PART TWO
Years ago, in another sport far, far away, I met with the team’s excellent head coach about budgets. (Everyone gets into sports to talk about budgets. It’s a joy. Really.)
The team was a perennial championship contender three years running but couldn’t win the ring. We were also in the league’s top three in player-related costs. I initiated a tough conversation because the championship team in each of those three years sat in the league’s bottom one-third of player payroll, perks, and overhead. Something wasn’t working, and money wasn’t the problem.
Years later, San Diego Mojo owner Gary Jacobs delayed the retooling of the team for the 2026 season until there was 100% certainty that the team and league would not vanish. (See PART ONE). That included delaying a head coach search and player signings.
Once the league and the team were a go, we went to work earnestly. Because we were way behind for all the right reasons and did not yet have a coach, we signed a couple of players ourselves just to get moving.
The head coach job posting stated we sought a true partner to help us build a brand—someone with a true builder’s mentality.
A tip from a colleague led us to Alisha Childress, an elite athlete and Olympian with several championships as a player on her mantle. I say this not actually knowing if she has a physical mantle, but I knew, for certain, about her pedigree. Enter Remarkable Leadership Exhibit B.
The hitch: She was just coming off the court as a player the previous year. It’s a considerable leap moving from a player’s peer to the boss.
Childress and I spoke extensively about that specific challenge over the course of a week. In a fledgling pro league working to pull the popularity of the collegiate game into a professional spectator sport, competitive advantage is everything. We spoke of the famous sports line: “In college, the coach is the boss. In the pros, the highest-paid player on the bench is the boss.” Mostly, we spoke of the fog that money brings into anything—particularly professional sports.
I was once asked directly how much money my team at the time was going to spend to build an elite program. “An elite program is built by people, by leaders,” I said. In another league, I asked a group of new owners if they had ever dealt with the mindset of a professional athlete.
“No, but I have children so it will be okay,” one said. “When things come up, I’ll just talk to them.”
“’Money changes everything,’ said Cyndi Lauper,” said Billy Johnson.
Over hours of conversations with Childress, it was clear we had our coach. She was a rare individual who matched the experience and data we had handy for this hire.
To beat the mortally wounded but not quite dead horse: A leader’s acumen is measured when money is taken out of the equation. Full stop. Do players and employees want to work hard for a leader? That is the ultimate measure.
The Mojo hired Childress. Within two weeks—and months behind the competition—she had built her initial roster of camp invitees.
The MLV released a preseason poll predicting the Mojo would be the second-worst team in the league in 2026. And we roared out of the gate with one win to six losses, as the blogger says sarcastically.
An old friend, Bob Tewksbury, once told me that the true sign of anyone is how they handle adversity. Me? Not so great this year. But what the league didn’t know when they published that poll is who Alisha Childress really is. A 1-6 record was yesterday. A flyball to the outfield wall in the bottom of the tenth is just an out, as Tewksbury would say.
Childress brought no quit. The energy. The adjustments. The absence of financial distraction. The self-esteem. The kindness. The sternness. The confidence. The empathy. The objectivity. The accountability.
The team brought the desire to perform for a leader they respect. Credit goes to the players for accepting Childress’s invitation to adopt a builder’s mentality.
The Mojo went on a tear and qualified for the MLV Championship Weekend in Dallas May 7 through 9. They will arrive under budget on player payroll. Barring injury, the team will compete with the exact same roster that opened the season. That is remarkable.
And the official grand prize for winning it all is one million dollars.
But with the Mojo, it’s not about the money. Leadership of humans never is.
Note: A version of the Broken Heart Mojo image in the header above appeared on t-shirts fans wore to a recent season ticket holder event. I regret not recalling their names to credit them for the wonderful sentiment.