It’s certainly possible that we Americans have become so aggrieved and politically polarized that we’re no longer capable of operating a responsible democracy. But for those still clinging to hope, I have a theory about a potential way forward.
It involves, of all things, football.
Football is one of the few American institutions that continues to unite us. The sport attracts reliable crowds in blue and red states alike. Over 120 million people, a record number, watched this year’s Super Bowl. In all the time I’ve spent observing this game from the outside, and more recently from the inside, I’ve always suspected football has something to teach politics.
The answer finally revealed itself during the Democratic National Convention in August, when Kamala Harris did something unconventional. In her acceptance speech, she referred to her running mate as “Coach Tim Walz,” suggesting that voters might be less enthusiastic about meeting the governor of Minnesota than meeting the former defensive coordinator of a high school football team that won the state championship. During Mr. Walz’s acceptance speech the night before, the delegates had decisively confirmed this assumption by erupting into a spontaneous chant of “Coach, Coach, Coach.”
That’s when it hit me: Americans are tired of being led, but they are genuinely open to being coached.
Think of the advantages of a coach in chief. The great coaches I know are obsessive about strategy, but they also know how to delegate. They use emotion to inspire people, but it’s almost never at the expense of projecting consistency and composure. They tend to overcommunicate and they avoid trafficking in fear. They understand there are no style points in football — all that matters is the final score. And they know that anything can happen on the field, so you must be prepared to pivot and be willing to compromise, and you cannot be too precious about your principles. When you’re winning, you should take a step back and let the players own it.
This sounds like a blueprint for a politician who could unite us in ways we have not seen for a very long time.
To test my theory requires a case study. Dwight Eisenhower had been a football star at West Point before a knee injury ended his playing career. In 1916 he was hired as the football coach for St. Louis College, a small Catholic school now called St. Mary’s University. He had little coaching experience, but the school didn’t care: Its team had previously been managed by a loose collection of priests and hadn’t won a game in years.
Expectations were low, but Eisenhower’s team tied its first game. Then it reeled off five straight victories and finished the season with a 5-1-1 record. His players remembered him fondly. “We thought more of him than we did of any other coach we ever had,” one of them said. “He was very frank and honest, and we learned more about honor and discipline from him than we did anywhere else.”
Eisenhower, of course, went on to become one of the greatest leaders in American history. As Supreme Allied Commander in Europe during World War II, he held the alliance together, led the D-Day invasion and defeated the Nazis. He later served two terms in the White House, from 1953 to 1961.
Eisenhower never suggested that coaching football made him the leader he was. But he did think of football as a remarkable incubator for leadership. Football, he wrote, “tends to instill in men the feeling that victory comes through hard — almost slavish — work, team play, self-confidence, and an enthusiasm that amounts to dedication.”
Most historians have a favorable opinion of Eisenhower’s presidency. He oversaw a robust economy, built the interstate highway system and invested in higher education and science. He signed civil rights legislation, defanged McCarthyism, ended the Korean War and worked hard to restrain the Soviet Union.
But one of his most monumental achievements barely registered at the time: Over his two full terms, Eisenhower averaged an extraordinarily high 65 percent approval rating. The public loved him. Americans understood that the world was a dangerous place, but Eisenhower’s humility and restraint conveyed a confidence that promised an opportunity to pursue prosperity. It’s no coincidence that his tenure is remembered for garish displays of American optimism: tail fins on cars, the rise of rock ’n’ roll and the demographic jolt of the baby boom.
Eisenhower wasn’t just popular, he was also trusted. That, I believe, was a function of how he led. And, in many ways, he led like a football coach. He was not the most dynamic or charismatic leader. But as scholars examined his papers, they started to see that behind the scenes he was more passionate, engaged and strategic than he may have appeared to be publicly. His perceived aloofness was often strategic restraint. He avoided fear-mongering and divisive rhetoric. And he worked quietly to formulate tactics that had the best odds of yielding positive outcomes.
One of the paradoxes of leadership is that the better you are at it, the less people tend to notice you. When leaders remain calm and consistent, and unite people over a sensible course of action, observers may be less likely to recognize their influence or give them proper credit. This is true of great coaches and it could be true of a great president. It was certainly true of Eisenhower.
The ancient Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu wrote: “A leader is best when people barely know he exists. When his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say: We did it ourselves.”
That’s the best description of Eisenhower’s presidency. And it serves as a prescription for the kind of leader America needs.
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