In the fall of 1986, the home side of Greyhound Stadium was what is now the visitor side. It was simple back then. No video board, no seven-room press box, no instant replay. Just Friday night lights, wooden bleachers, and a community that loved its Greyhounds. There was also a wooden press box that had been built in 1972, and on top of that press box was one of the best views in the stadium.
Coach Jack Moss was the head football coach. Coach Bruce McConaghy coached the defensive backs and was also the head baseball coach. Bruce and I were both young coaches in our mid-20’s, and on Friday nights we had an important assignment. We climbed on top of that press box. Yes, climbed. There wasn’t a nice staircase leading to a comfortable coaching booth. We climbed up almost like climbing a ladder. Once we got there, we sat on top of a wooden box three stories above the ground. No rails.
Bruce would talk to Coach Holcomb about the defense, coverages, adjustments, and what he was seeing from the opposing offense. My job was a little less complicated, but still very important in my mind. I simply told Coach Moss who made the tackle. There we were, two young coaches sitting on top of a wooden press box on Friday nights without a rail anywhere around us.
Looking back, Bruce and I still laugh about it. Forty years later, we shake our heads that nobody thought twice about two young coaches sitting that high above the ground with nothing around us. Nobody said, “Should we put a rail up there? Nobody said, “Maybe this isn’t the safest idea.” We just climbed up and went to work.
That’s youth. When you’re young, sometimes you don’t even notice there are no rails. You believe your balance will always be there. You believe your next step will land exactly where you planned. You believe confidence and safety are pretty much the same thing. Then life teaches you differently.
The older I get, the more I understand rails. Rails aren’t glamorous. Nobody walks into a stadium and compliments the handrails. Nobody brags about the rail beside a staircase or around the edge of a roof. Most of the time we don’t even notice them, until we don’t have them or don’t have them any longer. They just quietly do their job. Rails keep us from falling.
The interesting thing about rails is that most of the time you don’t need them. You can walk beside one a hundred times and never touch it. Then one day your foot slips. Your balance leaves you for just a second, and suddenly that rail becomes the most important thing around.
In 2023, my grandson Jack attended a varsity football game with me. By then, everything about the stadium was different. The home side was on the opposite side of the field, much higher than it had been in the old days, and Greyhound Stadium had become Boerne ISD Stadium. Bigger. Taller. More modern.
I was excited for Jack to experience a varsity football game from the press box. He was nine years old, and I wanted him to see Friday night football from a different perspective. We ate Chick-fil-A sandwiches together and watched the band march into the stadium. He enjoyed the lights, the players warming up, and everything going on below us. I enjoyed watching him enjoy it.
At some point, I thought it would be fun to climb the ladder up to the filming nest at the very top of the stadium. So up we went. Step by step. The same young coach who had once climbed onto the top of a wooden one-room press box with no rails was now a grandfather climbing to the top of a much taller stadium with his nine-year old grandson. Funny how life works.
When we reached the top, Jack wanted to go outside of the filming area where there was a rail protecting the edge. It was safe. The rail was strong. It had been designed and built for exactly that purpose. There really wasn’t any reason to believe something would go wrong.
I looked at Jack and quickly said, “This is not a good idea. Let’s go back inside.”
Trust me, it was safe. But Jack is my only grandchild, and at that moment I wasn’t interested in what was safe. I wasn’t interested in taking even an extremely small unnecessary chance. I wanted the best odds possible that absolutely nothing could go wrong.
Think about that. In 1986, I was in my mid-20’s sitting three stories above the ground on top of a wooden press box with no rails. In 2023, I didn’t even want my grandson standing near the edge of the stadium with a rail protecting him.
What changed?
I did.
Some people think rails keep us from enjoying life. We sometimes look at boundaries as restrictions. We think rules keep us from having fun, experiencing adventure, or enjoying freedom. When we’re young, especially, we can spend a lot of time wondering how close we can get to the edge without going over.
But maybe we’ve been looking at rails the wrong way. A rail doesn’t keep you from enjoying the view. A rail helps you enjoy the view safely.
That’s what parents try to provide. That’s what good coaches provide. That’s what teachers, grandparents, mentors, and true friends provide. They put rails around the people they love. They say no occasionally. They establish boundaries. They warn us when we’re getting too close to an edge we may not even recognize.
And yes, I believe that’s what God does too. His rails aren’t there to keep us from living. They’re there because He knows how easily we can fall.
When I look back over my life, I realize I’ve had rails all around me. Parents who corrected me. Coaches who challenged me. Friends who cared enough to tell me the truth. People who told me no when yes would have been easier. Faith and Scripture reminded me where to stand when I wasn’t quite sure myself.
At times, I probably thought some of those rails were in my way. Now I realize many of them were keeping me upright.
Bruce and I will continue to laugh about those two young coaches sitting on top of that wooden press box in 1986. We survived it. Forty years later, we have a great story to tell. But somewhere between that Friday night in 1986 and the night I climbed to the top of Boerne ISD Stadium with Jack in 2023, I learned something.
Wisdom isn’t seeing how close you can get to the edge without falling. Wisdom is recognizing the value of the things and the people that keep you from falling in the first place.
“Wisdom isn’t seeing how close you can get to the edge without falling. Wisdom is recognizing the value of the things and the people that keep you from falling in the first place.”
Maybe that’s one of the gifts of getting older. You finally learn to appreciate the rails.
From the October 2026 issue of The Kendall Gentleman.
Coach Stan Leech has shared his voice with readers before in Mulligan and We Do What We Want. For more from this issue, read Jed Mazour’s The Call of the Wild.