Many college counselors are all too familiar with the astronomical depression rates among freshmen who have been plucked from the safety and familiarity of their station in high school. I was no exception. The fall I entered NC State, I was not only feeling unsafe as a textile chemistry major who was no longer in a rock band and had no obvious opportunity to continue in sports—certainly not a position on their Division I college sports teams—but I also felt strong-armed into a life I wanted no part of. Everything I had cultivated since I was seven years old, everything that had defined me and accrued to whatever social standing I was able to create, was gone. It was a paradigm shift before I knew what such a thing was, and therefore I was, by all accounts, completely miserable.
Then I met Steve Thomas. He was a fellow resident at the Bowen freshman dormitory and was attending State on a full soccer scholarship. After hearing about my background over beers at the Jolly Knave pub, he suggested that I try out for the NC State soccer team. Convinced that this was nothing more than beer-infused madness, I deflected the idea until the next day when Steve insisted that I show up for practice after class and introduce myself to coach Max Rhodes.
“Steve, I want to make sure you know the truth here because this could be embarrassing for you. I was not a starter in high school. I lettered, but I only played half of every game. The players on this college team are some of the best in the nation. I’m not going to be able to ‘walk on’ to a D-I college team. You were a high school All American!”
He smiled. “C’mon,” he said. “This will be great.”
If it hadn’t been for Steve’s encouragement, I never would have even considered such a preposterous scheme. But at the moment, I hated my life as a textile chemistry student and wanted to hang out with my friend. Someone who, for once, wasn’t trying to thwart me, but support me.
The next day I showed up on the NC State soccer field in a pair of high-top sneakers and Dolfin shorts, accompanied by Steve, my eager “sponsor.” I was a sight to behold.
“Hey, Coach Rhodes, this is John Tesh. He’s an awesome defender from Garden City, Long Island. He’d like to practice with the team and give you a chance to have a look at him. We could use some more depth on defense, right?”
I forced a weak nod in agreement, to show some kind of confidence in myself and to support my friend Steve stepping out on this shaky limb.
Coach Rhodes nodded. Then he glanced down at my size-13 high-tops, smiled at Steve, and walked away.
Memories of the grit and tenacity I had learned to embrace in my quest for meaningful playing time on the Garden City varsity squad were still fresh in my mind. I had been a soccer player by choice, and I had busted my behind to earn a spot on the field.
By now, the rest of the soccer team had gotten a glimpse of the three of us talking on the sidelines, so I felt like that new dog at the dog park, though there was no sniffing, just plenty of puzzled looks. It was in this moment that Steve gave me the best advice I’d ever received. It’s advice I apply to everything I do today: “Tesh,” he said (I don’t think anyone knew I had a first name), “the way to be a starter is to out-hustle everyone on the field—every day. Hustle and heart will get you a spot on this team.” This was a strategy I fully understood.
Steve Thomas possessed both hustle and technique. He was All-American material and he had become my cheerleader. I had, of course, played varsity soccer at Garden City High School, but this was an entirely different level. The Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) included teams from the University of North Carolina, Duke, the University of Virginia, Clemson, and Maryland. These teams had recruited players from literally all over the world. The majority of the NC State team was made up of American players. That meant more of a “rough and tumble” style than the elegant, precision-passing game of the Europeans, which was to my benefit. The NC State playbook was similar to the run-and-gun, fast-break kind of play you would see on a Long Island high school team like mine.
Every day before practice, the State team had a ritual of running a one-and-a-half-mile course to “warm up.” Steve, as the team captain, along with another standout, Mark Templeton, led this run followed by a half hour of calisthenics. It was a full hour of conditioning before drills and scrimmaging even began. My skills were plenty rusty. My passing was woefully inconsistent, but I was often first to the ball on defense. I didn’t have the skills to play offense, but I was able to disrupt many plays during the scrimmages with my sheer size and aggressive play.
On the first Friday following a week of practice, Coach Rhodes asked me to stay behind after he released the team. He told me he was impressed with my “intensity and drive” and told me to give my sizes to the equipment manager so I could get a practice uniform and some proper soccer cleats. No fanfare; no big announcement. But, holy cow! Did this just happen? It was certainly, to my mind, the biggest accomplishment thus far in my life as a college student. I was a walk-on. I was officially a member of the NC State University varsity soccer team.
For a freshman who was twisting in the wind, struggling in a college major that was fomenting depression, I had found an identity. I found my reason—my why—for getting out of bed in the morning. I was part of a high-level tribe, representing a major university. I had a purpose. Nothing beats back the drumbeat of depression better than a purpose.
When I got back to the dorm, Steve Thomas was smiling. He obviously had known before Coach Rhodes spoke to me. I thanked him for the gift he had so selflessly given me. Steve knew, instinctively, that the way to shoehorn me into the team was to have me focus on what I could most likely control. Hustle. Perseverance. He knew that I could improve my skills during the scrimmages, but that I needed to get the coach’s attention first. Relentless hustle, true persistence—they speak any good coach’s native language. Steve’s compassion and encouragement are the reason he and I are still close friends to this day. He gave me a gift I’ll never be able to repay.
