on the field. I might never win a championship again. But each young woman would leave this program knowing I cared about them and, more important, that God cared about them too.

I started making a point of taking each of our 20 players out to eat, to get to know them one-on-one. I tried to show our athletes that they were more than softball players and that I was more than just their coach. I promised them that I would be there for them if they were ever facing a per­sonal problem.

In turn, our athletes shared chal­lenges they once would have kept to themselves. If the moment presented itself, I opened up about my faith. Players led prayer groups and Bible studies. All of us became more rela­tionship-oriented. We grew as a team. And I grew as a coach.

In the years since God led me to change the way I coach, I’ve had a lot of breakfasts at IHOP with ath­letes. Our team has won six more WCWS titles—seven overall. I’m most proud, though, of seeing softball play­ers grow into strong confident wom­en, pursuing their dreams, balancing career and family, sharing how God works in their lives. Knowing I’ve played some small part in that brings me more joy than any championship.

I believe my attitude change has prepared me for other challenges, including my mom’s Alzheimer’s. She taught me the joy of playing the game—and, yes, winning. But win­ning means so much more when it isn’t everything.

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