by Chris Norton
His basketball coach used to tell a story demonstrating Chris’s never-say-quit attitude. Chris always wanted to stay after practice and shoot, but the coach had to get home to his family. So, the coach took the balls and locked them in the storage closet. Chris refused to be deterred and started bringing his own ball to practice. The coach decided the best thing to do was turn off the gym lights, forcing Chris to go home.
* * *
“Chris was always and I mean always the last kid out of the gym. It used to drive me crazy.”
~ Chad Carlson, Principal and Former Boys’ Basketball Coach, Bondurant-Farrar Community Schools
* * *
As his dad, I had to watch Chris because he would push himself harder than anybody I’d ever seen. If a coach asked him if he was tired or if he needed to come out of the game, he’d never admit he needed a break, even when I knew he did. There were many nights I’d lecture him on the ride home about not pushing himself to the breaking point.
Parents of Chris’s teammates used to ask me if I would talk to their kids about sports because they wouldn’t listen to their own parents. I’d happily talk to other kids while appreciating that Chris was just the opposite. On my championship basketball team, a lot of the older kids were excellent role models and really took Chris under their wings. He saw those kids look up to me, so I had to be careful, because when it came to sports, he hung on my every word. He attributed that team’s success to my coaching ability and knowledge of sports.
Through the years, I coached Chris in flag football, tackle football, baseball, basketball, and soccer. He wanted me to coach his teams, whereas some kids didn’t want their dads involved. I enjoyed the time with him and his buddies, and it was a great opportunity for us to be together, as well as a bonding experience with the parents. Even though I didn’t know much about soccer or baseball, I knew how to organize a practice, and I knew how to keep the game in perspective. I saw too many coaches volunteering for the wrong reasons. As a coach, I was intense, organized, competitive, and I’d get after the players who weren’t playing hard, but we always had fun. With the exception of tournament basketball, I stopped coaching Chris when he was in high school.
There were several reasons for Chris’s success. Not only did he put in a lot of practice time, watch a lot of sports, and understand the games he played, but he always had better form than most of his teammates. My dad was a PE teacher and a coach, and I always had better form in sports because of his background, which helped when I wasn’t as naturally gifted. Chris had better form for the same reason, and he used that exceptional form to his advantage when he was younger and people tended to underestimate his ability. He worked extremely hard to overcome his physical limitations.
Whenever Chris was recognized for his athletic achievements, like when he was selected for All-Conference or All-District in sports, he took the accolades in stride. In fact, praise seemed to motivate him to play harder. For example, in a basketball game when the other team focused on him as if he were the guy they had to stop, he typically had his best game. He fed off the pressure and rose to the occasion.
He was always very humble, and he was a good teammate. On more than one occasion, a former coach or those I coached against would contact me and say, “I respect your son because he has a great attitude and he’s never cocky.” He was well liked and respected, and that made me proud, and not just from a sports standpoint. I long believed being a good teammate made a person a good coworker and a good family member. I knew those things carried over into every aspect of life.
Chris had a variety of nicknames in high school. A particular favorite came from one of his high school basketball coaches who dubbed him “The Silent Assassin” during football season. In the hallways at school, the coach explained, Chris never came across as aggressive, but when the football pads went on, he put a licking on opposing players. He’d get tangled up with another player during a play, and somebody would shove him or talk smack, and he’d just walk away. He was always calm, cool, and collected. His quiet competitiveness earned him the distinctive moniker.
As a high school athlete, he scored over a thousand points in basketball, making him sixth on the all-time scoring list at Bondurant-Farrar High School. In one game, he scored a personal high of thirty-four points. In football, he still holds the record for the longest touchdown return on a kickoff, and the most yards in a game for a return. Despite his small build, Chris was voted hardest hitter during his junior and senior seasons of high school football. He served as captain of both the football and basketball teams.
Deb and I took a lot of pride when Chris did well in sports because it was a reflection of his efforts. His basketball coaches would always tell others, “You guys see Chris’s success? What you don’t see is that I have to chase him out of the gym after practice every night because he doesn’t want to leave. He’s always up here shooting.”
Because he was a good kid and a compassionate teammate, we felt he served as a good role model. He proved to kids that they didn’t have to act like jerks or be cocky in order to be successful.
* * *
“The Chris Norton we saw on the football field, basketball court, or track refused to quit and refused to let his teammates quit. That is persistence.”
~ Adam W. Busch, Former head football coach at Bondurant-Farrar Community Schools
* * *
One day, not long after he’d left for college, Deb and I were getting ready for work. As I dragged a razor over my face and studied myself in the mirror, I kept thinking about times when I might have pushed Chris too hard toward excellence. I’d always told him to work hard and that he couldn’t take a day off. But in my zeal to channel his passion for sports, had I gone too far?
