Good is the Enemy of Great
an ode to a phenomenal mentor and his lessons
*TWHUMP-THWUMP*
A hand rapped at the passenger side door of my car, startling me from a momentary lapse of focus; a lapse of focus that was most definitely from the very, very early 5 a.m. wake-up call that morning. Mornings — not exactly my forte in my early years.
I unlocked the car door, mumbled an extremely mellow eeeeghhheeyyy, and jolted the car into reverse out of the driveway. My passenger, my longtime high school best friend, Gavin, mumbled a pathetic greeting of his own as my car took us through the winding turns of our neighborhoods and streets in Gretna, Nebraska.
The clock, a dull, yellowish glow on my Honda Accord’s dashboard, read 5:30 a.m. As we left the neighborhoods and entered Highway 370, the mythical, gateway autobahn that took many Nebraskan youths and adults alike to downtown Gretna dates, football games (home of the Dragons, yeah!), final exams, and so much more; all of this, of course, culminating at the intersection of 204th Street and 370: Gretna High School, the climatic destination of our very not-so climatic-worthy morning.
In hindsight, this venture was one of hundreds of trips to my high school, and perhaps one of the earliest drives, in that long sequence — you see, Gavin and I were freshman — scared, no-longer top-of-the-food-chain 8th graders, now ridiculously hormonal 15 and 16-year-olds in a massive new sea of teenage depth. This highlighted the almost laughable discrepancy and incredulity that goes behind the nature of most high schools — such diverse personalities, such differing abilities, mindsets, physical attributes, and educational motives — and this drive was a great example of all of these changes. This was part of the series of our first season of morning drives to Gretna High for basketball practice, and, in this instance, tryouts.
High school basketball tryouts. Oof?
If you’re an individual who experienced these in your youth, then I’m equally sorry as I am proud of you for showing up. Tryouts for nearly anything — for me, at least — are terrifying, and in high school, when you’re under such public scrutiny and involved in close-knit relationships with much of your class of students, it was absolutely a popularity contest. Solid tryout performances: jump shots made, defensive switches, and attention to detail all led to making it onto a team, whereas missed defensive assignments and a lack of wherewithal on the court could mean unlacing your shoes and stepping away from a game that you devoted much of your life to. It was a harsh, terrifying entry into the real world, with soft, wide-eyed freshman like ourselves standing on the same line for wind sprints as the amicable, steeled six-foot-five seniors. It was, is, and forever will be a dog-eat-dog world. The beauty in it was this: during that week of tryouts, we all took hits together and endured the same pain, like Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier bouncing off one another in the ring. We weren’t the same, but we were given the same opportunity to be as great as we wanted.
Of course, this is all extremely individualized. As I’ve grown older with sport and equally grown more experienced with handling hardship under pressure, I can somewhat laugh at how extremely personally I took those tryouts, or how much they affected my self-values. However, I truthfully still shudder at the thought of those early morning suicide runs up and down the court, coaches screaming and teammates ridiculing like apes in the jungle. Some things never leave you completely, and like a stain of leftover spaghetti marinara on Tupperware — my fear of failure with basketball never quite washes out.
As an aside, I’ve realized that this fear of failure and of not being good enough on the court wasn’t just tied to an orange ball and a twine net; in fact, it is only a character trait that has further developed and shaped my life as my passions and relationships have evolved.
As Gavin and I arrived at the high school, we slid into the practice jerseys we were assigned and tugged at our socks nervously, our legs quivering under some shorts that, without a doubt, triple the length of the running shorts I wear nowadays. Tryouts, and later practices, consisted of a variety of basketball-centric activities, starting with layup lines and drills, passing drills, three-man weaves, etc. We’d then progress to conditioning-based drills, working on speed and endurance, showing off who was healthy, who could run endlessly without tiring, and who wasn’t fit. All of this parlayed nicely (and strenuously) into running designed plays developed by the coaching staff, and then executing those plays in full contact, five-on-five scrimmages (which is basically just the sport of basketball without the crowd, on a quiet court full of coaches who wouldn’t hesitate to stop the game and point out flaws and room for improvements).
