Standards
What started as two kids wanting extra time on a basketball court became a lesson I would not fully understand until decades later.
I don’t remember whether I was in sixth or seventh grade, but I remember that at that age I lived for basketball. My dad was a basketball coach, and I lived down the street from a park where we could play pretty much all day if we wanted to. If there was an opportunity to play basketball, I was all in. I went to a small Catholic grammar school directly across the street from that park, and it was there that an opportunity presented itself - one that I thought was about basketball but would end up teaching me a lesson I would carry for the rest of my life.
Our school had a custodian who, for this story, I’ll call Mr. L. He was a really nice guy. He had served in the military, and although he wasn’t mean or intimidating, there was something about him that told you he expected things to be done a certain way. One of the things I remember most about him was that he had the biggest hands I had ever seen. One day, Mr. L asked my friend Jimmy and me if we wanted to play basketball in the school gym on Saturday morning before the older boys came in for practice. I don’t think he ever got to finish the question before we both yelled, “YES!” at the top of our lungs.
There was, however, a catch. Mr. L told us to come to the school at seven o’clock Saturday morning. We could sweep and mop the gym floor, and once we did it right, we could play basketball. That was all Jimmy and I needed to hear. For the rest of the week, we could barely think about anything else. We weren’t excited about sweeping or mopping. We were excited because there was a basketball court waiting for us on the other side of the work.
When we arrived that Saturday morning, Mr. L handed each of us one of those giant industrial push brooms you see in school hallways and gymnasiums. The bottom looked like a shaggy dog, and at our age the brooms seemed almost as big as we were. He put me on one side of the court and Jimmy on the other and gave us very specific instructions. I don’t remember the exact numbers all these years later, but increments of ten seem to stick in my mind. He told us to push the broom ten times, smack it down, push ten more times, turn it around, and continue. He explained that he didn’t want us making one long push all the way down the floor because eventually the dirt would work its way underneath the broom. We would walk over it, grind it into the floor, and somebody would have to come back later and scrape it up.
I remember listening to all of this and thinking, What? I was twelve or thirteen. I wasn’t there because I had a burning desire to become an expert at sweeping gym floors. I wanted to play basketball. Mr. L told us that when we finished sweeping, he would inspect the floor and, if we did it correctly, teach us how to mop. Then he walked into another room to do some work.
Jimmy and I looked at each other and took off. We practically ran those brooms down one side of the gym and back up the other. We laughed, breathed hard, sweated, and were probably pretty proud of ourselves. In our minds, we had figured out how to get this little inconvenience out of the way as quickly as possible so we could get to the important part - the basketball. We called out, “Mr. L, we’re done!” He quietly walked into the gym, looked at the floor, looked at the two of us, raised one of those giant hands, put a finger in the air and simply said, “Do it again.” Then he walked back into the other room.
Pay Attention
Jimmy and I looked at each other, completely puzzled. Being the geniuses that we weren’t at that age, we decided we had figured out the problem: we had run too fast. So this time we didn’t run. We walked briskly. We finished the floor again, called Mr. L back in and proudly announced that we were done. He walked the floor, looked at us, raised that finger again and said, “Do it again.”
Now we were frustrated. We were disappointed, maybe even a little dejected, and I’m sure quitting crossed our minds. But somewhere in our twelve-year-old brains, one of us finally came up with a brilliant idea: Maybe we should just do what he told us to do. Imagine that. So this time we stopped worrying about how quickly we could finish. We stopped looking for a shortcut. We did the ten pushes, smacked the broom down, did ten more, turned it around and continued exactly the way Mr. L had shown us. When we finished, he came back into the gym, inspected the floor and said, “Great job.”
There was only one problem. We had spent so much time doing the job incorrectly that the older boys were arriving for basketball practice. We had run out of time. No basketball. To say Jimmy and I were disappointed would be an understatement. But Mr. L told us we had finally done a great job. It had taken us some time, but eventually we had listened, followed the directions and done it right. He told us to come back the following Saturday. If we swept the floor correctly, he would teach us how to mop.
That entire week, Jimmy and I talked about what we were going to do differently. During recess and any free time we had, we strategized. The week seemed to fly by, and before we knew it, Saturday morning was here again. This time we grabbed those giant brooms and swept the floor exactly the way Mr. L had taught us. There was no running, no shortcuts and no trying to beat the system. We simply followed the process. When we finished, Mr. L inspected the floor and we passed. Our chests were probably sticking out a little farther because now we were ready for the next lesson: mopping.