Swallowing my pride, I glanced over at Deb. “Do you think I pushed Chris too hard?”
Without hesitation, without even blinking, she looked me in the eye and said, “No, you’ve made him who he is.”
Still unconvinced and feeling guilty as only a parent can, I sent him a text message asking the same question. Hey bud, did I push you too hard growing up? I asked Mom and she said that made you who you are.
He responded right away. Mom is right.
I think part of the reason I pushed him was because he’d shared with me his goal of being an all-state player and playing sports in college. In my mind, I wasn’t doing him any favors if I didn’t say, “Okay, if that’s what you want, you need to remember you’re competing against everybody in the state and all the states around Iowa. When you’re talking about college ball, you’re competing on a much broader spectrum. You can’t just be good for Bondurant, or good for our area, you’ve got to be really good. You’ve got to be one of the best. And you can’t be one of the best without putting in the time.”
Deb and I knew Chris was going to be successful in whatever he chose to do because of his innate drive. Nothing came easy for him—not in sports and not in school—but he wasn’t afraid of hard work. When Chris had problems with reading in elementary school, we got him extra help. He graduated with a 3.86 grade point average and was in the top 13 percent of his class. When he was younger, he had speech therapy to correct a lisp. He overcame his lisp, took speech in high school, and now does presentations around the Midwest. As an athlete, he was small but he pushed himself to be the best. We knew he was going to be successful because nothing had ever been handed to him, and he was willing to do whatever it took to achieve his goals.
Little did we know he’d been training his whole life for the biggest challenge of all.
* * *
Commit your work to the LORD, and your plans will be established.
~Proverbs 16:3 ESV
* * *
I GREW up the middle son of Deb and Terry Norton in Bondurant, Iowa, a residential town not far from Des Moines. Bondurant was a close-knit community where everybody knew everybody, and our social life revolved around school. My mom was very nurturing; she took care of the day-to-day chores w
hile working full time. She was easy to talk to, but she wasn’t afraid to lay down the law. My dad was fun loving, outgoing, and very serious about athletics considering his coaching background. He worked in education, coached all sports, and tried to help me develop into the best athlete possible.
As the oldest sibling, Alex was kind of a second mom to my little sister and me. She was mature at a young age and very responsible. We got along well throughout grade school and high school. As the baby of the family, Katie was a feisty little pistol. We used to fight a lot because I was stubborn, she was stubborn, and we were both really competitive. Sometimes the girls ganged up on me when I teased or picked on them, but both sisters have always been very supportive. We had our little fights, but we were close. We took family vacations, and we loved hanging out together after church on Sundays, our family day.
* * *
“With Chris being the middle child, and only boy, my sister Katie and I provided him lots and lots of love.”
~ Alex Norton, Chris’s sister
* * *
I always had an easy-going nature and never really stressed about much, usually preferring to go with the flow. I was kind of a teaser, just to be annoying or fun, but there were certain things I knew not to tease my sisters about. Growing up between two females, I knew how to read girls better than a lot of guys. As the only boy, my dad and I enjoyed our guy stuff while my mom and sisters did their girl stuff. My dad was very adventurous, and he loved the outdoors and sports. He helped me develop an appreciation for both. My parents encouraged me to work out, practice, and stay away from distractions like video games because they knew I’d get really frustrated if I didn’t perform well in a game. They pushed me harder than my sisters because they knew I was more passionate about sports.
I was a Minnesota Vikings fan, and their Hall of Fame wide receiver, Cris Carter, was my idol. I also liked Michael Jordan for both his story and his success. My dad was always my hero and a great role model. He taught me so much about life through his experience as a player, a coach, a teacher, through his work with at-risk kids, and through life lessons he learned from his dad. We did everything together; we’d go to the movies or to the gym and shoot baskets. He’d always rebound for me and help me with my shot. Some kids hated when their dads coached, but I liked it. He was great with my friends, and they really liked and respected him. I did too.
My parents always encouraged us to be involved in activities. My sisters and I were constantly on the go. We were a very social family. When I was young, I played peewee basketball, baseball, football, and soccer. I quit soccer in fifth grade and decided to focus on running. My friends and I played tackle football in another town because we didn’t have a tackle football league in Bondurant until junior high and we wanted to get an early start. Ironically, the same kids who went to Carlisle to play tackle football were the four senior captains of our varsity football team. Photos of the four of us when we were young and as senior team captains commemorate our dedication to the sport.
In elementary, middle, and high school, my life revolved around sports. I never minded, and neither did my parents, because there were so many values that carried over between sports and life in general. I learned to be a team player, I worked hard, and was taught the value of competition. As a young boy with sports on the brain, there was nothing better than playing weekend tournaments with my friends.
