REACHING THE COACHING PEAK
Mark Daigneault earns NBA Coach of the Year honors after long journey
Mark Daigneault spoke with a hope that people hung on his words — not on him. h His face was indistinct, the look of an accountant. His dated, drab tie was tightly fastened. Then 29 years old, he looked more like an intern than a decision maker. He was brown-haired and bushy-browed, baby-faced but wrinkled at heart. h It was November 2014, and Daigneault’s audience was a room of less than a dozen people. It was his first media day as head coach of the Thunder’s G League affiliate, the OKC Blue. His first as head coach anywhere. h He was young but not in over his head. He was well-spoken and collected, with thoughts of hope and a foundation for the future. h But where had he spawned from? Daigneault never played college or professional basketball. A Google search produced only his LinkedIn page. What did Thunder general manager Sam Presti, as calculated as they come, see? h Daigneault was an investment, no different than a player. The prospect who was stashed away. h On his two most notable days with the organization — the day he became coach of the Thunder in 2020 and the day he won the NBA’s top coaching honor on April 28 — Daigneault humbly uttered the same sentiment: People had given him opportunities on projection, based on who he could be but wasn’t. h Maybe Presti, like others who’ve surrounded Daigneault, couldn’t guess his level of award-winning ascension. But the bulk of their acceptance was the version of Daigneault that was already in front of them.
How Mark Daigneault earned respect at UConn
Daigneault couldn’t start the drill yet.
The chair planted on an empty Gampel Pavilion floor had to sit at the perfect angle. Marty Gagne, a Connecticut walk-on and Daigneault’s roommate, had to start in the correct corner. From there, Gagne would have to make 10 consecutive shots.
But wait. Daigneault needed a broom to hold in Gagne’s face.
“We were both obsessive about it,” Gagne recalls.
The two spent five days of any given week there, shuffling cones and sneakers into the morning. A budding manager under legendary UConn coach Jim Calhoun, Daigneault needed to find new ways to develop players.
He needed to separate himself among nearly 20 student managers, to shed his unassuming profile and forgettable look. He wanted his observations to be taken as serious suggestions.
Externally, he was a dime-a-dozen East Coast kid. A teenager from Leominster, Massachusetts, a town roughly an hour East of Boston. A Paul Pierce enjoyer, a Bill Belichick obsessor. Daigneault rocked unbearably high white socks, dad sneakers, a cheap polo, khaki shorts and an occasional backward cap.
He was Jonah Hill’s portrayal of Peter Brand in “Moneyball,” a kid with unconventional ideas in a business of wisdom. A bright mind that required an open-minded audience. Huskies assistant George Blaney gave him that.
Daigneault connected with Blaney his first day on campus in 2003. Eventually, Gagne claims Daigneault became the coach’s “eyes and ears.” A small wrinkle in a practice, a reaction he saw. They became whispers in Blaney’s ear.
Gagne thinks Blaney saw himself in Daigneault. Blaney was a man that cared deeply for basketball, coaching for more than 40 years. He cared to teach the game with a particular enthusiasm and passion. And he only cared to impart that in a deserving pupil.
“Mark was willing to sacrifice anything, whatever it took to learn from him,” Gagne said.
With Calhoun and Blaney, Daigneault sought figures he thought to be larger than life. The ambition to chase them without fear, to earn their respect however he could — Blaney picked up on it.
Managers would log stats into a computer during UConn practices, and afterward players would skim the numbers. Then they’d swear that they’d been shorted a couple rebounds or a block. That flew with anyone but Daigneault.
“Mark wasn’t afraid to look at you and say ‘Nope, this is what I have. I’m not changing it,’” said Ed Nelson, a former UConn big man. “A lot of the other managers would probably be a little fearful of us players, coming in there 6-8, 260, 7foot. But Mark was very serious, and we all knew that.
“It wasn’t like, ‘Hey, why is this manager talking to me like that?’ Mark got to the point where he got that respect because we knew he was trying to help us.”
‘His mind was always going’
Holy Cross, despite its reputation as a basketball program then, didn’t have an exorbitant bud
“Mark wasn’t afraid to look at you and say ‘Nope, this is what I have. I’m not changing it.’ ” A lot of the other managers would probably be a little fearful of us players, coming in there 6-8, 260, 7-foot. But Mark was very serious, and we all knew that. It wasn’t like, ‘Hey, why is this manager talking to me like that?’ Mark got to the point where he got that respect because we knew he was trying to help us.”
Ed Nelson Former UConn big man
get. Daigneault landed his first gig out of college as an assistant there in 2007, but the offices reeked of the 1970s. The desks were dated, the carpets archaic. In the days of short college coaching staffs, Daigneault and fellow assistant Guillermo “Geo” Sanchez were sandwiched next to each other in a room.
In the office was a black leather couch. That’s where Sanchez found Daigneault curled up some mornings. Daigneault found the peeling cushions more comfortable than the 40-minute trip to his apartment after a night of film.
