Weekly Coaching Conversation (New Edition)

A Business Fable about Taking Your Team's Performance—and Your Career—to the Next Level

Brian Souza

• Publisher: Productivitydrivers
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9780996018401
• eBook ISBN: 9780996018418
• Topic: Business
• Subtopic: Management
• Index: Business

(COMPLETELY REVISED EDITION WITH A THIRD NEW CONTENT)

Improve performance. Transform you career. Changes lives.

Whether your team is in an office, on a field, in a classroom, or in your living room—have you ever thought they had more to give, but you weren't quite sure how to get it out of them? Have you ever wanted them to play up to their potential, but didn't quite know how to make it happen? Are you looking for that one new idea, that one simple strategy that will take your team's performance—and your career—to the next level? If so, The Weekly Coaching Conversation is definitely the book for you.

Every once in a while a book like this comes along with a message so simple—yet so profound—it literally changes people's lives.

In a story as inspiring as it is informative, bestselling author Brian Souza reveals the secrets to unleashing a person's potential by systematically improving his or her performance. Introducing a groundbreaking, yet simple-to-understand and easy-to-apply coaching framework that's backed by years of rigorous research, The Weekly Coaching Conversation gives managers and leaders the playbook to turbocharge any team's performance.

THE

FABLE

Party Time

Brad Hutchinson was riding high as he made his way down Interstate 280. His destination was Halftime—a famous dive bar just down the street from Stanford University in the otherwise yuppified city of Palo Alto, California. Brad was raring to celebrate. Just a few hours earlier, he had been named Sales Leader of the Year by the executive vice-president for NPC—a Fortune 500 high-tech company—at the company’s regional awards meeting. This wasn’t just any award. In a results-focused, sales-driven company like NPC, it was the award. In a few weeks, the company’s CEO would present Brad with the award at the company’s annual black-tie gala.

As excited as Brad was, a cloud hung over his achievement. A strange vibe had pulsated through the room when the EVP made his surprise announcement. The applause had been polite but light, and whispered reactions combined to form a murmur that filled the room. For some reason everyone—especially those on Brad’s team—had been shocked that he of all people had received such a highly coveted award. Everyone, that is, except Brad. As far as he was concerned, his results were proof positive that he had earned it. After all, he had managed to transform one of the company’s worst-performing divisions into one of the best in only a year.

For Brad, the award was his crowning career achievement and served as proof that he could transcend his humble roots. His drive and determination to succeed were rooted in his upbringing in a working-class family that at times felt lucky just to have enough milk for the Cheerios, let alone a silver spoon to eat with. After working his way through school and earning his bachelor’s degree, Brad landed an entry-level job and quickly rose through the sales ranks. Senior management soon took note of this rising superstar and put him on the management fast-track—which only seemed to increase his appetite for more money, a bigger title, and greater prestige. And the more he raced through life, the more he did it with a singular focus: himself. With that focus, however, came blind spots that would only become apparent in his new management role.

After the regional meeting ended, Brad had invited his team to help him celebrate at Half-time for Friday afternoon Happy Hour. Now as he sped down Interstate 280—swerving in and out of traffic, blaring Black Eyed Peas through his stereo, singing “I Gotta Feeling” at the top of his lungs—he couldn’t help but think, Tonight’s gonna be a good night. He thought for sure that this night would be one of those legendary nights people would talk about and relive for years to come.

In a way, he was right.

Here to Zero

Brad hit the scene at Halftime at 5:15 p.m., bursting through the doors with enough swagger to make Donald Trump seem like an introvert. With neon beer signs plastered on the walls, peanut shells scattered over the concrete floor, and a mishmash of old dart-boards, oversized TVs, and undersized pool tables, Halftime was one of those unique watering holes where an eclectic mix of bar regulars, high-powered business executives, and university students came together to let their hair down and blow off steam.

Brad bellied up to the bar and ordered a pint from Little Nikki. An imposing figure at six-foot-five with a shiny bald head and his signature cutoff T-shirt to show off his bulging biceps, Nikki looked more like the leader of the Hell’s Angels biker gang than the affable owner of one of the friendliest hangouts in town.

Brad shucked a few peanuts, throwing the shells on the floor as Nikki slid him a cold draft. He downed it like ice-cold water on a hot summer day. He was there to celebrate, and tonight he planned to go big. So he ordered another and managed to polish it off as quickly as the first. With two pints down in less than thirty minutes, he figured he had better hit the head before the others showed up and the real party started.

As he made his way to the restroom at the back of the bar, the Black Eyed Peas song still stuck in his head, and he thought to himself, Yes, indeed … tonight’s going to be a good night.

Brad stood over the old tin horse trough, looking over last week’s sports section pinned to the corkboard in front of him. Without warning, the door behind him flew open and slammed into the wall.

“That’s an awful fancy suit you got on there!” bellowed a gruff voice. “Don’t you think you’re a little overdressed for a sh-- hole like this? What—you just come from a funeral or something?” The voice broke into a cascade of coarse laughter.