As we quickly discovered, mopping wasn’t simply throwing some water into a bucket and pushing a wet mop around the floor. Mr. L had a system for that too. First, we had to prepare several sets of red buckets and place them at intervals along the sidelines of the gym. One bucket was empty and another was filled with clean water to a specific level. Then we prepared the mop bucket. Again, there was a standard. The water went to a certain line, and the cleaning solution was measured. You didn’t just free-pour cleaner into the water until it looked like enough. There was a recipe, and there was a reason for doing it that way.
Then Mr. L showed us how to mop. Again, I don’t remember every exact number, but that rhythm of ten has stayed with me. We would mop ten times to one side, ten to the other, flip the mop, do it again, rinse it and continue. When we reached the next set of red buckets, we emptied the dirty water from the mop bucket into the empty bucket and replaced it with the clean water we had prepared ahead of time. Then we continued down the floor: ten, flip, ten, rinse; ten, flip, ten, dump and refill. There was a rhythm to it, but more importantly, there was a process.
Hold the Standard
That second Saturday took a long time, and I don’t think Jimmy and I got to play much basketball that day either. But something had changed. We were beginning to understand that rushing wasn’t going to get us onto the basketball court any faster. In fact, rushing was keeping us from getting there. By the time the third Saturday arrived, we were crystal clear about what we needed to do. We weren’t going to shortcut anything. We weren’t going to rush. We were going to listen, follow the directions and do what I didn’t have the words for at that age: we were going to hold the standard.
That third Saturday, Jimmy and I crushed it. We swept correctly, prepared the buckets correctly, measured the cleaning solution correctly, mopped correctly and changed the water when we were supposed to change it. We followed the process from beginning to end, and because we did everything correctly the first time, we finished with plenty of time to play basketball before the older boys arrived. The funny thing was that once we stopped trying to do everything fast and started concentrating on doing everything right, we actually became faster.
But Mr. L had one final lesson for us. Before we could pick up the basketball, he told us to clean the mop head and the mop bucket. And he didn’t mean give them a quick rinse and throw them back into the closet. He wanted the mop and bucket cleaned so thoroughly that they looked almost new. I’m sure Jimmy and I sighed and probably rolled our eyes. The basketball was sitting right there. The gym floor was finished. In our minds, the job was done. But this time we knew better than to argue or look for a shortcut. We listened, paid attention and followed the directions. We cleaned the mop head, scrubbed and rinsed the bucket, put everything back where it belonged and left it ready for the next time. We held the standard.
And then we got to play basketball.
I’ve told that story many times over the years, and I’ve even talked to Mr. L about it. He doesn’t remember all the details the way I do, and after all these years I’m sure I’ve used a little artistic license in the way I tell it and teach from it. But that’s kind of how it happened, and the heart of the story is exactly how I remember it. What’s interesting is that it probably wasn’t until twenty-five or thirty years later that I understood what Mr. L had actually taught me. I thought he was teaching two kids how to sweep and mop a gymnasium floor. He wasn’t. He was teaching us how to listen, how to follow instructions, how to respect a process and, most importantly, how to hold a standard.
That final step - cleaning the mop head and the bucket - taught me another lesson that has stayed with me throughout my career and my life: the job isn’t done until it’s done.
“There is a difference between finishing a task and completing the entire job.”
The floor might be clean, but what condition did you leave the equipment in? Is the mop clean? Is the bucket clean? Is everything put back where it belongs? Is it ready for tomorrow? Is it ready for the next person? Did you complete the entire process, or did you simply finish the part everybody could see?
Years later, working in the restaurant industry, I saw a perfect example of why that lesson matters. If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, at some point you’ve probably mopped a floor. Often, the person doing the mopping is someone relatively new. Somebody tells them, “Go mop the floor,” but nobody actually teaches them what the standard looks like. So they go into the back, grab whatever mop bucket happens to be sitting there, fill it with clean water and grab whatever mop head they can find. Is the bucket clean? Maybe. Is the mop head clean? Who knows? It might be dirty. It might smell. It might have been sitting wet in the corner since yesterday. Nobody really checks because the instruction was simply, mop the floor.
