When I became the assistant, I was intelligent and helpful. I

Hear the words of Marco van Basten, a legend of the game who spoke with honesty about his own journey: “When I became the assistant, I was intelligent and helpful. I had patience. As the head coach I was completely the opposite. I made a good decision to get out.” These words are not only about football, but about the weight of leadership, the limits of human temperament, and the courage it takes to step away when one no longer serves well.

As an assistant, van Basten describes himself as intelligent and helpful. This role allowed him to support without bearing the crushing weight of command. He had patience, for the assistant watches closely, guides quietly, and teaches with gentleness. In such a position, the fire of passion is balanced with the calm of perspective, and the players can feel the strength of a hand that supports rather than commands. Here he thrived, for his gifts of insight and clarity shone brightly.

But when he rose to the role of head coach, the burden shifted. The demands grew heavier, the spotlight harsher, the responsibilities endless. He confesses that he became the opposite of what he once was—impatient, burdened, no longer able to give as freely. For leadership at the highest level does not merely require knowledge of the game; it requires endurance of criticism, management of egos, and the unyielding ability to bear responsibility when all collapses. This, he admits, drained him of the virtues he once had in abundance.

History provides us with parallels. Consider the Roman general Cincinnatus, called from his plow to lead the army in a time of crisis. He fought with wisdom, restored order, and then, unlike so many who tasted power, laid it down willingly and returned to his fields. He knew that greatness is not only in ruling, but in knowing when to step away. In van Basten’s words, we see the same wisdom: that stepping down is not failure, but clarity of judgment, a recognition that to remain would do harm both to himself and to those he sought to lead.

His reflection is a reminder that leadership is not for all, and not for every season. The qualities that make one a great advisor do not always make one a great commander. The battlefield of sport, like the battlefield of nations, requires different strengths in different roles. To serve well where you are gifted is noble; to cling to a role where you no longer flourish is folly. Thus, his choice to get out was not cowardice, but wisdom, an act of honesty that many in power never find the strength to make.

The deeper meaning of his words is this: every person must know themselves truly. To overreach, to force oneself into roles unsuited to one’s spirit, is to invite misery. But to act with humility, to recognize where one’s gifts are best used, is to serve with dignity. It is better to be a great assistant, patient and wise, than a poor leader consumed by frustration. In this, van Basten teaches that glory is not always in rising higher, but sometimes in stepping aside.

The lesson is clear: measure your strength not only by ambition, but by honesty. Ask yourself where you flourish, and where you falter. Embrace the roles where your virtues shine, and do not fear to lay down positions that do not fit your nature. This is not defeat, but alignment with truth. For in the end, greatness lies not in how high you rise, but in how faithfully you serve in the place where your gifts bear fruit.

Practical actions follow. Cultivate patience, whether in leadership or in service. Know the weight of responsibility before you grasp for it. Reflect deeply on your own temperament and talents, and seek the role where they may serve best. And above all, remember van Basten’s wisdom: sometimes the bravest decision is not to hold on, but to let go. In this way, you preserve both your dignity and your peace, leaving behind not bitterness, but the honor of a life lived in truth.