I couldn’t feed a ball to save my life.
That’s where it started. I was a teenager working at Ivy Hills Country Club, learning how to roll clay courts, line baselines, and scrape off the dried teneco when it got too thick. I knew how to hustle. I knew how to show up. But I didn’t know I had something to give.
Enter Brett.
He didn’t just teach me how to coach, he taught me how to carry myself. How to speak with purpose. How to hold the line when nobody’s watching. There was a precision to the way he ran things, but also a presence, like every interaction mattered. He wasn’t just building tennis instructors and players. He was building people.
He saw something in me early on. Maybe it was potential. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe he just needed another set of hands on the court. But whatever it was, he handed me a clipboard, a basket of balls, and a level of responsibility I didn’t think I’d earned yet. I stumbled through those first lessons, missed more targets than I hit, but he never pulled the plug. He let me grow.
And more than that – he expected me to.
Brett once told me, “Find a job that pays you even when you’re not working.” I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. At first, I thought it was financial advice. Now I know it’s about legacy. About being so present, so intentional, so damn all-in that your impact keeps echoing long after the bell rings or the last ball bounces.
Teaching is that job for me.
Some days, I still feel like the kid who couldn’t feed a forehand. But I carry Brett’s voice with me, in how I mentor kids, how I show up for colleagues, and how I keep raising the bar for myself. I try to be that person who sees someone before they see themselves.
Because that’s what shaped me.
Moler's Musings 