At the height of victory, when the noise is still ringing and the adrenaline has not yet settled, most instinctively turn outward. Toward celebration, toward others, toward the visible reward of what has just been achieved.
For Dan Hurley, head coach of the University of Connecticut men’s basketball team, the instinct is different. It draws him inward first.
Speaking in a recent interview with Dan Zaksheske, the devout coach described with the reporter that on leaving the court he needed to find a moment alone. Not to relive the game, not to gather his thoughts, but to pray.
“[I had to] say my Hail Mary, say my Our Father … and thank the Lord for blessing us with this victory. I know he certainly played a role in it.”
The image is touchingly simple. A bathroom stall, a brief pause, a prayer that does not seek attention. What matters is not where it happens, but that it happens at all.
And yet, what he says next deepens it further. As he pointed out: “I didn't necessarily thank him for the victory but just to thank him for being in my life.”
The shift is subtle, but it changes everything. His initial gratitude moved away from the result and toward something far more enduring. The victory matters, of course it does, but it is not the center of the relationship.
Hurley went on to explain that his time with God is not reserved for exceptional moments. “I start every day with prayer,” he said, before adding that after the game, “once I had a private moment, that was the person I needed to talk to.”
There is something quietly revealing in that order. Not because it is dramatic, but because it is consistent. Prayer is not a reaction to pressure or success, but part of a rhythm that holds both.
It is easy to turn to God in defeat, when things unravel and we are brought back to what matters. Success, by contrast, has a way of dispersing us, of drawing us into the illusion that we are self-sufficient, that the outcome belongs entirely to us.
What Hurley’s instinct suggests is another way of living those moments. To step aside, even briefly, and recognise that what we receive is never ours alone. To give thanks not only for what has happened, but for the presence that remains, whether we win or lose.
And perhaps that is what makes this interview so compelling. It wasn't about finding the perfect setting, not even the result, but the reflex to turn first to God — not only when things fall apart, but when they fall into place.
