I’ve blown a lot of whistles in my time, but coaching’s always been more than a job—it’s who I am. I still remember my first day as “Coach S.W.A.A.G.,” standing on that sideline, clipboard in hand, heart pounding like I was the one about to take the snap. I was nervous, sure—would these kids listen? Would I get it right?—but I was ready. I’d spent years fighting to belong, from walk-on days at Arkansas to proving myself in the pros, and now here I was, passing it all on. That’s where this story starts, because coaching isn’t just about plays—it’s about pouring my life into theirs.
The players I’ve coached over the years, they’re the heartbeat of it all. I see myself in so many of them—the ones with fire in their eyes but doubt in their step, the ones nobody else believes in. I think of a kid named Jalen, a scrawny linebacker with a chip on his shoulder, reminding me of me in those torn moccasins, desperate to be seen. Or Marcus, quiet but relentless, running drills like his life depended on it. They’re the walk-ons of the world, and I get them. Then there’s Brandon Burlsworth, my teammate from Arkansas, whose heart and hustle left a mark on me I’ll never shake. He was a walk-on too, a guy who trusted God and the process until tragedy took him too soon. I dedicated my book to him because he showed me what this is really about—pushing past limits, on and off the field. These kids, they’re why I coach.
But here’s the honest part: I’ve struggled to take off that coaching hat at home. My wife and kids, they’ve seen it—me pacing the living room like it’s fourth and goal, barking orders when I should’ve been listening. I’ll admit, I’ve spent too many nights replaying practices in my head instead of being present with them. Separating Kahlil, the man, from Coach Carter hasn’t been my strength. I’d come off the field wired, still in that mindset—fix this, push harder, win—and bring it through the front door. It’s a battle I’m still fighting, learning to drop the whistle and pick up the softer parts of me. My family deserves that, and I’m working to give it to them, to be more than the guy who calls the shots.
Every lesson I teach these players comes straight from my own scars and victories. Hard work? That’s Mom drilling it into me, showing me how she clawed us out of the projects. Adaptability? That’s moving from D.C. to Arkansas, reinventing myself with every new road. Belief? That’s God pulling me up when I put football over faith and lost my way. I tell my guys, “Your dreams are possible—look at me.” I wasn’t the star recruit; I was the kid who ran until he couldn’t, who turned “no” into fuel. I want them to see that—whether it’s football or life, they can take the chaos and make it theirs. I’ve had my share—Mom’s addiction, my dad’s absence, my own stumbles—and I’m still here. They can be too.
Coaching’s my way of giving back what God gave me: a chance to turn mess into meaning. I think about those Razorback days, grinding as a walk-on, and how every hit taught me something. I think about Mom saying, “Focus on victory,” and how that’s more than a scoreboard—it’s a mindset. I want my players to carry that, to know they’re not just athletes but men with purpose. Sure, I love winning—still chase those championships with everything I’ve got—but it’s bigger than that. It’s about planting seeds, like Brandon did for me, like Mom did through her struggles. It’s leadership, not just in the game, but in the heart. That’s what I’m chasing now. I thank God every day for the grace to live this life—to mess up, fix it, and tell my story. Not everyone gets that shot, and I don’t take it lightly. Coaching lets me honor that, lets me be more than a guy with a playbook. I’m still goal-oriented, still love the roar of a good play, but I want my legacy to be the lives I touch—my players, my family, anyone who hears me out. From Penny’s back seat to the sidelines, God’s brought me here, and I’m giving it all back. That’s my leadership, my purpose, straight from the heart.
