The Right Stuff: Before We Launch the Next Generation of Coaches

"Almost anybody can be launched. The real question is whether they can complete the mission."

One of the earliest films I can remember watching was The Right Stuff.

At the time, I was captivated by the obvious things that capture a young person's imagination: the rockets, the aircraft, the speed, the danger and the possibility that human beings could leave the Earth and travel into space. It was adventure on a scale that seemed impossible to comprehend.

As the years have passed, however, it is not the rockets that have stayed with me. It is the phrase itself.

The Right Stuff.

There is something timeless about those three words. They emerged during the early years of the American space programme when NASA was trying to identify the first astronauts capable of venturing into the unknown. The phrase wasn't really about intelligence. It wasn't solely about courage. Nor was it simply about technical competence.

It was a search for a particular type of person.

Someone who possessed the judgement, resilience, humility, adaptability and character required to operate under extraordinary pressure. Someone who could remain calm when things became uncertain. Someone who could solve problems when there were no obvious answers. Someone who could be trusted.

That phrase returned to my mind recently as I read about the crew selected for Artemis III, the mission that will return human beings to the Moon.

Reading through the biographies of the astronauts, one thing stood out immediately. These were not individuals who had arrived overnight. They were not products of a fast-track programme or the result of a few years of development. They were people who had spent decades accumulating experience.

Military aviators.

Test pilots.

Engineers.

Commanders.

Medical doctors.

Individuals who had built capability over twenty or thirty years before being entrusted with one of the most demanding missions imaginable.

One member of the crew specialises in robotics and autonomous systems. Another has commanded the International Space Station. Others have backgrounds forged through military aviation, leadership and operational service. The common thread running through all of them is not talent alone. It is preparation.

Nobody appears surprised that it takes decades to prepare somebody to go to the Moon.

Yet in sport, we often seem surprised when coaching expertise takes just as long.

The more I reflected on the Artemis crew, the more I found myself thinking about coaching development and, if I'm honest, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with some of the patterns I see emerging across sport.

There seems to be a growing tendency to accelerate people into coaching positions before they have had sufficient opportunity to develop their craft. Former athletes retire and are immediately encouraged to become coaches. Young practitioners are rapidly promoted into increasingly complex roles. Organisations speak enthusiastically about creating opportunities, and opportunities are undoubtedly important.

But there is a difference between creating opportunities and accelerating people beyond their current level of readiness.

Athletic experience and coaching expertise are not the same thing.

Playing the game and helping others play the game are fundamentally different challenges.

One is about your performance.

The other is about somebody else's.

One is largely about managing yourself.

The other is about understanding, supporting and influencing other human beings.

That distinction matters.

Perhaps the question we should be asking is not whether somebody wants to coach.

Many people want to coach.

The more important question is whether they are ready for launch.

When NASA prepares astronauts, they are not preparing them for the launch itself. The launch is relatively brief. It may be spectacular, dramatic and highly visible, but it is only the beginning of the mission.

The real challenge starts once the rocket leaves the launch pad.

Perhaps coaching careers are no different.

Before we light the candle and launch somebody into a coaching role, what questions should we be asking?

Do they understand the mission they are undertaking?

Do they know why they want to coach?

Is coaching genuinely about helping other people grow, or is it simply the next available step following an athletic career?

Have they reflected deeply enough to understand what coaching will demand of them?

Because eventually every coach enters their own version of space.

And space can be a lonely place.

One of the fascinating realities of space travel is that familiar reference points disappear. There is no obvious up or down. There is no natural horizon. Left and right become relative concepts. Astronauts must learn to orientate themselves differently because the environment no longer provides the same cues.

Many coaches experience something remarkably similar.

As athletes, there are often clear measures of success. You know where you stand. You know what is expected. You know whether you won or lost. You know whether your performance improved.

Coaching is rarely that straightforward.

The longer you coach, the more ambiguity you encounter.

Should you challenge or support?

Should you intervene or observe?

Should you push harder or step back?

Should you focus on performance or wellbeing?

Should you prioritise the individual or the group?

Increasingly, the answers become "it depends."

When the familiar reference points disappear, what guides your decision-making?

What values become your navigation system?

What principles become your North Star?

Can you operate effectively when certainty is unavailable?

These are not insignificant questions because coaching is not simply the transfer of knowledge. It is the exercise of judgement.

And judgement takes time to develop.

NASA understands this. Nobody becomes a trusted astronaut after attending a weekend workshop. Nobody becomes a mission commander because they have passed an online assessment. Experience matters. Exposure matters. Repetition matters.

Most importantly, accumulated judgement matters.

That leads to another uncomfortable question.

Are we genuinely developing coaches or are we consuming them?

Increasingly, I find myself wondering whether some coaching systems have become trapped in a cycle of disposability. We identify enthusiastic individuals, give them responsibility, place them under pressure and then judge them quickly when results do not immediately appear.

