About a decade ago I was playing basketball with some staff. Every Wednesday toward the end of the workday we’d gather whomever was available and play for an hour or two. We weren’t good—even if we pretended to be.
I was guarding this guy, I think it was Andrew. Andrew is probably 5-10 years younger than I am and very fast. I pride myself in old man defense—using your size and your brain to not kill yourself. So I get low and wide and put my left foot down.
Pop.
I’ve heard the phrase “I felt a pop” before but have never experienced it. It felt like they said—something in my knee popped. Immediate weakness.
Over the next week, it started to swell. I had a PT friend test it. ACL seemed intact.
“Probably a meniscus.”
“Do I fix it?”
“Nah. You’re not an athlete. If you can function with it and walk around, then you’re fine. Fix it when you can’t handle it anymore.”
Re-Injury Anxiety
There’s a real thing called kinesiophobia: an irrational fear of movement triggered by a former injury.
Sports medicine has a whole assessment framework for psychological readiness to return to sport—separate from physical clearance. It shows up especially around significant injuries like an ACL, where the last time you trusted your knee to handle the force of planting your foot, your ACL said, “No, thanks.”
Even with repair and rehab, some people can’t get past the thought that their knee won’t be able to withstand the force. It’s why athletes talk about physical rehab and mental rehab.
In my case, I never got the repair. I walk around with a pain of 1 or 2 out of 10 most days. Largely fine. But certain moves give me pause. I don’t like moving left and then changing direction. Much of my basketball is behind me. I can jog, but I go straight and rarely turn.
I operate differently.
Note: Even knowing this, I don’t follow my own advice. Here’s proof.
Repaired Teams, Same Behaviors
Every team is a system of relationships, and that system produces behaviors that become ingrained. We don’t even know we’ve learned a way of operating.
John shows up bugged most mornings, so people stay away from him.
Hans (different Hans, I promise) shows up overly critical, so people stop bringing ideas.
David can’t keep a secret, so people stay surface level.
The boss always does what he wants, so people know their input won’t matter and stop contributing.
Those behaviors become the team's muscle memory—like me showing up differently at the gym.
But what if the change is real?
John’s anger softens and he starts to listen.
Hans starts to encourage.
David becomes trustworthy.
The boss stops demanding outcomes.
Many times, we still don't believe it. We want to—but last time we tried, we got burned.
So we keep doing what we’ve always done: avoidance, no vulnerability, no real contribution. We behave as if the repair can’t hold.
When we believe nothing’s changed, nothing changes.
The Mental Game of Teamwork
The big change in teamwork is always the change in us. We’re John—or Hans, or David, or whoever. There’s some way we’re contributing to the strain, and we have to keep looking at that honestly.
Someone on staff recently mentioned that, at times, I have a look on my face when they come into my office of, “Why the heck are you in here?” The result? Guess who will come into the office less?
But just as the first change is in us, the second change is also in us.
Assume the team begins to change. John really is different. He’s changed and is changing. Hans does want you in the office. There’s a line from 1 Corinthians 13—probably read at a wedding near you—that love “believes all things.”
What does that mean?
It means extending trust to the person who has changed and believing the repair is real. Choosing that posture before the track record is long enough to be convincing—because it’s the better posture to have.
You have to believe the dynamics are different with very little evidence.
You have to plant your foot.
Say it Out Loud
Take a moment and consider your own relationships. There’s either someone you’re avoiding or someone who is avoiding you. There’s a disengagement somewhere—and someone misses their connection with you.
Whatever it is, name it. Don’t let it exist in the dark.
“I’m afraid of contributing ideas because I’ve been critiqued too often.”
Then bring a trusted person or two into the light with it. Tell them what it is, what you’re working on, and why. Naming it changes your relationship to it—and gives the people around you a chance to respond to the real thing, not the compensation pattern.
And then?
Do it again.
I can definitely relate. In both the physical analogy and the application! Keep up the great writing.