When I say that these practices were gut-wrenching and more stressful than being in an airport’s TSA — folks, I ain’t lying. Maybe it was different for some of the upperclassmen, or some of my more confident teammates, but I’d still argue that a direct look in the eyes from a coach would cause many young teenage basketball players to falter and question their last play. It wasn’t just that the activity of two hours of basketball practice was physically taxing — it was much more of a greater mental task. Remembering everything you need for practice, all of the plays, when to cut and when to screen, when to shoot and when to pass — everything was a choice of me-against-me…against the will of our coaching staff.
Keep in mind that a lot of this is happening at or before 7 a.m., and at this time in my life, I didn’t even drink coffee.
As an additional aside, I’d really, really like to have another stab at high school sports with coffee. I could be fucking dangerous.
Basically: high school basketball, and many other upper-educational level sports tryouts can be stressful, demanding, and a brain-maze. For so long, tryouts were a game of survival; playing a game of not looking at the clock until as late as possible to delay the inevitable realization that ‘we still have another hour of this shit’. I’m legit. It was like that some days.
Gavin and I would go on to make the freshman tryout team that year, play a couple of years of junior varsity and varsity basketball, and then eventually transition to a sport that relied slightly less on team-wide cooperation and raw athleticism, and more so on individual motivation and you-against-you training: running. The story of my embarkment and journey within running is that of entirely different proportions and themes, and is best suited for a different day — but the point of all of this explanation of basketball and the rigors of high school hoops is to introduce you to a part of my life that I tucked away into the attic of my memory, like Clark Griswald finding old family heirlooms when he’s trapped in the storage attic in Christmas Vacation.
Brad Feeken
I’m remembering this part of my life now for a variety of reasons, but mainly because of Brad Feeken — the foundational mastermind behind much of this basketball and formational part of myself and many of my peers' lives. Brad, or as many of us came to know him: Feek, is a dynamic, uber-competitive, and intelligent man — serving as a pinnacle teacher in Gretna Middle School’s Reading and English program, and head coach of Gretna High School’s basketball team since 2003. Feek led the Dragons to two state titles in his near twenty years with the team, and a 70% winning percentage in nearly 500 games played. To say that Feek changed the course of Gretna High School basketball is an understatement — his teams saw success that grew the entire franchise of basketball and sports in the Gretna community, leading to expansion, more funding for all Gretnan programs, and countless post-high school athletic opportunities for athletes. He didn’t just change lives — he created new ones, for the better.
He’s re-emerged in my busybody graduate student brain throughout the past year — periodically appearing in the form of a vocal spirit in traumatic, face-throwing-up-in-the-trash-can practices and lectures, and memories of incredible moments I had on the basketball court with the Dragons. Unfortunately, while these memories were welcomed with fondness and gratitude for the physical and mental endeavors, those feelings were quickly replaced with remorse, dread, and an overwhelming question of fairness when I found out about his terminal illness.
The kind of cruelty that can only be found when life throws one of those immeasurable, incomprehensible curve balls at you — like running into a brick wall that appeared out of nowhere, but at ninety miles per hour, in your favorite car of all time. Like that, but 1000x more painful. The cruelty that struck me deeper than it should’ve for someone who wasn’t any my life for quite some time, and literally was pushed to the corners of my mind for years. A cruelty that is just…dreadful.
Brad Feeken was diagnosed with neuroendocrine cancer on November 18th, 2021–about fourteen months ago now. I’ve been subtly following his, his team’s journey, and the Gretna commonwealth’s story from afar — checking in on game scores, perusing a wonderful Caring Bridge site devoted to Feek’s journey, and following basketball players that currently rock the white, green, and yellow for the Dragons. On the surface level, it seemed unfair, out of nowhere, but ultimately non-relational to my current life as a graduate student and triathlete-journalist in Fort Collins, Colorado. I write that with great pain, but that’s how life is — we can become instant gratification, “what’s in front of me right now” sorts of creatures.
That’s how vicious life can be. We all know it, but few of us are able to articulate the selfishness that goes behind the changes and sacrifices we make in this world. Remember the ‘dog-eat-dog’ part of basketball trouts I mentioned previously? Well…Frank Sinatra said it best. That’s Life.
When I picked up my life in Gretna and moved west, began forging a new ecosystem of road bikes, outdoor media, and Instagram influencing in Northern Colorado…I didn’t walk into it with the idea that I’d willingly be leaving behind developmental members and figures of my former life. I left Gretna with the goal of being a figure that current students could look up to and use as a role model for the future of Nebraskan excellence in journalism and endurance sports alike — not to distance myself from my roots…but, again: that’s the viciousness of life. Relationships end, friendships combust, and sparks fizzle out — but the kindling that remains in the metaphorical campfire of individual success and “where you came from” ideologies don’t exactly have to end.