Some survive.

Many drift away.

Others become disillusioned.

A coaching career that might have flourished over twenty years ends within two.

Not because the individual lacked potential.

Not because they lacked passion.

But because they lacked preparation.

There is a significant difference.

What concerns me is that we often confuse early failure with a lack of capability when, in reality, it may simply reflect insufficient development.

After all, nobody would expect a pilot fresh from flight school to command a lunar mission.

Nobody would expect a newly qualified surgeon to undertake the most complex operation in the hospital.

Nobody would expect a newly commissioned officer to lead a major military campaign.

So why do we sometimes expect coaches to thrive in environments for which they have not yet been adequately prepared?

Perhaps coaching needs its own version of test pilot school.

Not necessarily a building or a programme, but a philosophy.

A place where coaches can experiment safely.

A place where mistakes become learning opportunities rather than career-ending events.

A place where coaches can work with different athletes, different personalities and different challenges before being handed the most demanding responsibilities.

Because coaching expertise is built through exposure to complexity.

It is built through difficult conversations.

It is built through mistakes.

It is built through reflection.

It is built through time.

There is another lesson from space exploration that I think coaching organisations should pay attention to.

Every mission has limits.

There is only so much fuel.

Only so much oxygen.

Only so much energy available.

Astronauts understand this reality because their survival depends upon it.

The same principle applies to coaches.

What is their oxygen supply?

How do they recover?

Who supports them?

Who helps them think clearly when challenges arise?

Who tells them uncomfortable truths?

Who helps them remain connected to their purpose when pressures begin to mount?

One of the greatest dangers in coaching is not failure.

It is drift.

Astronauts train extensively to avoid becoming lost in space because they understand that tiny errors, left uncorrected, eventually become significant deviations from the intended mission.

The same thing happens in coaching.

Most coaches begin with positive intentions.

They want to help people.

They want to make a difference.

They want to contribute.

Yet gradually, if they are not careful, the mission changes.

Results become everything.

Recognition becomes important.

Status becomes attractive.

Career progression becomes the primary objective.

The original mission slowly disappears from view.

Perhaps every coach should occasionally pause and ask themselves a simple question.

Am I still on the mission I originally launched for?

Or have I drifted away from it?

There is another aspect of coaching that I think deserves greater attention.

We spend a great deal of time discussing technical expertise, tactical understanding and performance knowledge, yet I increasingly wonder whether many people underestimate the importance of genuine human connection.

Human beings have changed in many ways over the past century. Technology has transformed our lives. Communication has changed dramatically. The environments in which athletes operate are increasingly complex.

Yet some fundamental human needs remain remarkably consistent.

People want to be understood.

People want to belong.

People want to feel valued.

People want to trust the people around them.

Athletes are no different.

Before athletes buy into your programme, your methodology or your philosophy, they are making a judgement about you.

Can I trust this person?

Do they genuinely care?

Will they be there when things become difficult?

Are they invested in my development or primarily invested in their own career?

Those questions often determine the quality of the relationship long before any technical expertise enters the conversation.

Connection matters.

Trust matters.

But trust alone is not enough.

The coach must also have something valuable to offer.

This brings me back to the phrase that sparked these reflections in the first place.

The right stuff.

The word "stuff" sounds almost casual, yet perhaps it captures something important.

What exactly are we filling coaches with?

What experiences are they accumulating?

What practical tools are they developing?

What problems have they learned to solve?

What knowledge can they apply rather than simply discuss?

Sometimes I worry that coach development focuses heavily on models, frameworks and language while paying insufficient attention to usefulness.

Athletes need coaches who can help them.

Not coaches who simply know things.

Useful stuff matters.

Applicable stuff matters.

Transferable stuff matters.

The kind of stuff that works when pressure arrives.

The kind of stuff that can be adapted to different people and different situations.

The kind of stuff that allows a coach to remain effective when circumstances become messy and uncertain.

Ultimately, the lesson I take from Artemis, from NASA and from The Right Stuff is surprisingly simple.

Great capability takes time.

It takes repetition.

It takes challenge.

It takes support.

It takes patience.

Most importantly, it takes a willingness to invest in long-term development rather than seeking immediate results.

Perhaps that is the challenge for sport.

Not simply identifying talented coaches.

Not simply creating opportunities.

But creating environments in which coaches can accumulate the right experiences, develop sound judgement and build the right stuff over time.

Because the real question is not whether somebody can be launched.

Almost anybody can be launched.

The real question is whether they can complete the mission.

And perhaps the final question belongs not to the coach but to the organisation preparing them for take-off.

Are we preparing coaches for a successful mission?

Or are we simply launching them and hoping they survive?

The answer to that question may determine whether the next generation of coaches truly develops the right stuff.