There is Genius in Passion: Reflections on developing competence and self-belief through human movement

By Gordon Paterson

Gordon Paterson reflects on the life experiences that led him to the threshold of his doctorate that focused on youth sport coaching strategies conducive to strengthening the self-esteem of school sport participants.

His story covers the: impact of his teacher-coach parents; influence of school teachers and coaches including a year in New Zealand as an exchange scholar; university Physical Education lecturers and the many coaches and sports teams encountered; fourteen years teaching and coaching at Michaelhouse, an independent boys’ school in the Midlands of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa.

Gordon’s enquiring mind and passion for educating adolescent boys through human movement experiences derived from play, results in a fascinating account of his evolving philosophy and practice to develop competence and self-belief in those he taught and coached.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Paterson
• Release date: Jan 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9780473296445

Gordon Paterson

Born to teacher-coach parents, Gordon Paterson’s life work has been in education. After his schooling in Estcourt, KwaZulu-Natal, he spent a year on exchange in New Zealand before completing a degree in Physical Education and Geography at Stellenbosch University, followed later by a Higher Education Diploma at the University of Natal in Pietermaritzburg. Gordon was appointed to teach Physical Education and Geography at Michaelhouse, an independent school in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands. Educating through playful human movement was his primary interest resulting in his returning to University to complete Honours and Masters qualifications, both achieved with distinction. His relentless pursuit to create optimal learning environments outside the classroom saw him introduce Human Kinetics to replace Physical Education as a subject at Michaelhouse, where he taught and coached for a period of fourteen years, including his two year sabbatical. He was nicknamed “Floyd” by the students – was it after the boxer (Patterson) or his pink face (Pink Floyd) following shoulder stands in the parallel bars? His interest extended to youth sport coaching with his search for optimal coaching strategies designed to maximise the educational value of enjoyment in school sport. This latter search resulted in his doctoral thesis that focused on coaching strategies conducive to enhancing the self-esteem of participants in school sport. This research commenced during his 5-year term post-Michaelhouse as a lecturer in the educational aspects of Human Movement Studies at Stellenbosch University. Gordon and his wife Helene immigrated with their two young children to New Zealand in 1994 where he spent his first eleven years at the Waikato Institute of Technology in Hamilton. After commencing as a lecturer in sport coaching he progressed through the role of Head of School, Sport and Exercise Science to become Dean of the Faculty of Business and Technology. Gordon then established Ad Rem International Limited, an education consultancy he and Helene run as co-directors before returning for an 18-month stint at the Bay of Plenty Polytechnic in Tauranga as Head of School, Applied Science. In November 2008 he was appointed as CEO of Physical Education New Zealand (PENZ), the national association for Physical Educators, a position he held for five years before returning to Ad Rem International Limited in February 2014. His first project has been the completion and publication of “There is Genius in Passion”.

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Acknowledgements

To the Waikato Institute of Technology, thank you for the short period of leave offered to me after the completion of my doctorate when I was able to get the initial manuscript underway.

To my family, for contending with my incessant chatter about things long past and especially to Ross for his proof-read, thank you very much.

To Robin Cox, James Arnott, Victor Anderson, Andrew Yorke-Smith and Chris Keeping, thank you for your feedback and advice on specific sections of the text.

To Bruce Herbert and Peter Armitage, thank you for your comments and willingness to write the forewords.

To Jenny Argante, many thanks for your patient editing and willingness to educate me about writing and publishing books.

To Tyler McGrath, thank you for taking the time to share with me the various ways in which we could set about the printing process.

To the Michaelhouse Old Boys’ Branches who were supportive in hosting me to a series of launches while visiting South Africa, thank you for assisting me complete one of life’s circles and enabling the reconnection of so many friendships.

Forewords

It’s an honour and indeed a privilege to be asked by Gordon to write these few words.

Like many Michaelhouse boys I was truly blessed by Gordon’s positive influence during our early years. His passion and dedication as a coach and teacher was unrivalled.

Who could ever forget Tarpeys, our Under 14½ rugby field?

Gordon’s ability to grow and nurture the X-Factor within his teams was a gift and resulted in a selfless approach on the field where players played for each other and for the common good of the team. During his six years as the Under 14½ A rugby coach his teams regularly produced some astonishing results often against schools much bigger than Michaelhouse.