My dad knew how competitive I was and how much I wanted to win, so he pushed me to be a better athlete and a better person. The only thing we ever had to work on between us was how he pushed me. There were times when I was younger that I hated him being my coach because he would be tougher on me than anyone else. Sometimes, after a basketball game when I hadn’t played my best, we’d end up mad at each other. He’d get caught up in the moment and yell, “What were you doing? What were you thinking?” and I’d feel even worse for messing up. He wasn’t trying to make me feel bad, but he was passionate about sports, and he knew I wanted to do my best.
By the end of middle school, I’d worked up the courage to talk to him. “Dad,” I said, “please don’t make faces during the game. I know you’re trying to help, but you’re hurting my confidence.” Like all kids, I responded better to constructive encouragement.
He’d say, “Okay, okay,” and try his best not to express his emotions. By high school, he’d learned to chill out and be supportive, and that really helped my game.
Growing up, I dealt with disappointment internally, never expressing frustration through body language or with words. I remained calm and collected on the outside, even though my stomach would burn after a game where I played poorly. In games or at practice when things weren’t going my way, my dad would get frustrated because I’d never show any emotion.
“You act like you don’t care,” he’d say.
“I do care,” I would tell him, and then pound up the stairs to my room. I expected the best from myself and was consumed with achieving my goals.
Once I went home frustrated and pouting after not playing well in a basketball tournament. I crashed on the couch and played video games, trying to forget the whole weekend.
My dad walked right up to me and said, “If you don’t like where you’re at, if you’re not meeting your goals, don’t pout. Do something about it. If you really do care, if you don’t want to perform as poorly as you did, let’s work on it. Let’s go to the gym. Let’s practice more.”
What he said, and how he said it, his words just clicked with me. Yeah, let’s do something. Let’s practice ball handling. Let’s practice shooting. Let’s run drills. It was a turning point for me, the moment when my mentality shifted. Why should I feel sorry for myself when I was the one in control of my destiny? I finally understood that all outcomes were a direct reflection of my input. I had to change what I was doing in order to accomplish my goals.
Once my head was in the right place, I became a better athlete and a better player simply by working harder and not feeling sorry for myself. From that point on, I began to think about where I wanted to be physically—with my muscle mass, with my weight, and about my goals. In basketball and football, I wanted to win a district championship, and I knew that the little things I did would add up and help me achieve those goals.
By the time I was in ninth grade, I played on the freshman, junior varsity, and varsity baseball teams. As a freshman, I was the youngest on the team, and thinking back, I laugh at how nervous and uncomfortable I was on the field because I didn’t want to let the team down and look like an idiot. Everything I loved about the sport seemed so much harder because I was in the spotlight and thrown into a position where I didn’t feel confident.
In Iowa, baseball was played over the summer. Because I had baseball games every day, I couldn’t participate in football or basketball camps, lift weights, or go to the pool and relax. I got burned out and ended up quitting the team halfway through my freshmen year. I regretted that decision when the team ended up going to state. After I quit, I focused on track, football, and basketball.
I loved the atmosphere of our high school gym. It was compact and old, filled to the brim with people, and the band played right behind the visitor’s bench drowning out their fans. I started playing freshmen basketball, moved up to JV, and eventually got called up to varsity. Playing varsity basketball for Bondurant was a dream come true because I idolized the program.
I started on varsity my sophomore year and scored eighteen points the first game, but I was more excited about the second one—our first home game. I’d waited forever to be a varsity starter for Bondurant at home. We had pictures that day and after the pictures, I left my jersey in my locker so I’d be ready for the game.
As we changed into our uniforms, my friends said, “Chris, you’ve got the wrong color jersey. Where’s your white home-game jersey?”
My stomach dropped as I looked down at my blue shorts. I grabbed my keys and took off running to my car. I didn’t want to disappoint the coach, and I was emba
rrassed about making a rookie mistake on our first home game of the season. I sped recklessly to my house, raced inside, grabbed my white jersey, and ran outside only to stop dead in my tracks. A cop stood in my driveway next to his car, blue lights flashing.
“Put your hands up,” he said, pushing me against the car and spreading my legs. “Do you know the owner of this house?” he asked, frisking me for weapons.
“Yeah,” I said, nearly drowning with embarrassment and guilt. “It’s mine.”
“Do you own this car?”
“It’s mine too.”
“Let me see some identification,” he demanded, depositing me in the back of the cop car. “This car is registered to a Debra Norton. Did you steal this car?”
“No! She’s my mom. My parents gave me the car.” I kept thinking about my parents and my whole family—everyone on my mom’s side and my dad’s side—waiting for me at school, wondering where I was when the team came out for warm-ups.
The cop called my dad. “I’ve got your son in custody. I clocked him going ninety-four in a fifty-five mile-per-hour zone. I’m taking him in and impounding the car unless you come get him.” They had to pick me up, and I didn’t make it back to the game until the second quarter. I couldn’t believe I’d missed the start of my first varsity home game.
