Research Philosophy & Four-Year Plan:

Story time.

Jefferson is a small town in somewhat north, somewhat western Oregon. It is the kind of place where "downtown" doubles as outskirts and the most obscure successes decorate its banners. Here's a for instance: Jefferson is the self-proclaimed "Frog Jumping Capital of Oregon". No metropolis has ever forged a crown that ridiculous.

There's a high school on the somewhat west, super north side of town. Construction of that building was completed in 1980, and part of its grounds includes a pretty nice baseball field. Since the birth of that baseball program, and throughout its childhood, teens, and into its twenties, it was horrible.

(Apparently there was one uncharacteristic year in the mid-90s that became a permanent source of pride for the town. That's less sad than Pabst, which won its only "Blue Ribbon" in the mid-1890s. Everyone clings to something.)

In all things, there's a degree of failure that's just plain frustrating. But if you fail even harder than that, all of your frustration will be replaced by amusement. And Jefferson's baseball program had reached the funny degree of failure.

Then, in 2008, Mark Rouska (a very dear friend) and I took over as its coaches. And our approach to coaching upheld no tradition. The pre-game rituals, strategies, training routines. Nothing was sacred. And nearly everything was purged, beginning with the obvious:

"Why are you running laps around the field?", I wondered, said out loud, and then prohibited the activity, and then explained my prohibition: "At no point during a game of baseball will you be found slowly jogging half a mile. So why would you incorporate that into your training routine?"

"We're just doing our cardio."

"What do you mean by cardio? Like your ejection fraction when you're at the plate or something?"

"I mean we do laps as a warm up and cool down."

"What do you mean by warm up and cool down? What do those words mean to you?"

Blank stares.

As Mark and I disassembled every verb practiced during the last few hilariously unsuccessful decades, and replaced them with sound science, we began to win. And win some more. And some more. By the end of the season, we had knocked out Regis (private Catholic school that was favored to win our division) and were hosting the playoffs at our home field (previously renowned only for its frog jumping... and that one successful year, back when our current athletes were wearing diapers).

The largest newspaper in Oregon is The Oregonian. Their website, OregonLive, has never maintained the same standards of journalism. Toward the end of our season, someone sent me a link to a message board on that site. I clicked the link and began scrolling through some weirdly scathing commentary about me and how I coached... written by strangers from other towns. At that same time, I learned that the coaches of the other teams in our league referred to me as "Taliban".

(Keep in mind this year was a bit nearer to "9-11". Back then, "Taliban" seems to have been the worst thing someone from a rural farming community could call someone else. It was much sharper than any monosyllabic curse word.)

As with the bizarre message board content, the nickname given to me by the pasture-raised folk was too meaningless to offend. It never ruffled the feathers of my inner laying hen. But I do remember feeling confused: why would anybody (message board contributors and coaches alike) care about my coaching strategy? It's just kids playing with balls. Why is that even important, let alone sacred? The employment of science in sport is really so profane that it needed to be censured, blotted out, and - in this case - fired?

At the end of the season, Mark and I were both fired. Mark was the head coach. He was the strategist controlling the lineups, the positions, making the calls from the third base line. I was just his assistant, responsible for all drills and conditioning, and during the games, I'd stand slightly foul of the first base line and, very occasionally, yell sentences at my batter. "The pitcher is gripping the ball too tightly, so it's going to come in low; be ready for that!" My batter understood that, although I was looking and yelling directly at him, I wasn't talking to him. I was talking to the pitcher, who then, loosening his grip and doing his best to not throw the ball "too low", hurled it over the backstop (high school students are pretty impressionable). That way we could advance our runner on first and no longer worry about the double play.

(Okay, maybe that contributed to my "Taliban" nickname - if any of our opponents were smart enough to figure out what I was doing - but I only did it a few times... and yes, it worked every time. "Watch what the pitcher's elbow is doing! His elbow is way ahead of his hand! So this next pitch is coming in high!" And then I say, very quietly, to my runner on first, "This ball is going to get by the catcher; get ready to take second.").