Life can be vicious, things can rampantly flip on their heads, and we’re forced to make decisions that impact our lives first, their lives second — BUT: some friendships and moments are so ingrained in our souls that we’re forced to take a stand. That’s how I feel about my relationship that still stands with much of the Gretna community: mentors like Gretchen Baijnauth, Mike Brandon, Jamie Ewer, and — you guessed it — Coach Feeken.
Brad Feeken is, in every possible way, an incredible human being. Setting a precedent for coaches, teachers, and students inside and outside of basketball circles; the man is a walking icon in the Gretna community, but would just as happily step aside and give his kudos and pomp and circumstance to his team of athletes and coaches. Passionate, undeniably; humble, most definitely. An icon, for the people, by the people, and empowered through the love and passion of Gretna.
Feek was and is a role model, but was not any different than the rigor I described in the previous segment on the scariness and altogether atrocity that was early morning basketball practices some days. In fact, he was the driving force of that fear. He was cutthroat — actively listening to the dialogue of his players and coaches — but not afraid to tie up loose ends with extra conditioning and stern lectures when needed. Coach Feeken perhaps provided the most acute balance of discipline and care that I’ve ever witnessed in sports — which is saying something, because I’ve had numerous excellent, sensitive and attentive coaches in running and multisport events throughout my athletic career. He’s a rare sort of figure that few athletes or students of life get the privilege of to learn and train under — a loose curl in a head of straight hair, standing unwavering and ready for action.
But how? How did Feek strike such a pivotal balance of performance gains and vital team infrastructure construction, all throughout mid-season changes and year-after-year athlete turnover? That might be more of a question for Brad himself, but one shining key to this intricate puzzle continues to dangle out of Feek’s pocket to this day — literature.
Being a graduate of Education-based academia from Doane University, and a teacher of various reading genre-based classes throughout Gretna, the incorporation of articles, texts, ancient relics of history, and much more all was inherently normal in a basketball practice. It wouldn’t be unheard of for Feek to pull aside the starting group and bring practice to a screeching halt to emphasize a common theme he read in an article earlier that week. This might seem mundane and non-pertinent to the training and development of his players, but think back on my description of the true adversity my peers and I faced in basketball tryouts: mental toughness.
Making the right read. Throwing the proper pass. Being in the right spot, in the right time. Being able to improvise mid-air and develop offensive and defensive opportunists for your teammates. All in all: the ability to be creative and mentally hardened to not just TRY to perform under pressure, but to fucking THRIVE.
This all stems from a deep understanding of what it takes to become a great athlete, a fantastic teammate, an attention to detail of the opponents game plan that’ll not only help an individual make the right play, but push their comrade to excel. It comes from a desire to not just be a great player, but a great person.
An understanding that comes from literature, knowledge, and education. Tools of knowledge and power that Feek had a profound way of immersing into a week of training — in a similar way a running coach might read a quote to their team, a teacher might preface a topic for the next class unit, or how a father could step aside and teach his son how to be respectful and courteous on a first date. Feek is a coach, a friend, a mentor, and above all else, a teacher of life. He brought the same tenacity of preparing his athletes for a semifinal game as he does to preparing his athletes for the challenges of life itself. Practices and training were devoted to win ballgames and see success on the court, but I’d reckon Feek’s ultimate goal was to see his players walk off the court primed and ready to be hardworking, kind, and successful human beings.
Feek threw a lot of challenges and educational content at my peers and I throughout our tenures at Gretna, but the most throw the pasta noodle at the wall and see if it sticks to check if it’s al dente was a quote he pulled out at the very tryouts practice Gavin and I groggily drove to — during an intense title defense-fueled session between the 2016 to 2017 seasons. We all gathered center court at the end of practice, with an eerie sternness — no, almost haste — in Feek’s voice, his eyes searching for contact with each of his players eyes, probing for…something.
For courage, possibly; for listening, absolutely; but, most interestingly: his eyes sought help. It wasn’t just that he was a coach that wanted to teach and get the most from his team, quite vividly apparent from the looks he gave us all that day. He was asking us to be ruthlessly brave. Asking us to believe in him. To trust the training and take jumps into uncomfortability. He wasn’t only telling us what we all needed to do and be to get to the next level…that day, Brad Feeken was coming with us. This next line has been ingrained in my head for more than five years now.