Gordon always ensured that we came away from a rugby match with lessons learnt, regardless of whether we had won or lost. He would remind us there is a key difference between being beaten and losing. Those of you who were coached by him will hopefully remember this useful life skill.

Gordon was deservedly appointed as the Michaelhouse 1st XV Coach where he again served with great distinction. He has become a living legend and I, along with all the old and new ‘Men of Michaelhouse,’ wish you and Helene a deserved and blessed retirement in the Land of the Long White Cloud.

Bruce Herbert

Michaelhouse

Under 14½ A Rugby Captain (1983)

1st XV Rugby Captain and Natal Schools Rugby (1986)

Business Consultant: in-2-africa

The fact that I am writing a foreword for this book tells a story in itself. As Gordon reflects in this book, as a scholar at Michaelhouse I was a very keen, but limited young sports and human movement participant. My sports career is remembered by few others in the world aside from myself and my long-suffering late father, who doggedly and persistently pitched up at Saturday games, to watch the Under 14½ E team take another beating.

Yet quite remarkably, the pages of this book describe elements of my sports progress in lucid detail. Gordon was the star first team coach and Human Kinetics teacher, broadly admired by his teams and their opponents. Most individuals in his position would hardly notice the pursuits of those nowhere near first team calibre. Yet he took a personal and passionate interest in the fate and progress of every student under his tutelage, no matter how talented. He clearly derived as much satisfaction helping nurture the progress of a less-skilled individual as seeing one of his stars handed a Natal Schools blazer.

Gordon has had a career of giving; giving unlimited time and patience to anybody who evidenced determination, giving confidence to young boys to be the best they can be and giving life lessons to all those that listened. But above all he is a motivator of men. I have fond recollections of his inspired speeches to a group of spindly young teenagers at the start of a class gym session, requiring us to question what we were capable of, and whether we were achieving our potential. Many of the lessons learnt from Gordon still influence how I live my life today, in spheres including and well beyond sport.

Gordon was (and still is) an inspiration to many and this book gives an insight into the deep thought and resolve with which he embarked on his profession. He gave gravity and purpose to activities which at many other schools were considered of lesser importance. It is no surprise to me that Gordon went on to earn a doctorate in his profession. I was personally privileged to have him as one of my life mentors.

The detail with which he recalls every rugby game is quite remarkable and I am confident readers will find inspiration as they turn the pages of this book. Thank you Gordon, on behalf of hundreds of schoolboys whose lives have been touched and influenced by your passion.

Peter Armitage

Michaelhouse

Under 14½ E Rugby Captain (1983)

4th XV Rugby Captain and Senior Prefect (1987)

CEO Anchor Group

Prologue

The mist swirled around the old oak trees adjacent to the Rectory causing the orange brick quadrangle of the school to disappear behind a thicker plume of white; a common late afternoon phenomenon on a summer day at Balgowan. The south east breeze had brought the moist air mass in from the coast, cooling and condensing as it ascended the scarp slopes in moving towards the interior.

I was strolling on the path around St. Michael’s Mount above the new dam, my 10-month old son Ross in a back pack. In the distance the concerned cry of a hadedah resounded from the mist-shrouded valley. It seemed to be warning its colleagues of some approaching menace.

Without turning my head I asked, Ross, utini nkankaan?

There was only a brief pause before the reply came.

Ha haa, ha haa.

Ross mimicked exactly the cry of the antique-looking bird. Spending much of his day with our house maid Philipina and her young son Umfundu, Ross already understood a number of Zulu words.

My Principal at Estcourt High School, Mitchell Lindsay, had once written on my school report that I had an enquiring mind. For some reason I had often reflected on that simple statement. I invariably found myself asking myself ‘Why?’ when I set about an activity. On arriving at my first teaching post at Michaelhouse at the start of 1975, I asked myself what it was that I would attempt to achieve through my teaching of Physical Education, later to become Human Kinetics.

Similarly, I was enthralled by my involvement in school sport, the practice of which adhered to the school ethos. It seemed to me that some staff viewed sport simply as a time of recreation for boys. My belief was that we should strive for excellence in all educational activities offered and that included sport. So how hard should we practise and play? How could the realm of human movement contribute to the education and development of these young people?