Was that a sneaky move? Yeah, of course. Pretty terrible. But all's fair in baseball and war. And before the first time I ever did that, our opponents had already stopped addressing me by name. The mere blasphemy of tradition is what earned me Voldemort syndrome. Not among our team or our immediate community though. All of our players loved Mark and me. Because we were winning, and having fun doing it. Approximately half of their parents loved us. Because their kids were winning (and approximately half of those parents weren't purists). And much of the town loved us. Again: their team was winning. And we all have more fun when our rooting is rewarded.

But the purists were upset. A few parents, the opposing teams, and, unfortunately, the most pure (i.e., most upset) person was our school's athletic director.

I remember interviewing for the coaching job; it was with that A.D. I came to his office, sat across from him, and received his smile. It was a powerful image. It communicated a lot more than "greetings!" He was a well-freckled man in his mid-40s with close-cut, curly hair, and his teeth were barely hanging on. As he began to speak, all I could think was: here's a man who brushes his teeth so vigorously, his gums have receded more than his curly hairline. All of his incisors were about to fall out as a penalty for his intensity.

Doing my best not to stare at his teeth, I managed to answer all of the questions those little abused marbles were shaping. And I made it through the interview coherently enough to be offered the job.

As soon as I left that office, I called Mark and told him about the interview. Mostly, I just described the athletic director's mouth. Mark said something like, "Yeah, he's a pretty intense guy. I'm a little worried how micro-managerial he'll be, but I think it's gonna be fine. We'll see how the season goes."

As you know, the season went well. But not according to Mr. Intense Tooth. Immediately after the last game of the season, he fired both Mark and me in a speech that was more scathing than anything said on OregonLive, and citing "differences of coaching philosophy" as his reason. The words "history" and "tradition" were each used more than once, and spoken with a shaky voice. I've found that when anger reaches a certain threshold, it manifests as vibrato, and Mr. Intense Tooth was operatic in his "you're fired" speech.

Part of his anger was from our deliberate disobedience at the Regis game. Instead of allowing Mark and me to coach as we saw fit, he interrupted our pre-game meeting in the locker room. (It turns out, Mark's micro-managerial concerns had been very well placed.) About twenty minutes before boarding the bus, we were having our zenful pep talk. Very clam, nothing adrenal. Just getting our heads in the right space. Similar to how a basketball player performs a specific dribble ritual before taking each free throw. Our ritual was a little different. It was a simple, quiet preparation. We were all either seated or kneeling and Mark was talking us through the game, like an imaginary dress rehearsal, visualizing the pitches, the hits, the base running. A few innings into Mark's narration, the door burst open as if by blasting caps, and the A.D. breached our huddle as aggressively as he brushed his teeth. He stood over our kneeling group (the only time his modest stature appeared towering), and began issuing some very specific instructions to us, the coaches, on how to proceed with this game. Very specific. And very serious. Had Moses come down the mountain with sports rules, they would have sounded less commanding than what we were hearing from this man, with his erect back and his tucked-in short-sleeved shirt. After a full minute of Mt. Sinai barking, we heard, "This is how things are done 'round here!", and then he paused to survey the room, making eye contact with a few of our athletes. Then he left, slowly, with the pride of a gladiator who had just slain every creature in the colosseum.

Everything the athletic director said was (I'm sure you've already guessed) incredibly stupid. Had we followed any part of his 'round-here wisdom, we would have surely thrown the game. And we wanted to win. Badly. Because we (the players far more than the coaches) hated the rich schools, where they bought their athletes and their mitt budget exceeded our annual operating cost. There's no way we were going to lose to that. So Mark and I politely waited for the A.D.'s teeth to finish their announcement, and as soon as he left the room, as smugly as he entered, we told our athletes to, "Please ignore everything he just said and allow us, the actual coaches, to make the calls."

During the game, Mark and I (especially Mark) made some great calls. And we won. In extra innings. Apparently the A.D. attended that game (so I was told) and stewed over the victory (so I witnessed). I mean really stewed, like a campfire bone broth. And while steaming and bubbling, he wrote his "you're fired" speech.

The year after our firings, Mark and I both checked in on occasion to see how the team was doing. Most of the athletes had returned. Only a few had graduated. And the returning shortstop's dad was the new coach. He was a genuinely nice guy who honored the old customs, blotted out all science we had blotted in, and won nearly no games. They didn't make the playoffs. Not even close. We were told they came in second to last place in their league. But at least no tradition was lost en route to failure. And they failed hard enough that it was funnier than it was frustrating.