Brad twisted his head as best he could, given the rather peculiar circumstances, and tried to get a look at the man behind the booming voice. He was surprised—and relieved—to see it wasn’t one of the rougher-looking guys he’d seen at the bar pounding shots of Jack Daniels at five in the afternoon. This man was older—probably in his early seventies. He was smartly dressed and rather distinguished looking. It wasn’t just the way he dressed that said this man was clearly very successful. It was also the way he carried himself—his presence. There was a unique aura about him that instantly put Brad at ease.

“No, not exactly,” Brad said as he loosened his tie. “This isn’t my usual Friday night getup. I actually just came from my region’s annual awards meeting. I’m here to—”

“Awards meeting!” the old man interrupted in a loud but friendly tone. “Did you win anything?”

“Matter of fact, I did,” Brad boasted, feeling more relaxed now that he’d finished his personal business. “I had a huge year. I absolutely crushed my number. In fact, just a few hours ago my EVP announced that I’ve been selected as the company’s Sales Leader of the Year. And to top it off, this is only my first year as a manager!”

As the old man went over to wash his hands, Brad half-jokingly added, “I guess this management stuff isn’t so tough after all.”

“I don’t know about that,” the old man said as they left the restroom and walked toward the bar together, “but that’s pretty damn impressive. Congrats! So I take it you’re here to celebrate?”

Brad glanced at his watch. “Yeah. In fact, my direct reports should be here any minute now. And don’t be surprised if you see me riding that electric bull over there in a few hours. I have a feeling tonight’s going to be one of those nights.”

“Then let me be the first to buy you a celebratory cold one,” the old man said as he motioned to Little Nikki for another round.

Brad thanked him for the pint and kept the friendly banter going.

“So what brings an old fart like you to a dive bar like this? You don’t exactly look like you’re with those guys,” Brad joked, motioning with his head to a few bikers sitting at the bar.

The old man smiled. “Who? Thrasher? Don’t worry. He may look tough, but he’s one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet. I’m traveling a lot these days, so on Fridays whenever I’m in town I like to come down here to meet up with a few old friends, throw back a few, tell some lies, and reminisce about the good old days. You know how it is…”

No sooner had the old man mentioned his buddies than one of them yelled at him from across the room.

“Hey, Coach!” his buddy called. “You gonna shoot pool or keep trying your tired pickup lines on the new guy?”

The group hanging out by the pool tables roared with laughter and exchanged high-fives. The old man just shook his head and grinned.

“Listen,” he said, grabbing his pint, “I’d better get back to my pool game before those jokers start trying to cheat. They know that’s the only way they’ll stand a chance. I’m like Minnesota Fats—I’m just too damn good!” The old man held up his glass for a toast and added, “Here’s to you, kid. Sales Leader of the Year in your first year out of the gate? That’s one hell of an accomplishment.”

Back on his stool at the bar, Brad glanced at his watch. He thought for sure he had told his team to meet him at 5:30, but here it was 5:45, and no one had shown up yet. No worries, he thought, trying to reassure himself. They’ll show. After all, it is Friday at rush hour; they’re probably just stuck in traffic or something. He grabbed his phone and fired off a few text reminders.

Every time the front door swung open, Brad eagerly turned his head, expecting to see one of his team members. But the minutes ticked by and not one of them showed up. Maybe they got lost, he thought. So he grabbed his phone again and fired out a few more texts, this time with directions.

Meanwhile, he couldn’t help noticing the constant flow of professionally dressed, middle-aged men and women streaming through the doors and making a beeline to the back of the bar where the old man was holding court. Each one greeted the guy with an enthusiastic “Coach!” and accepted his bear hug as if they were long-lost friends.

Who is this guy? Brad wondered.

By 6:15, with no messages and no direct reports to be found, Brad began wondering if anyone was going to show up. Of course they will, he thought, desperately trying to assure himself. Why wouldn’t they? Still, he decided he had waited long enough. It was time to kick things up a notch and really get the party started. He ordered another pint, but this time backed it up with a Purple Hooter.

A few more minutes passed. He checked his phone—still no messages. He glanced at the door—still no direct reports. He ordered another pint, another Purple Hooter, and a plate of nachos. Still no messages. Still no direct reports. Another pint, another Purple Hooter, and a plate of wings. Still no messages. Still no direct reports.

After a few hours at the bar celebrating alone, the harsh reality finally sank in: They’re not going to show.

Brad’s heart sank. I don’t get it, he thought. Why didn’t they come? As if to add insult to injury, he couldn’t help but look toward the back of the room, where at least a couple of dozen people had now gathered around the old man; the crowd was back-slapping, belly-laughing, and having a grand old time.

Meanwhile, back up at the bar all alone, dazed and confused, Brad was an emotional wreck. His stomach churned and he suddenly felt an aching emptiness inside. How could one of the best nights of my life turn into one of the worst? Didn’t his team understand the significance of this award? Didn’t they appreciate all the deals he had closed for them? What was wrong with them?

Then it hit him: Had he done something wrong?

For the first time, Brad felt his once-impenetrable shield of self-confidence crumble. At 8:45 p.m., he closed out his tab and headed to the restroom for a final pit stop before counting his losses...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dediction
• Contents
• Introduction
• The Fable
• The Story Behind the Story
• The Program
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author