I deeply appreciated the central role the chapel played in the life of the school. That was the first place that boys went to on arrival at the start of a term. The chapel was also the last place they would visit and having sung Stars of the Morning, they would leave for home.

During my evening runs around the estate, I would stop and enjoy moments of solitude at my rusty gate that served as an altar. There I would open my mind and communicate with God.

Inevitably I would seek a message, often asking for forgiveness when I had erred; saying thanks for those special moments that had arisen in the day; for all I had in my life and for affording me the privilege of teaching at this great school. On many occasions the message would be revealed to me in the pattern of the clouds, the shafts of evening sunlight and the contrasting greens of the grasses, oak, gum and plane trees that filled the valley below.

And what was it that I could learn from the hadedah? Intently I watched the birds as they strutted around purposefully on the kikuyu grass blanketing the playing fields. The long curved beak sinking into the grass in search of food. What did that cry mean, sometimes simply mournful, at other times earnest in alerting the flock?

When visiting my parents at Amberfield, a retirement village in Howick, KwaZulu-Natal, they would line up along the apex of a cottage roof as the welcoming committee. At my sister Janet’s home in the same town, they would stroll onto the back veranda and calmly help themselves from the dogs’ bowls. When the back veranda gate was closed, they still found their way onto the front veranda, through the front door, into the lounge, across the passage, and through the kitchen to get to the dogs’ food.

No flies on this crew! When chased away, they would appear to be thoroughly indignant as though they were being denied something that was rightfully theirs for the taking. The hadedah has been around a long time — what can we learn from its behaviour?

This book describes the life of a young teacher with an enquiring mind making his way through the first fourteen years of his working life. Excited about educating young people holistically through the physical during both Physical Education or Human Kinetics lessons and out on the sports field, his ongoing quest to answer the simple question ‘why’ led to his arrival at the first step of a doctoral thesis.

What are the potential contributions teachers and coaches can make to the education and development of young students? What behaviours of teachers, coaches and leaders will best assist students in their path towards the realisation of their potential en route to self-actualisation? What motivates them to accept the challenge to become the best that they can be? How can we assist each individual to discover their passion within? After all, there is genius in passion!

This is the story of the path he followed before arriving at that first step — of those decisions and actions that were poor and, with hindsight, ill-advised. It provides perceptions of actions that worked well, including those heady moments when teachers and students are at one, in education together and achieving lofty goals within and beyond the curriculum.

I remain indebted to all the boys whom I encountered during those fourteen years and for their contribution towards my moulding as a teacher.

Thanks to Rex Pennington who, as Rector, employed me, to Neil Jardine and John Pluke for their guidance as the other two Rectors I taught under, and to the present Rector Greg Theron for his support of this book venture.

Finally, I extend my thanks to my fellow teachers, the administrative and ground staff at Michaelhouse who all, in their own way, contributed to my development and enjoyment as an educator within that magnificent environment.

Gordon D. Paterson

CHAPTER 1

Bunny-Jackets and Clothing Lists

Monday morning was frigidly cold with a heavy blanket of frost outside, the temperature a few degrees below zero. At nearly 5000 feet above sea-level and one hundred miles from the coast, weather in the little town of Mooi River in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands could be bitter during the winter.

Heavy on my heart was the thought of heading back to boarding school in Estcourt, only about 25 miles away. I detested being away from home, though it wasn’t so much being away as it was going back.

Both of my parents taught at Weston Agricultural College, a secondary school situated on a 3000 acre farm. The school accommodated the final four years of schooling for 150 boys seeking careers in agriculture.

My father was appointed to the school as a single teacher in 1945 after returning from the war. He retired at the end of 1982 after spending his last twenty years as Principal.

He would not permit either my elder brother or me to attend Weston as in his view we might have to bear the brunt of repercussions following on from difficult decisions that he would have to make from time to time.

I lay in my comfortably warm bed, waiting for my mother’s third call of, Time to get up, Gordon.

The fly-screen door closed with its customary smack and I heard my father’s low-pitched greeting in the kitchen of Verina, our Zulu housemaid. Now the sound of his measured yet fairly rapid footsteps grew nearer as he came down the passage.

I thought that you were going to get up with me this morning, Gordon.