In the decade that followed, Mark and my's year (I realize that's not how grammar works) lost its Black Sox tarnish and seems to have adopted a frog jump legacy. Although the softening of memories was surely accelerated by Mark's death. In 2017, he died of kidney cancer. In his lifetime, Mark had become a local legend in a few localities. This was one of them. And his passing brought out a lot of "good old days" stories.

In the 1940s, a German physicist named Max Planck explained to the world that the acceptance of scientific facts does not occur by convincing the unbelievers; a fact becomes consensus only after the unbelievers die and the accepting generation grows up. In other words, as the coinage goes, "Progress happens one funeral at a time."

Mark's was not the type of funeral that typically begets progress. Usually, it's the old guard that must die. This time, the passing of the new guard softened its opponents to the merits of science.

There's a moral of this story. A pretty good one. This:

Science wins. In doing so, it upsets a lot of people. If sentiment is replaced by statistics, and old traditions by sound predictions, you'll have an enormous advantage, but lonely bleachers. The mathiest team tends to collect more victories than fans. However, sport is finally starting to come around (just ask Billy Beane). Science itself is a bit more sluggish in adopting science. Tradition still commonly guides practice. "That's not how we teach and practice statistics and scholarship here on this campus!", shouts a shaky-voiced member of the old guard... who never bothers to wonder why his lab can't compete with ours. "Damn Taliban over there in the PE building!" or some such scorn from the losing team. Scorn that fails to belittle us, but definitely betrays one's insecurity and feelings of inadequacy. Just like with sport, science wins. And will keep winning. And we should behave accordingly. Always in everything.

Re: everything. Many of our Paper Mill students apply to graduate programs. There is usually an interview as a component of that application process. "Why?", it seems reasonable to wonder, as the interviewing of candidates is as stupid as any advice given to Mark and me by the old, toothy athletic director. Exhaustive research consistently demonstrates that the interview is not merely a waste of time, it actually ruins your ability to predict success. "No, not with me. I'm a good interviewer. When I meet a student, I can always tell who will succeed in my program and who won't." Right, and I can find water with my dowsing rod. I know most people can't, but the devil really does guide my stick.

If we want to be successful, we have to give up our beloved traditions wherever they oppose science. Especially in teaching, as that's the foundation of thinking... no matter what is being taught. Let's say you want to teach a ten-year-old how to play the guitar. Should you begin with complex lessons on music theory? Lessons that offer the child no indication that, in two years, the accumulated knowledge will theoretically enable him to play the songs he loves today?

If you want to teach a bunch of quitters, sure, go for it. But if you want those kids to buy in, you should probably let them learn some songs first. On day one, teach them the magic. Eventually, once they're hooked, you can teach the mechanics of that magic. But you have to set the hook first or you'll have nothing to reel. That's why, when I teach statistics, I begin with the catchy songs: publications. We begin our journey with a CV-enhancing achievement. Something you're proud of. And the student learns only to make sense of that specific achievement. They learn to play that one catchy melody at their recital. After that, if they're hooked, it's time to talk about the mechanics (notation, scales, theory). In this case, the math of those melodies. But if you begin by bombarding your recruits with math and mechanics, you end with an empty clubhouse. Nobody buys in.

Here at the Paper Mill, we begin with the song. We get you published. You learn to understand what you just published, and how to talk about it. You learn to sing that one song. At this point, some people find themselves hooked, and decide they want to learn to compose their own songs. New songs. Other genres. In less analogous terms, students want to learn how to conduct their own research. These are the people we keep in the club. These are the people who advance to year two, year three, year four. These are the people who eventually create a morbidly obese CV. And that's what it takes to succeed in academia.

