Implementing Fairness in Woodrow Wilson High School Football: What’s Working, What’s Still Messy
The smell of burnt hot dogs from the snack stand hung thick over Woodrow Wilson High’s practice field on August 12 last year, the day of our first intra-squad scrimmage. I was leaning on the chain-link fence by the visitor bleachers, half-warm Gatorade dripping down my wrist, when Marisol, whose son Ty was a sophomore wide receiver, nodded toward the huffle and huffed a quiet laugh.
“Guess that $12,000 helmet check the Carters wrote last month paid off already,” she said.
I followed her gaze. Kyle Carter, a senior third-string receiver who’d missed six summer workouts for a family lake trip, was lining up for first-team reps. Ty, who’d shown up to every 6 a.m. lifting session since June and ran the second-fastest 40-yard dash on the whole roster, was sitting on the bench picking at the tape on his wrist. My own son Javi, a sophomore backup center who’d spent all summer drilling snaps in our backyard after work, was right next to him. This wasn’t new under the old head coach, who’d run the program for 22 years: seniors started no matter their stats, booster donors got first crack at special teams, and underclassmen only stepped on the field for varsity if we were up or down by 35 points. Javi had almost quit halfway through his freshman year, saying there was no point in showing up if the depth chart was set before camp even started. But the old coach had retired that spring, and we’d all held out quiet hope the new hire, Coach Mendez, would shake things up. That scrimmage felt like the same old story.
After the final whistle, instead of the usual two-minute parent huddle about game day snack sign-ups, Coach Mendez herded anyone who wanted to stay into the cinder-block hallway outside the locker room, dragged a whiteboard off a classroom wall, and started writing down every complaint we threw out. Seniors get automatic spots. Donors get preferential treatment. No one ever tells you what you have to do to move up. He didn’t argue, didn’t give the standard “we’re one big family” line. When we were done, he leaned against the wall and wiped marker dust off his khakis.
“Fair doesn’t mean everyone gets the same number of snaps,” he said. “It means everyone gets the same shot to earn them. Right now, we don’t have clear rules for that. That’s on me, and we’re going to fix it before the first regular season game.”
Over the next two weeks, a group of three parent volunteers, three team captains, and two underclassman player reps met with Coach Mendez after practice three times to hash out the rules. The system we landed on is simple, all written down and handed to every player and parent before the first day of school: 40% of a player’s depth chart rank comes from measurable drill results (block success rates, 40 times, lift maxes, all logged by two assistant coaches instead of one), 30% comes from practice attendance and grade eligibility, 30% comes from coach scoring of teamwork and day-to-day effort. No automatic points for seniority. No bonus points for family donations. All booster club money is managed by three parents who don’t have kids on the varsity roster, and coaches never see the full donor list. Every Wednesday after practice, the full depth chart with every player’s individual score is taped to the locker room door. Any player who disagrees with his rank can sign up for a 10-minute one-on-one with Coach Mendez on Thursday to go over the numbers and walk away with one specific skill to work on to move up.
I thought about that system a week later, when I got home from a booster meeting and found my 14-year-old daughter screaming at Javi because I’d made her take the trash out three nights in a row while he went to practice. I’d been making calls on the fly for months, adjusting chores and screen time based on who seemed busier that day, and of course it felt unfair to her. That’s the quiet truth about fairness, whether you’re running a high school football team or a household of four: unwritten, on-the-fly rules cause more resentment than any clear rule that doesn’t go your way. Kids don’t melt down because they have to take the trash out or sit the bench. They melt down because they can’t tell what they have to do to get a fair shake, and they suspect status or favoritism is doing the work for someone else.
That’s why the small, boring guardrails matter more than any big speech about team unity. Separating donation tracking from coaching decisions means no one has to wonder if a parent’s check bought a starting spot. Posting all scores publicly means a sophomore can see exactly why a senior is starting above him, instead of guessing it’s just because he’s older. The 10-minute appeal slots eliminate the screaming matches in the parking lot after games, and they put the onus on the kid to ask for feedback, not on parents to argue for him. I stole that structure for our house within a month: we have a 10-minute family check-in every Sunday after dinner, where anyone can bring up a rule that feels off, no interrupting, no snap punishments. Midweek chore arguments dropped by 80% almost immediately.
None of this went over perfectly. Three seniors quit the team the first week the depth chart went up, saying the new system was disrespectful to players who’d “paid their dues.” The Carters called the athletic director to complain and threatened to pull their helmet donation, until the booster club told them the money was earmarked for safety gear with no strings attached, and we’d host a car wash to make up the difference if they followed through. We went 5-5 that season, missed the playoffs, and more than a few long-time fans said the new fairness rules were why we lost games we should have won. The subjective 30% teamwork score caused problems, too: a sophomore cornerback filed an appeal in October after his position coach marked him down for “bad attitude” for asking too many follow-up questions after drills. We adjusted after that, requiring two coaches to score that section independently, and to hash out any gaps bigger than 10 points before scores go up.
This year, 22 more freshmen came out for the team than the year before, most of them saying they’d heard underclassmen actually get a shot to play. Ty is starting varsity wide receiver, and caught two touchdowns in our first pre-season scrimmage. Javi is starting JV center, and he’s gunning for the backup varsity spot next semester if he can add 10 pounds to his bench max. Kyle Carter is still on the team, too; he’s third-string on special teams now, showed up to every summer lift, and gained 12 pounds of muscle over the break. His parents still donate to the booster club. They just stopped asking about his playing time.
We’re still tweaking the system this season. We’re adding a small peer evaluation component to the teamwork score, because coaches don’t see who helps pick up equipment after practice or talks a freshman through a new play in the locker room. Some long-time parents still grumble that freshmen should have to wait their turn, and some kids still storm away from the depth chart on Wednesdays upset they didn’t move up as fast as they thought they should. Javi came home frustrated last week after he botched three snaps in practice, knowing the mistakes will keep him from moving up this week. But he didn’t say it was unfair. He just texted the varsity center after dinner to ask if he’d stay after practice Thursday to run extra snaps.
We don’t know if we’ll make the playoffs this year. We don’t know if the next head coach will keep the system when Coach Mendez moves on, if he ever does. Most days, though, that’s not the point that comes up when parents talk by the snack stand. Right now, every kid on that roster knows exactly what he has to do to earn more time. No one’s guessing if their last name or their parents’ bank account is the thing holding them back. That’s enough for now, most weeks.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Implementing Fairness in Woodrow Wilson High School Football: What’s Working, What’s Still Messy