The anticipated opening line. My equally inevitable response was spoken with little conviction.

Too cold, Dad, and I was tired.

You’re bone bloody idle. Come on, it’s time you got up.

Though he did not speak at all maliciously, it still hurt a little. In saying it he made me feel that I was unacceptably soft and too fond of my cosy bed.

He was wearing his army issue bunny-jacket and a khaki knitted cap on his head. He was upright and his face was, as always, fully alive, his complexion healthy and glowing from his exercise in the biting morning air.

Dad wearing his army issue bunny-jacket

Stealing those final precious minutes of a lie-in, I reflected on the picture that was painted indelibly in my mind of my awesome father.

His parents lived in a corrugated iron home on a modest dairy farm near Pietermaritzburg. The family had built a home on Sunnybrook that represented the reward of many years of hard labour managing other peoples’ farms.

Dad completed his final year of schooling at Estcourt High School and then studied the first year of a BSc degree at the University in Pietermaritzburg. He had to travel to Pretoria in his second year as Natal did not then offer a degree in agriculture. He represented both universities’ under-19 rugby teams in his first two years, and in his third year he was promoted directly into the first fifteen in Pretoria, the only English speaker in the team.

University of Pretoria 1st XV — 1940

Dad second from the right front row

As usual, the bunny-jacket conjured up for me an image of him being blown out of his armoured scout-car during the desert war. His driver detonated a landmine when the rear wheel went over it. Dad’s recovery from a blown-open head in some God-forsaken part of the world provided the major brush strokes for the picture in my mind.

If this wasn’t enough he was pounced on by a German from behind. Dad was ordered to accompany a senior officer down to the banks of the Arno River in Italy to view a possible site for the building of a Bailey bridge when he was captured. The last nine months of the war were spent as a prisoner. When the war ended he went to Scotland to work for his living and restore his health after the deterioration that occurred during his incarceration.

Now Dad was a picture of health and strength, the man who came back against the odds, got his life on track and stepped up from one level to the next.

Albert Schweitzer is reported to have said that modelling is not one way of teaching, it is the only way. In my eyes, my father was an awe-inspiring model. For me the task of emulation took on mammoth proportions.

In travelling to Pretoria in his second year at University, Dad required a part-time job to pay for his studies.

He found employment on the dairy farm of William Hastie-Smith, a Scottish baker who had sought the drier climate of South Africa due to asthma.

Here Dad met Jean Hastie–Smith, younger daughter of William and Anne, whom he married on his return from the war. My mother trained as a teacher, completing a BSc degree at Pretoria University (majoring in biology and geography) followed by a higher education diploma.

She was a fine hockey and tennis player who never lost a women’s doubles tennis match at the South African Universities competition, where she was partnered by her elder sister Audrey.

Mum was methodical and meticulous. This was well demonstrated by the clothing lists in our suitcases that accompanied us back to boarding school. Every shirt and pair of socks was accounted for through marking it off as it was neatly folded in the brown leather suitcase.

We did not always have the newest or the best, but we were always well-catered for and lacked for nothing.

Mum ran weekly children’s tennis during the summer holiday, including a tournament. Again, the organisation was superb and she gave of herself in the best interests of not only her own children, but those in the district. A popular event, it was well-supported by the farmers’ children in the Mooi River area.

We were blessed as children in that we had parents who cared; who were stable educators and who lived by and demanded high standards of common decency. Christian principles were clearly the base upon which our values were founded. My mother attended church more regularly than did my father while neither was highly demonstrative or evangelical in terms of their faith. However, one sensed that it ran deep and the example set by both parents was as good as any child could hope for.

As a third child in a family of four, I had to establish my kudos in the family — that which set me apart and provided me with my own ‘space in the sun.’

Janet and Robert, my older sister and brother, were both bright academically. I did not lack intelligence, yet it seems that once sent to boarding school at the age of ten, my academic performance was only average in the A class. At high school I targeted 13th position in tri-weekly tests as Dad had said I should finish in the top half of the class of 26.

That sounded fair to me.

I had learned that I could outperform the older two in activities that involved a ball in the air and it happened that both my parents had a keen interest in sports that involved those skills. A ball in the air contributed to my kudos, my space and therefore my particular relationship with the two immediate significant others in my life whom I most loved and admired.