This is what each year of involvement involves in the Pacific Paper Mill:

Year one. You're a rookie, and no rookie is ever a coach. You have to learn to play the game first. How do you learn the game? Listen to the coach and do every single thing you're told. I mean every fucking detail. If you don't learn every sign, every play, every rule, nobody will want you on the team. You have to listen carefully and learn completely. Later (years three and four), you'll lead. But if you want to get there, you have to start by following. If you're a shitty follower, you'll be an even worse leader. You cannot possibly know how to govern if you've never been governed. At the Paper Mill, this is mostly a matter of instructions. If you can't follow instructions - I mean exactly, no mistakes - leadership probably isn't in your future... because you didn't pay close enough attention while following... and so you never learned what needs to be instructed. So you'll have no idea how to fulfill the responsibilities of a leader. When serving in that role, if you lack any understanding - if you're missing the tiniest bureaucratic detail - you're a liability. The odds of success are the same as the odds that you'll be indicted (I say with no exaggeration). You're better off (certainly safer legally) in a different field. Probably one where you can work with your hands... because your head is unlikely to be dextrous enough for academics.

Okay, that's year one's insulting (but sincere) warning label. If you want to advance to year two, you simply have to follow instructions correctly during year one. The bulk of the work is done for you. You're not expected to have a statistician's understanding of regression modeling (or whatever). All of that is handled by a professor and some third and fourth year PPM students. You don't need to know much. You just have to learn your specific project. At the end of year one, you get a published abstract in a real journal. Not some "undergraduate council" or some such. Serious, professional journal. It'll be the single brightest highlight on your CV, casting a long shadow on everything else you've accomplished. And the only thing you have to do (aside from following instructions like a champ) is create a poster based on the published abstract (of which you are the first author). You'll work with a third-year researcher as a guide, helping you to create that poster. It takes work, but not complexity. If you understand math as well as an average fifth grader, you can do this. Pretty easily. Just don't be lazy. And you'll advance to year two.

Year two. Your sophomore year at the PPM. Pretty much everyone makes the freshman team, but there are a lot of cuts for the JV roster (anyone who failed to follow instructions). If you've made the JV roster, you already have a publication. Let's get at least one more, maybe two. Maybe three if you're really good. And let's get you more involved in the research process. You still won't be running your own statistics, but you'll have more responsibility than the PPM freshmen. This year, you're given data outputs that you should now understand. A professor doesn't have to walk you through it baby step by baby step. You know what those values mean on your own. (If you don't understand those outputs - ANOVAs, regressions, etc. - without being infant-walked through it, you didn't learn what you were supposed to during your first year.) As a second year, you will be working under the guidance of a third year, but you'll be offering some of your own guidance to the first years (which is how you can get multiple abstract authorships).

Year three. You've officially made the varsity team, and your responsibilities reflect your rank: this year, you'll be leading your own group of researchers. You're now capable of running your own statistics. You understand the context of each statistic (what types of questions require what types of analyses) and you understand the fundamentals of those analyses. You're capable of conducting them yourself and creating your own project. A professor will be very involved in your abstracts (final statistical models and final phrasing), but otherwise, you're working independently. You will lead a team of first year and second year students, meaning you can get three or four, maybe even seven or eight authorships in one year. In serving that team captain role, you will function as both coach and player. Yes, you have a project of your own, but you're also responsible for shepherding the first year students (making sure they're following all instructions and guiding them down that path) and helping the second years transition into a more independent and responsible role.

Year four. Time to go pro: journal articles. You'll continue to provide guidance on several abstracts (and, of course, get your name on those in exchange for that guidance and mentorship), but you might not have your own first-author abstract... because you'll have a bigger priority: publishing your first manuscript. Technically "manuscript" means "hand written thing"; we all know what script means, and what's a manicure? So (again, technically) a manuscript is an early draft of a paper that you've probably scribbled on (scrib as a variant of script), using your hand. But in science, the word has misnomer-ly become synonymous with "journal article". And that well-edited, non-drafty, typescript journal article is your primary focus this year. You'll take at least one of your previous published abstracts, moisten it, knead it, and shape it into a beaitufuil final draft. And go through the painful labor of submitting it. And then revising and resubmitting it when the peer-review process calls for "revise and resubmit" (which is the best you can hope for). Once you've completed the fourth year, you're ready to be an independent researcher. You'll have an abundance of PhD programs offering you funding, and you'll be the most trained and talented student matriculating... as long as you hit all your mile markers each year in the PPM.

-Courtney (May 1, 2019)