For the first half of my inaugural college soccer season, I rode the bench. But I sat on that bench with passion and purpose. I cheered on our team. I got water for the starters. In the practices I often finished in second place to Steve during the daily mile-and-a-half training runs. Then one day after practice, I began a process that would pay huge dividends.
It was late afternoon on a Friday in October. Practice was over. Long after everyone hit the showers, I grabbed one of the old beat-up soccer balls, and I stayed behind. No one really noticed. They were all, rightly, exhausted. It was the last practice of the week. You could hear the sound of kegs being tapped all across campus. The sun began to set, and it was just me and that beat-up ball. It was time for me to reach back and resurrect a process that had served me well a few years earlier outside my garage on Seabury Road.
Completely alone on the NC State soccer field, I sprinted down toward the goal, dribbling the ball a foot and a half from my stride. I cut left; I cut right. I leaned over the ball and fired at the goal. I ran full speed to the opposite goal, 120 yards away. I screamed, “Shot! Score!” Like a crazy person I was now announcing my own moves: “Tesh, breaking left . . . now right. He’s beat two defenders. No, three. He shoots. He scores!”
I checked to see if anyone was watching this mad behavior. No one. It was just me and my process, committed to improving my game.
My legs burned. My lungs were on fire. Still, I dribbled left, right. I trapped the ball with my chest, now backpedaling, faking out invisible defenders. I tossed the ball in the air . . . headed it into the goal. I crossed the ball high into the air with a corner kick. The sun had dropped below the horizon and so the lack of visibility forced me into deeper concentration. I could barely see my foot on the ball. I visualized myself defending the goal against Clemson, then UNC and Duke. I could see their jerseys. I could see their school colors and the numbers. I imagined the moves they would make and the defensive countermeasures I would use to strip the ball from them, saving goal after goal. It was real.
This, then, was a deeper, more intense version of the process I had used in high school. There was the committed, relentless grit during the day with the team. And then it was more hard work and visualization at night. Would this be what would set me apart? I had to believe it was. At the very least, it began to equalize me against the enormous pool of talent on our team.
I’m sure there were many more high school soccer stars studying in their dorm rooms at NC State. I also believe that they had as much or even more of a chance than I to walk on to the NC State soccer team. But did they ever think it was possible? Did that little voice in their heads talk them right out of it? Perhaps it was a friend, or their parents. My dad had talked me out of a music career. He couldn’t talk me out of this. He had no idea it was even happening (thank God).
Every day before practice, I was having my ankles taped next to David Thompson and Tommy Burleson in the locker room. They were two of the greatest college basketball players in US history, and they were on their way to beat UCLA for the NCAA Basketball Championship a few years later. Legendary football coach Lou Holtz, who took NC State to four straight bowl games, would walk through the training room and say hello to us all. Amazing. Here I was, swimming in this pool of greatness. What’s the worst that could happen? I could get cut from a Division I, ACC college sports team. To someone like me, even that sounded like the most awesome résumé booster ever!
And what’s the best thing that could happen? I could succeed. I could win. I could take back control of a life, of a fate, that I had felt was no longer mine, that I had lost complete control over.
One of my favorite groups as a college freshman was the supergroup Blind Faith. Their song “In the Presence of the Lord” spoke to me about this each night from a piece of vinyl in my dorm room.
In high school I had opened a door with a formula that worked reliably well. Hustle. But it was blind faith and relentless hustle that really busted that door wide open and set me up, by my sophomore year at State, to be playing close to half of all our soccer matches.
I never stopped my late-evening process of chasing that ugly, beat-up soccer ball up and down the field. At the end of my second season, during the closing banquet, Coach Rhodes passed out trophies for Best Defender, Offensive Player of the Year, and High Scoring Player, among others. Finally, he held up one more trophy, explaining that it was an award that had not been given at previous banquets. He announced, “This year’s Most Improved Player trophy goes to . . . John Tesh.” I was floored. It was an honor to be on this team, but to have my name called in front of my team-mates, in recognition of anything—there really were no words.
The team gave me a standing ovation. No one smiled more broadly than my best pal, Steve Thomas. That little soccer trophy would light my path and reinforce my process throughout life. It also paid dividends for Steve, whose hypothesis had now evolved into a theory: like water that will always seek its own level, hustle, too, can cause us to rise up and on to greatness.
Nearly half a century later, in his book Mastery, Robert Greene wrote about Leonardo da Vinci’s commitment to his projects:
Leonardo da Vinci adopted as his motto the expression ostinato rigore, which translates as “stubborn rigor” or “tenacious application.” For every project he involved himself in—and by the end of his life they numbered in the thousands—he repeated this to himself, ostinato rigore, so he would attack each one with the same vigor and tenacity. The best way to neutralize our natural impatience is to cultivate a kind of pleasure in pain—like an athlete, you come to enjoy rigorous practice, pushing past your limits, and resisting the easy way out.1
Mastery is hard work. It is thousands of hours of practice. There are no shortcuts. You must believe that whatever challenges you face right now, on the other side of pain is greatness. Mastery over your goals, over your circumstances, over a disease you never anticipated and that you cannot control, requires not just hustle and grit and perseverance; it demands purpose and faith. It requires a why and a how. I’d found both on the soccer field, and I would need to use them again forty-five years later in my fight against cancer.