It has been a little while since I’ve shared here, but life has certainly kept giving me something to write about. This reflection began in the football stands and stayed with me long after the final whistle. I’m bringing it here because the lessons reach beyond the field—to motherhood, marriage, faith, and how we choose to treat one another.
On being a coach’s wife, protecting my peace, and choosing to lift people higher than the scoreboard.
There is the game you watch on the field, and then there is everything you notice from the stands.
Last night, I shared my reflection on the game. But after sitting with it a little longer, I realized I had another reflection to share—one that reaches beyond the final score.
This one is about being Mrs. Fagan.
I am a woman of a certain age. I have opinions, life experience, and a tongue that I have learned to hold. Not because I have run out of words. Anyone who knows me knows that is unlikely.
Being my husband’s wife, working in athletics, and raising children who are watching how I respond have taught me to consider what my words will leave behind.
Everything I could say does not need to be said.
But silence does not mean I have nothing to say.
What travels through the stands
Last night—and plenty of other times—I’ve heard people express themselves with very little consideration for who is sitting around them.
A coach’s spouse might be nearby. A player’s parent. A younger sibling. A child who is learning what adults do when things don’t go their way.
There will always be hecklers. People who believe they could call a better play, make a better adjustment, or coach a better game from their seat in the stands.
I understand being invested. I understand frustration. I want our boys to win, too. I cheer. I react. I have questions.
But coaching requires more than knowing the X’s and O’s.
It takes emotional intelligence, patience, preparation, thoroughness, and care. It requires teaching young people, correcting them, encouraging them, and holding them accountable—sometimes all within the same conversation.
These are student-athletes. Their lives do not begin at kickoff and end at the final whistle.
Neither does the work of the people coaching them.
There are hours, conversations, concerns, and sacrifices that nobody in the stands will ever see. There is blood, sweat, and, yes, sometimes tears. Some of that work, I believe, earns crowns in heaven.
Yet somebody several rows up can be mighty bold about work they only see a fraction of.
A voice may never reach the sideline, but it can reach the family sitting two seats away.
That matters.
More cheering, less pulling down
I don’t expect fans to sit quietly with their hands folded. This is football, not a library.
There is room for excitement, disappointment, questions, and honest criticism. But there should also be room for remembering that the people we are discussing are human beings.
I pray we always have more people cheering others forward than pulling them backward.
Some of us grew up hearing about “crabs in a bucket.” One begins climbing out, and another pulls it back down.
We see that in sports. We see it at work, online, and sometimes in the very communities where we should feel supported.
Someone is trying to grow, recover, or build something, and another person seems more interested in proving they don’t deserve to succeed.
I don’t want to raise children who reach for people only to drag them down.
I hope I’m raising children who climb, look back, and extend a hand. Children who understand that getting ahead comes with an opportunity to help somebody else forward.
That is the kind of man I married.
I know him beyond the whistle, the headset, and the game plan. I know the husband and father. I know the man who cares about what happens to young people long after they leave his program.
That does not mean he—or any coach—is above criticism. It means criticism should leave room for their humanity.
My peace is not an open invitation
The same principles apply online.
Everybody has an opinion, myself included. But having an opinion does not entitle anyone to use another person as a verbal punching bag, digitally or in person.
I can welcome a different perspective without agreeing to an argument. I can hear someone without handing them unlimited access to my attention.
And if a conversation becomes an invitation to spar, I can turn off my notifications and keep moving.
I know how I’m wired. I’m a finisher.
With age, I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to finish something is to stop feeding it. I don’t have to deliver the final sentence to make a final decision.
Sometimes that decision is simply: I am done here.
There is too much I want to give my energy to—my family, my work, my ministry, my writing—to spend it proving that I can argue.
This is not about a particular response to anything I’ve posted about my husband’s teams. It is a broader observation about how we speak to people, what we expect from them, and what we choose to entertain.
I want to leave a conversation with my peace intact and my words free of regret.
Why I sit where I sit
I sit among the fans because, honestly, I enjoy the view.
From there, I can look toward my husband, see the field, and pray over him and the student-athletes in his care. That bird’s-eye view gives me a place to cheer and a place to cover them in prayer.
I am not there to supervise the coaching staff or defend every decision. I am there as a wife, a mother, and someone who cares about the people on that field.
If I can bring a little light, encouragement, and realness into the stands, I will.
And if my presence helps someone remember that the man on the sideline is also a husband, a father, and a human being, I am glad for that, too.
He is Coach Fagan.
I am Mrs. Fagan.
I understand our roles. I appreciate them, and I am thankful for the life we share.
You don’t have to know every name to care
I don’t know every staff member at Cypress Springs, though I wish I did. I don’t know every player’s name.
But knowing every name is not a requirement for praying over every person.
I can pray for their safety, their judgment, their growth, and their futures. I can pray that correction reaches them with care, that encouragement finds them when they need it, and that they know their worth is bigger than one game.
I can pray for the coaches carrying responsibilities we cannot see from the bleachers.
And I can examine my own example: how I speak, how I respond, and whether my children see me practicing the respect I ask of them.
To every coach and every player: you are loved, prayed for, and cared for by this coach’s wife.
I may not know your name yet.
But I am still covering you.
From the stands, with love,
Mrs. Fagan
If this reflection spoke to you, I’d love for you to join me on Substack, where I share more of my heart on faith, family, motherhood, and the life unfolding between it all. Subscribe to have new reflections delivered to your inbox. There’s a seat for you in this village, too.
© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
