The Bullets: A Reflection on Courage, Commitment, and Dignity

At nineteen years old, I was stationed in Okinawa, Japan, serving in the U.S. Army (1975-1977). I didn’t know it then, but a decision to encourage a friend to coach a youth basketball team would grow into one of the most meaningful leadership experiences of my life. What began as an innocent suggestion evolved into a deeply formative journey—one that taught me about race, responsibility, and the deeper meaning of success.

Crossing Lines I Didn’t Yet Understand

One of my closest friends during my service was Anthony, a young Black man from East St. Louis (far left in the photo). He had briefly played semi-pro basketball, and I believed he’d make a great youth coach. I had just finished helping with a Little League football team and thought it was evident that Anthony should share his love for basketball with the children on base.

He was reluctant. He explained that he had grown up in a very tough environment, surrounded by violence. Coaching a team of timid kids—mostly white children from officers’ families—felt risky to him. At the time, I couldn’t understand why. I had no frame of reference for what it meant to be a Black man in America, let alone coaching mostly white children in a military setting in the 1970s. Looking back now, I realize his fears were not only reasonable but wise. The social and racial dynamics of that moment were far more complex than I understood.

Eventually, Anthony agreed to coach—but only if I became his assistant. I protested that I knew next to nothing about basketball. “You got me into this,” he said. “Now you’re going to help me out.”

A Lesson in Humility and Trust

Anthony would take me to dimly lit courts to teach me basic basketball skills. He was always cautious that we remained unseen. “I can’t risk a brother seeing me teach a white guy how to play basketball,” he joked, though there was truth under the humor. Even in friendship, the weight of racial history was inescapable. He was managing risks I didn’t fully see, protecting both our reputations in a racially sensitive time.

Despite our inexperience, we became a coaching team. We named our team The Bullets. Another man joined for a brief period, but the core remained Anthony and me. What we lacked in technical know-how, we made up for with intensity and commitment. I became the team’s physical trainer, and Anthony ran drills and taught the fundamentals. Neither of us had worked with children before, and in hindsight, we pushed them far too hard. Local high school players once watched one of our practices and were stunned at how hard we were making the kids train.

But we believed in what we were doing. Our team was the smallest in the league, but we decided to be the toughest and most unified. We raised money through bake sales to purchase uniforms, as no other team had them, including the coaches. We took the kids to see a movie that came out at that time, The Bad News Bears, hoping to bond and inspire them. We instilled pride, discipline, and a relentless work ethic. And perhaps most importantly, we showed up—for them and each other.

Dignity Over Victory

The Bullets played with heart. Though the team lacked height, they made up for it with unity and hustle. Our players dove for balls, stood their ground, and embraced a tenacity and commitment that made them stand out. One memorable moment occurred when an opposing player froze at mid-court, intimidated by our kids’ formation. It was a display of unity and focus that I’ll never forget.

By the end of the season, we had lost only one game—to the undefeated team we would face again in the final match to determine the league champion. Our players gave it their all. In the final seconds, we were behind by a single point. One of our players found himself directly beneath the basket with a clean shot—and froze. The entire gym shouted, “Shoot!” But he just stood there, paralyzed, and the buzzer sounded.

What happened next was astonishing. The gym erupted in celebration—not for the winning team, but for ours. People from both teams ran onto the court to congratulate The Bullets. We had lost, but our kids had become something more than champions. They had earned the respect of everyone present.

There was no trophy for second place. So Anthony and I pooled our money and bought customized trophies for each of our players. After the formal ceremony, we handed them out ourselves. Later, we visited every player’s home to thank them and their families personally. At one home, the parents showed us a trophy case. “Our son is most proud of his second-place trophy with The Bullets,” they told us.

Looking Back: What Endures

Decades later, this experience remains deeply etched in my memory—not because of wins or losses, but because of the quiet dignity it revealed. At nineteen, I had no idea what it meant to bridge racial divides, lead children with integrity, or recognize courage in the face of fear. But I learned.

I learned that leadership is not about knowing everything—it’s about showing up, listening, and being willing to grow. I realized that courage sometimes means saying yes even when you’re afraid, and other times, it means standing beside someone who is carrying the weight of fear you don’t yet understand. And I learned that success isn’t always about coming in first. Sometimes, it’s about the relationships you form, the resilience you build, and the sense of belonging you create for others.

The Bullets taught me lessons I couldn’t have learned in any training or leadership course. They taught me that dignity can shine brightest in defeat, that unity can overcome size and skill, and that shared effort can transcend background, fear, and misunderstanding.

• Courage often exists in places we don’t immediately recognize. Anthony had to navigate complex racial realities just to show up. That’s a kind of bravery I didn’t yet have the eyes to see.
• Commitment means going all in—even when you don’t feel ready. Neither of us knew how to coach kids, but we gave it everything we had. And the kids gave it right back.
• Dignity doesn’t come from winning—it comes from how you play the game. Our team didn’t win the championship, but they walked away with pride, respect, and a sense of belonging that no trophy could provide.

Looking back, I see that The Bullets wasn’t really about basketball. It was about showing up for people. It was about stepping into the unknown with trust, even when you don’t understand all the risks. It was about dignity in loss and the kind of courage that grows from making the difference you can.

Closing Reflection

The Bullets never won the championship, but they won something far greater. They found pride in their effort, unity in their struggle, and recognition for their courage. And so did we.

Anthony and I stepped into something we didn’t fully understand—but we committed. We crossed barriers of race, culture, and inexperience together. What began as a naive suggestion turned into a profound experience that continues to teach me even now.

In a world often obsessed with being the best, The Bullets taught me that the true mark of success lies in dignity, heart, and the relationships we build when we show up for others.