Thank goodness my younger brother Bruce arrived a good nine years later as he proved to be a highly competent sportsman.

I broke a front tooth at about the age of ten and lived with a silver band around the remaining half tooth until my final year at secondary school. Rob and I made use of an old pram as a go-cart and we were able to get up to good speeds on the path down past our house. The pram tended to veer to one side so we had a solid wattle pole to prod it back on course. Rob was pushing me back up the path with the pole across my feet when the front end of the pram dipped down under his downward push. The wattle pole flipped up into the air and landed on my mouth. It was typical of young boys learning the odd lesson the tough way through being allowed to take appropriate risks in a superb physical environment.

Two ‘games’ that involved a ball in the air and eye-hand co-ordination impacted enormously on my childhood relationship with my father. As my parents were both teachers, holidays for the family were determined by school holiday patterns. The three-week winter holiday in July was our main vacation away from home. For about thirteen years consecutively we would journey down to Ramsgate, one hundred miles south of Durban, where we would stay in a cottage.

Mum, Robert, Janet, me, Dad and Bruce at Ramsgate, 1980

Other than swimming in the Indian Ocean, we would also have skim boards, beach bats, tractor inner tubes, golf clubs and balls of all sizes and descriptions.

On nearly a daily basis, I would take a tennis ball to Dad and ask him if he would give me some fielding practice. He seldom declined and we would spend at least twenty minutes engaged in a simple catching drill. Most of this time would be spent with me about 5 to 10 metres away from Dad, who would flick underhand catches to test how wide I could dive to retrieve the catch. He could flick at pace and accurately and I would never tire of our game. I was a child at play and, what is more, my playmate was my father.

Dad would chortle away when a good dive resulted in a one-handed catch taken millimetres above the sand. We often concluded the session with a few high catches when he would make use of the beach bat to get the ball as high as possible.

As a result of this game, I developed a belief that I could catch anything and it is of no surprise that for many years fielding was the aspect of cricket that I most enjoyed. Whether close to the bat or on the boundary, concentrating on every delivery was simply a game and when the opportunity came my way, I would hungrily hunt the catch down.

A ball in the air linked me through play to the male role model I admired and loved the most. The game we played involved challenges that continually tested my limits. The effort made to take the difficult catch was more important than the catch itself.

A dropped catch was nothing more than a step in the process to the next level, the effort supported; the outcome afforded learning to enable progression. There was little difference in Dad’s response to a caught or dropped catch because, on each occasion, it was the attempt that was applauded.

I was receiving individual attention and it seemed that Dad was deriving as much pleasure from the process as I was. I relished the challenge of catching the ball in the air. There were no records, no losers, no rules and no awards. The over-riding sense was of the fun and excitement so typical of play in its pure sense; of energy shared and endless.

We learned to ride horses at a young age and gymkhana riding became an activity we got involved in during the long summer holidays. The local polo club would run a gymkhana each year on the polo ground in Mooi River.

There was an event called ‘ball and barrier’ in which you started on your horse next to a bucket from where you cantered forward about 30 metres to collect a ball tossed to you by your partner, who was standing behind the rope barrier. You would canter back to the bucket, drop the ball into it and canter back to collect the next of three balls.

The horse I would use for this event when I was younger was Pawnee, a docile half-Shetland pony. Later I borrowed Janet’s horse Chips, who was also prepared to take things quietly. Dad would take up his position behind the barrier and when the contest started I either stayed where I was or moved no more than five metres forward.

Queen, Rob, Chips, Jan, Pawnee, me

Dad flicked his underarm throw with amazing accuracy. I would let go of the reins, take the catch and either drop the ball into the bucket or trot back to lob it in and position myself for the next missile. We invariably won by a mile and on the odd occasion when a ball was dropped, I still had time to dismount collect it, remount and drop it in the bucket.

The challenge of getting both throw and catch right was significant, it was a team effort and it didn’t matter on the odd occasion when we didn’t get it right. Dad and I were greatly amused when the committee met to decide if our practice was legal; after all, wasn’t this about horsemanship rather than ball throwing and catching?

Fair enough and, to their credit, they let us continue.

This was probably the only form of team competition that involved my father in my team, and here it was just the two of us. The challenge was the ball in the air and competing — and it was great fun. When we got both the heats and the final right there was a sense of achievement that fostered our father-son bond.

