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August 24, 2026
During the Detroit Pistonsā āBad Boysā era, Dennis Rodman was already proving himself to be one of the NBAās most extraordinary rebounders. His style was anything but conventional. He seemed to know where every missed shot would land, relying on instinct, timing, and relentless effort more than textbook technique.
An assistant coach, Brendan Malone, began teaching Rodman āproperā rebounding fundamentals. Chuck Daly watched for a moment before walking over and stopping the lesson.
He looked at Malone and said:
āDonāt put a saddle on a mustang.ā
Daly understood that Rodmanās greatness came from the very instincts the coach was trying to refine. Great leadership is not simply about teaching people the ārightā way. It is knowing when discipline should sharpen a personās gifts and when too much standardization risks diminishing what makes them exceptional.
That question extends well beyond basketball. Whenever we help someone grow, as coaches, teachers, parents, or leaders, we eventually face the same challenge:
Are we helping people become more fully themselves, or are we unintentionally trying to make them more like us?
My children and I are approaching the intermediate kyu ranks at Tenshinkan Dojo. As weāve progressed, Iāve realized that one of the deepest lessons Iāve been learning isnāt simply how to practice Aikido.
It is how people learn.
One of the (paraphrased) messages that has stayed with me from Fumio Toyoda Shihan is simple:
Martial arts is a difficult path. It isnāt for everyone. But if someone chooses to walk it, we walk together.
The longer I train, the more I reflect on what we walk together actually means.
It doesnāt mean everyone walks identically.
Iāve come to understand it as a shared commitment to learning.
Stepping onto the mat is, in a sense, consenting to instruction from the sensei and senpai who have traveled further along the path. Their responsibility is to help those behind them continue learning. The studentās responsibility is not to understand every correction immediately, but to receive it sincerely, reflect on it, and continue practicing rather than becoming defensive.
That simple idea has changed how I think about leadership.
It has also changed how I watch my children learn.
One afternoon we were struggling with forward roll-outs (yoko ukemi). We kept drifting sideways instead of rolling straight. Tony, a first kyu brown belt, didnāt simply repeat the instruction.
Instead, they placed foam noodles on the mat to create lanes.
Suddenly the path became visible.
The environment itself began teaching.
The lesson wasnāt simply about rolling.
It was about teaching.
Rather than asking the students to adapt to a single explanation, Tony adapted the learning environment to meet the students where they were.
Iāve seen the same principle expressed differently by Jared, another first kyu brown belt.
Whether heās helping younger children, supporting newer students, or preparing someone for testing, he has a remarkable ability to calibrate his approach. Sometimes that means slowing everything down, patiently offering another perspective until something clicks. Other times it means increasing the intensity because the student is ready to be challenged.
The principle never changes.
The expression does.
More recently, Jon, a shodan, and Malte, a visiting aikidoka from Germany, each helped us improve breakfalls and shikko. Their demonstrations were different. Their explanations were different.
Neither was trying to create copies.
Each was helping students discover the same principles through a different doorway.
Perhaps the lesson that surprised me most came from my own son.
After leading warm-ups for the first time, I asked him what the experience had been like.
Beforehand, he admitted, it looked easy.
Then he stood in front of the class.
He had to remember the sequence, demonstrate clearly, notice who was paying attention, and keep everyone moving together.
Later I asked him whether anything had changed.
He smiled and said:
āNow I pay attention moreā¦ because I know how hard it is.ā
No one had given him a lecture about respect.
Respect emerged through participation.
Experience taught what explanation alone never could.
Iāve seen that same principle emerge differently with Lila. Some of her favorite moments in class are the games. To her, theyāre simply fun. Looking back, I realize theyāre another expression of thoughtful teaching. Through play, the instructors quietly cultivate timing, awareness, cooperation, and confidence long before those principles can be fully explained.
Looking back, I donāt think these are isolated examples of talented instructors.
I think they reveal a culture of learning.
White Sensei cultivates a culture where instruction is expected, learning is shared, and students are continually invited to grow. Within that culture, each sensei and senpai teaches through their own temperament, creativity, and lived experience.
Tony teaches through creativity.
Jared through careful calibration.
Jon and Malte through complementary perspectives.
Each personality is different.
Each teaching style is different.
The purpose is the same.
Over time, Iāve come to realize that this learning doesnāt end when class is over.
Each year, Jack, Lila, and I return for the July 4th Memorial Training and the New Yearās training. Those gatherings have quietly become annual markers in our familyās life. We return to practice, but we also return to reflect. The techniques continue to evolve, yet what I notice even more is the gradual development of the people around us, including ourselves. Looking back over the previous year, the changes are often subtle, but unmistakable.
The annual demonstration at Anderson Japanese Gardens in Rockford has become another part of that rhythm. Family members from different sides of our family have attended over the years, many with little understanding of what Aikido actually is. Watching the demonstration is meaningful, but what stays with me just as much is the dinner afterward. People who might not otherwise find themselves around the same table share a meal, watch the children interact, reconnect with one another, and experience something thatās difficult to explain beforehand but easy to recognize once youāve been part of it.
That has helped me realize that Tenshinkan isnāt simply a place where techniques are practiced.
It is a community where learning continues long after class is over.
That realization extends well beyond martial arts.
Phil Jackson seemed to understand something similar. In Eleven Rings, he describes introducing players to ideas from Zen and other contemplative traditions. He recommended books, created shared experiences, and encouraged reflection. Yet he never expected every player to respond in the same way. His role wasnāt to produce identical personalities.
It was to create conditions where each player could discover what they needed.
As a parent, that may be the lesson I value most.
My responsibility isnāt to make my children into younger versions of myself.
It is to create learning relationships where they can develop their own strengths, receive instruction without fear, learn to receive correction without becoming defensive, and gradually become capable of helping others in turn.
Aikido has created conditions for moments of harmony and interconnectedness within our family that continue to surprise me. It hasnāt made life simple or relationships effortless. It has changed how we participate with one another. Through shared practice, shared instruction, shared annual traditions, and shared learning, weāve experienced moments of integration that I once wouldnāt have imagined.
For that, I am profoundly grateful.
Chuck Daly recognized that Dennis Rodman didnāt need a saddle.
O-Sensei didnāt create a path to produce identical practitioners.
The instructors Iāve learned from at Tenshinkan continue to demonstrate that the same principles can be expressed through very different people.
Perhaps the highest form of leadership isnāt shaping people into a predetermined ideal.
It is creating learning relationships where people can receive instruction with humility, discover their own authentic strengths through disciplined practice, and eventually help others do the same.
This is what āwe walk togetherā has begun to mean to me.