Something goes wrong, I yell at them -'Fix it'- whether it's

Bill Parcells, the great general of the gridiron, once declared with iron in his voice: “Something goes wrong, I yell at them—‘Fix it’—whether it’s their fault or not. You can only really yell at the players you trust.” In these words he revealed a truth not only of sport, but of life and leadership itself. For to correct harshly, to demand fiercely, is not always a mark of anger or disdain—it can be a mark of trust. The leader does not cry out to the weak, for they would crumble; he cries out to the strong, for he knows they can bear the weight.

The origin of this wisdom lies in Parcells’ career as one of the most demanding coaches in football history. Known as “The Big Tuna,” he pushed his players to their limits, not to humiliate them, but to draw from them a power they themselves did not know they possessed. His yell of “Fix it” was not a curse but a charge, a recognition that the one addressed had both the strength and the authority to set things right. Only those who had earned his confidence could endure such a command, for behind the harsh words was an unspoken praise: You are one I can depend on.

The ancients understood this paradox well. The Spartans trained their youth with blows and discipline, not because they despised them, but because they believed they could endure, and in enduring become great. A general does not call upon the coward to hold the line—he calls upon his bravest, sometimes harshly, sometimes without mercy. The rebuke is itself a crown of honor. To be pushed is to be trusted; to be tested is to be esteemed.

Consider the story of Winston Churchill during the dark days of World War II. His words to his generals and ministers were often sharp, demanding, unrelenting. Yet he placed that pressure only on those he knew could rise beneath it. When he barked, “Action this day!” upon a document, it was both command and trust: he believed the man receiving it was capable of carrying the weight of history. Parcells, in the arena of sport, mirrored the same truth: the harder the rebuke, the deeper the faith in the one rebuked.

Yet this truth carries also a warning. Many misinterpret rebuke as rejection, and many leaders use harshness without trust, crushing rather than strengthening. But Parcells’ words draw the line clear: you can only yell at the players you trust. To demand from those you do not trust is cruelty; to demand from those you trust is faith. The difference lies not in the volume of the voice, but in the bond between leader and follower, master and disciple.

The lesson for us is clear: when you are corrected, even harshly, do not always see it as insult. Sometimes it is the greatest compliment—that someone believes you are strong enough to carry the burden of responsibility. And if you lead, remember that your hardest words should fall only upon those you truly believe in. To push without trust is destruction; to push with trust is transformation.

Practical wisdom follows. If you are rebuked, pause and ask: does this come from contempt, or from faith? If the latter, take it as a challenge to rise higher. If you are in the place of leadership, measure your rebukes carefully. Speak hardest only to those who have earned your confidence, and let them know, in ways beyond words, that your trust in them is the reason for your demand. Thus rebuke becomes not a wound, but a forge.

So let Parcells’ words endure: “You can only really yell at the players you trust.” To be tested is to be honored. To be called upon to fix what is broken—whether or not you caused it—is to be lifted into the circle of those deemed worthy of responsibility. And in that trust lies the highest form of respect, for it declares: You are strong enough to carry not only your burdens, but the burdens of all.