That it didn’t matter when we got it wrong was of equal importance. We would discuss what part of our combination had come adrift, laugh about it and look forward to the next opportunity. It is worth mentioning that the balls were often polo balls and thrown from that distance they were hard especially for young hands.

We were both concerned about my horse, but I had the ability to get far enough forward if I had to and catch it in front of the horse’s head. I am pleased to say we had no injuries and that challenge of a ball in the air between my father and me had a significant impact on our early relationship.

It would be remiss of me not to say that a ball in the air and eye-hand co-ordination impacted similarly on my relationship with my mother.

Mum ran tennis for the Mooi River community on the tennis courts at Weston. She also played for the town team in the Weenen County Championship and she coached the school tennis team.

I would take my racquet down to the old clay courts next to the dairy and wait patiently for the adults to finish their tennis, after which I usually managed to persuade someone to have a knockabout with me.

During the long summer holiday, Mum would run tennis for the local kids and towards the end of the holiday she would organize a tournament on the three new concrete tennis courts built just below the school.

After tennis, we would go for a swim in the school pool, often a highlight after playing tennis in the heat.

There is little doubt that tennis was a primary factor in my interactions with my mother. This was one game at which I could out-perform my two older siblings, and Mum identified with my keen enthusiasm.

Like the catching on the beach, I derived great pleasure from taking my racquet to the practice wall at school and hitting a ball at length against the wall. I would target two bricks above the painted white line that served as the net and I would spend hours striking them, attempting for accuracy and timing with each stroke hit.

Captain of the Estcourt Junior School tennis team — 1964

Mum coached me and provided optimal feedback to improve my game. I still know when my feet have been ‘lazy;’ if I am in ‘no man’s land’ or if I haven’t got my ‘racquet back early.’

I recall losing in the final of a tournament in Port Shepstone when nervousness nearly paralysed me after I’d won a semi-final against someone I wasn’t expected to beat. Mum taught me about ‘getting above the court’ and ‘looking down and seeing yourself play.’ In effect, getting out of oneself and some distance away and see the process of playing for what it is.

This helped reduce the tension because getting up above makes you understand it’s just another game like all the rest. Learning that degree of self-management and creative visualization in advance of playing was incredibly helpful for both my tennis game and in cricket when batting against quick opening bowlers.

It must be said that while Dad was always for you and you sensed his love, he was a hard man primarily in terms of the standards he set and expected us to match. This can be illustrated in many ways, but perhaps what paints the best picture is the expectations he had for his rugby team.

His captain and vice-captain of the first and second rugby teams would come down to our house every Thursday evening to finalise the first and second teams for Saturday’s matches.

Mum’s home-made biscuits and a cup of tea would go down well with the boys who boarded at the College. The team was always superbly fit with boys accustomed to doing plenty of physical work on the 3000-acre farm. They were encouraged to play hard but to be scrupulously clean in terms of fair play. The code of conduct was crystal clear: Play the ball and not the man within the spirit of the game.

Any player who transgressed was dealt with severely. If found guilty of swearing, tackling high, back-chatting the referee, punching, or arguing with the opposition, you could expect to be caned six after assembly on Monday morning. Few were caned during a season and Weston’s reputation for hard but scrupulously clean rugby stretched far and wide.

Dad was fully committed to his career as teacher and school principal and highly successful. He would teach a class, saddle a horse up and ride to the top end of the farm to monitor a task being completed there, ride back and be in his office again for an interview.

His day started regularly at 5:30am and seldom was he in bed before 10pm.

He was rarely free to watch his own children play sport as he was either with his own team, teaching or working on the farm. Dad would not take the long summer holiday as he regarded it as more important to be on the farm at that time of the year. Even the sought-after winter holiday on the coast was at times interrupted by him being on tour with his rugby team in Rhodesia.

So it was with a touch of mixed sadness and anger that I dragged myself out of bed on that cold winter’s morning and prepared to head back to boarding school.

Sad because home was such a great place to be and angry because my father thought it was better that his children were sent away rather than attend his own school.

In summary, I had parents who set such fine examples of good living based on sound values. Love was evident in that in times of need they were always there for you and every action was measured and taken with every intention of it being in