“You can’t train a horse with shouts and expect it to obey a whisper.”

That idea has been sitting with me a lot lately. Because this week, for just a moment, everything in the room aligned. The noise dropped. The distractions faded. And a group of young men—who are often moving, joking, testing boundaries—stopped and listened.

Not because I raised my voice.
But because, over time, I haven’t needed to.

They listened as I told them something simple but important: their words matter. Their emotions are real. And music gives them a way to express both.

In a single rehearsal, we can travel a wide emotional landscape. We can express gratitude to someone who’s made a difference in our lives. We can explore the vulnerability of caring about someone else. We can connect to history and tradition. We can feel music physically like an extension of the athletic world many of them already understand. And we can stand together in pride, representing something bigger than ourselves.

That’s what makes this work matter.

Because this isn’t just about singing notes correctly. It’s about building something that many of these young men haven’t been given permission to explore before: emotional honesty paired with discipline.

And discipline is the key.

There’s a temptation, especially in a class like this, to let things drift—to turn it into a passive experience, to “just appreciate music.” But that’s not the standard here. Not anymore.

There are too many people watching now. Too many people wondering if this thing—this idea of a Gridiron Glee Club—can actually work.

So we’ve pushed our chips all-in.

I look at them and say, without saying it directly: I dare you not to care about the sound you’re making. Because when they lock in—when they truly focus—they hear it. And when they hear it, they start to own it.

That’s when it shifts.

It’s no longer about compliance. It becomes about pride.

And that shift is starting to extend beyond the choir room.

This week, I saw multiple teachers wearing Gridiron Glee Club shirts. The program is no longer just an idea—it’s becoming part of the school’s identity. Even in the process of hiring a new coach, candidates were brought through the room to see what’s happening here.

Think about that.

A choir rehearsal as something worth showcasing.

What started as an experiment is becoming something embedded—something people point to and say, “This matters.”

And in the middle of it all, there’s still joy. There’s still fun. One day this week, we stood together and followed the intricate, animated lines of a Bach fugue scatting an assigned color.

A group of young men discovering that they are capable of creating something excellent—and realizing that excellence requires both discipline and heart.

We’re not there yet.

But for a brief moment this week, we got close enough to hear it.

And now that they’ve heard it, I don’t think they’ll forget.  We are past the point of no return.

Our Spring Concert is April 23rd at 6:00 p.m. in the Lawson Performing Arts Center