Think about what we’re actually doing. We take clean water and pour it into a dirty mop bucket. Then we take a dirty mop head and put it into that water. Then we take that dirty mop and dirty water out to clean a dirty floor. So I have a pretty simple question: Why mop?
Finish the Task
If our standard is a clean floor, then the process that creates that clean floor has to have standards too. The bucket needs to be clean. The mop head needs to be clean. The water needs to be clean. The correct amount of cleaning solution needs to be used. The floor needs to be swept properly first. The water needs to be changed throughout the process. And when the floor is finished, the mop and bucket need to be cleaned and put away properly so they are ready to meet the same standard the next time. The standard isn’t simply what the floor looks like when we are finished. The standard includes everything we do before, during and after the job to consistently create that result.
“A standard isn’t simply the result you want. A standard is the process and behaviors required to consistently produce that result.”
Saying, “Keep the floor clean,” isn’t enough. Saying, “Take care of the customer,” isn’t enough. Saying, “Make a great product” or “Do a good job” isn’t enough. If we expect people to meet a standard, we have to teach them what that standard looks like, explain why it matters, show them how to achieve it, give them an opportunity to practice it, inspect what we expect, correct it when necessary and repeat the process until doing it the right way simply becomes the way we do it.
There is another lesson in this story that took me years to appreciate. Jimmy and I thought we were working hard that first Saturday. We were running, sweating and breathing hard. We were moving fast, but we weren’t making progress. There is a big difference between moving fast and moving forward. Had we simply listened to Mr. L the first time and followed the process, we probably would have gotten to play basketball that first Saturday. Instead, our shortcut became the longest route to the reward.
That’s one of the great ironies about standards. People sometimes believe standards slow them down. They think following every step takes too much time, so they rush, skip steps or settle for “good enough.” Then they spend even more time going back, correcting mistakes, redoing work or fixing problems that never needed to happen in the first place. Sometimes the fastest way to get something done is to slow down and do it right the first time.
Great Coaching
Mr. L never yelled at us. He didn’t embarrass us, and he didn’t grab the broom out of our hands and do the job himself. He simply inspected the floor, raised one of those giant fingers and said, “Do it again.” He let the standard teach the lesson. Looking back, that may be one of the most powerful parts of the entire story. He didn’t lower the standard because we were young. He didn’t accept less because we had tried hard. He gave us the opportunity to try again until we learned what doing it right actually looked and felt like.
These could work well as the final section of the newsletter, turning the story into six things readers can actually do.
Know What “Right” Looks Like. Before you begin a task, make sure you understand the standard—not just the desired result. Take action: Pick one responsibility in your life or work and ask yourself, “Could I clearly explain what doing this right looks like from beginning to end?”
Slow Down to Go Faster. Moving quickly isn't the same as making progress. Rushing often creates mistakes, rework, and frustration. Take action: The next time you feel yourself rushing, stop and ask, “Am I moving forward—or am I just moving fast?”
Stop Looking for the Shortcut. Jimmy and I spent more time trying to beat the process than it would have taken to simply follow it. Take action: Identify one area where you regularly cut a corner. For the next week, commit to following the entire process and see whether doing it right actually saves you time.
Finish the Entire Job. A clean floor wasn't enough. The mop and bucket had to be cleaned, put away, and ready for the next person. Take action: Before walking away from anything today, ask, “Is the task finished—or is the entire job finished?”
Teach the Standard, Don't Just State It. “Mop the floor” is an instruction. Mr. L taught us what a properly mopped floor required and how to produce it. Take action: If you lead, coach, parent, or teach someone, choose one expectation you've been giving people and make sure you've actually shown them what success looks like and why it matters.
Inspect What You Expect—and Allow the “Do It Again.” Mr. L didn't yell, embarrass us, lower the standard, or do the work for us. He inspected it and gave us another opportunity to get it right. Take action: Don't automatically accept “good enough”—from yourself or someone you're developing. Give feedback, provide another opportunity, and practice until the standard becomes a habit.
The Coachable Moment: Standards aren't meant to make things harder. They give us a repeatable way to get things right. Know the standard. Teach the standard. Practice the standard. Hold the standard. And finish the job.
PURPOSE • PEOPLE • PERFORMANCE • POTENTIAL • PROGRESS