Five. Fucking. Years. Lights harshly spreading across the gym, not a sound to be heard throughout the whole area. Every ounce of the writer I am has thought about articulating the intensity and rawness of this moment for years, so I can only hope the lead up to and prior explanation hopes you visualize this, helps you picture thirty-or-so young, beat-up men standing center court around Feek.
“Good is the enemy of Great.”
It’s a strong statement, and holds great power even when I sit here in my room, reading it softly aloud. There’s a lot of meaning that can be derived here, and certainly a lot to unpack, but the just of it can be found in how YOU feel about the difference between the focal adjectives of the sentence. How tied down are you to be good at something? How strongly do you feel about something if you’re adamant about your greatness in it? What’s the difference between good and great?
Feek asked all of us this question that day, or at least forced us all to give it a bit of thought. He was telling us that good things come every once in a while, and can be quite fun and glamorous. It’s a good thought, that perspective on good — but when lined up with the goals Feek and our team had that season, was not good enough. Good things can be annual and come periodically, but truly great opportunities are subject to the fire and flames they’re created in. A blacksmith could make a good piece of armor, but only someone with the desire to create something truly great could form a piece of armor that stood the tests of trials and time. Feek was trying to tell us, and lead us forward with the mindset of greatness, always. He knew what challenges laid in waiting for us down the road of long, cold winter, and what it would take to once again cut down the nets in the State Title game — not to mention for the second year in a row. A title for Gretna was one thing, but a repeat championship? That’s what we call intentional greatness, and is quite literally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for anyone to be a part of.
The tone was set from then on out, early on in the year. Being good was an option for anyone who was hellbent on riding the bench and not contributing to the end goal. So, truly: good enough was no longer accepted. If the ball was loose on the floor, you dove for that shit. If I got a chance to play in a scrimmage or game, you better bet your ass that I was emptying my entire tank in that stint of time, as if I may never step onto the court again. “Leave everything out on the court, so much so that your heart is leaping out of your throat,” was a saying and a realistic thought I told myself throughout my time as a basketball player.
Be.
Fucking.
Great.
Good is the devil that sits on the shoulder of humans that are taunted with the tantalizing taste of greatness, whispering in our ears to settle for what we have; to be complacent; to be content.
Sure, there were challenges along the way, including two demoralizing losses mid season, but when everything came to a crux at the state championship, then-senior Joseph (Joey) Johnson launched a three-pointer from deep with five seconds on the clock, the game in a stalement at 55–55. Everything was coming together like a storybook, written, edited, and transcribed but the megamind of Feek, with pitfalls and successes littered throughout a vibrantly fascinating season. By the time the ball flicked off Joey’s fingertips, it was barely even a question. Teammates leapt off the bench, arms pointed up in a ‘U’ formation, and Feek looked proudly on as the ball soared through the air. This was a play and shot drawn up and executed hundreds of times, and all that mattered was that we got to this point, went above our own expectations of greatness, and were still hungry. The ball simply dropped through the net, and the Dragons quickly bounced into a rampant defensive formation with five seconds on the clock.
Meanwhile, the opponents (Scotts Bluff) were left destroyed, distraught, and completely overwhelmed. The Dragons were ready to keep fighting, like a well-oiled machine, armed to the teeth with men ready to claw and bite for greatness.
Feek, the team, and the Gretna community went on to repeat as state champions, capping off a historic, legendary run that might never be understood by the public unless you were a fineknit member of that team. A member that understood what sacrifices were made to rip off the flesh of mediocrity and reveal a glimmer of greatness underneath, oozing like fresh blood to a pack of famished wolves. Feek raised wolves to fight for greatness, and each and every one of his former players has gone on to do, quite simply, great things.
This is but the beginning of my grasp and experiences around this concept of eliminating the desire of mediocrity and ‘good’, and searching more intrinsically for the potential of greatness in myself and all that I do. This piece serves as a tribute to the wonderful, fiery man that is Brad Feeken, and hopefully a reminder to all of us to appreciate the great things in life as they come and go.
Because, quite honestly, you might one day play your last game ever, and never step on that floor again — in whatever game you metaphorically play in life. Make it great.