The glare of a computer would be his night light. The bright burn of the sun sneaking through the blinds was his alarm clock.
Sanchez remembers Ralph Willard as a demanding head coach, a stickler for details. In practices, when the team went over a scouting report, they ran through the opponent’s top five or 10 sets. The assistants couldn’t use any notes or material when demonstrating to the players. If they forgot anything?
“You’d get embarrassed,” Sanchez said.
But Daigneault lived for details. He was early on the analytics wave, a fiend for numbers. It was the gateway drug for his masterful after-timeout plays and encyclopedic memory of the NBA’s official rulebook.
Daigneault’s most in his element when he’s left to observe. He’s a notoriously frequent squinter. He’s not cognizant of it when it happens, though New Mexico coach Richard Pitino never lets him forget.
Pitino and Daigneault shared a season on Florida’s staff. On game days, they’d walk to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Pitino played detective. Why couldn’t Daigneault pry his eyes open? Was it the Florida sun? A need for glasses?
Daigneault figures it’s provoked by deep thoughts — which seemingly come often.
“His mind was always going,” Gagne said. “There was just this intense focus all the time on watching every aspect, every player. Sometimes you’d be like, ‘Hey Mark.’ He’d be so focused — I don’t even know what was going on in his brain — on watching the game that everything else just zones out.”
During games, Daigneault tends to stand away from the bench. The background noise evokes insanity. Chatty players, coaches shouting adjustments. Daigneault watches casual TV games on mute and watches film with music over the broadcast.
He drifts on the sidelines, but not into space. Into the details. He needs his own world.
Always thinking differently
When the Florida staff traveled, it dubbed its war room “The Hunker.” Game tape rolled, philosophies were born. Kooky ideas spewed like Bill Walton on Adderall.
“We would sit around as a staff, like most staffs do, and we would talk about a million different things that had nothing to do with anything,” Pitino said.
Coach Billy Donovan needed those sessions. He’d won two national championships, yet tinkering was an itch he had to scratch. He invited debate. He couldn’t bounce ideas off a yes man. Daigneault became a perfect match. He was inclined to challenge Donovan’s line of thinking. To think more. Think differently. Every Donovan idea
was a Federer serve, every Daigneault rebuttal was a Nadal return.
From watching Calhoun up close and dissecting Belichick from afar, Daigneault learned to motivate. He discovered when to push buttons and when to evoke emotions. But Daigneault — mildmannered, often turning to his quick wit and inside voice — sought his own way of reaching players.
When he took over the Blue, Daigneault asked every player the same question: “What’s the secret to coaching you?”
Most craved honesty. “Tell me like it is,” or, “Tell me what you need me to do,” they’d say. Daigneault wasn’t exactly one to sugarcoat.
“There’s nothing harder than lying,” Daigneault said. “You’ve gotta lie a hundred times to cover for your first lie.”
His honesty comes with direction, not personal targeting. He’s measured the emotions of the job. The fire the players house, the drama the media narrates, the anxiety the fans feel. He’s acted as a Grim Reaper of sorts, filtering emotion and stripping life from those things to make balanced decisions.
Most respect it. A rare few, reactionary or enraged by Daigneault’s directness, have looked to challenge it.
“He’s so smart, you’re not going to outtalk or get the best of him, especially in a verbal altercation,” said Dez Wells, who played for Daigneault on the Blue. “He knows how to articulate his feelings without getting mad. You’re not gonna get him out of character.”
Wells knew control freaks. Coaches who tucked thoughts of their next contract into stiff combovers. Who held hidden agendas for stars behind coffee breath. But Daigneault was different. Free-flowing, open-minded. Leaning into his players’ strengths to the point they had control of their destiny.
“I learned a long time ago, my first year as a head coach — everyone tells you to be yourself,” Daigneault said. “And I think that’s actually not great advice. I think you have to do your job. If your job is to elevate the team to the best of your ability, that’s what you need to do. If the job is for the team to play better than the sum of the parts, that’s your job. You can apply your personality to it, but that’s my job.”
Daigneault knows he’s a bearer of dreams. His players are subject to basketball mortality, to youthful primes and glory and then nothing shortly after. At the moment, they have the luxury of downplaying their respective youth. But their NBA adolescence isn’t his, and he hands them responsibility in knowing so.
It was the perspective he’d need to be the even-keel face of a pivoting team for an organization that’s been spoiled with success. Daigneault was briefed on how grim the next couple seasons could get. He’d be handed a seat typically warmed by eventual scapegoats. Placeholders. Trial runs.
But Daigneault’s hire was purposeful. Presti saw the mind. Daigneault was optimistic but not to the point of being disingenuous. He knew the weight of being young and viewed through the lens of uncertainty. He’d have the approach to help a team of 20-somethings stomach the dirt that preceded its resurgence.
He’d install and stand on unconventional approaches, ignoring the public view on OKC’s identity and his own rotational choices. He’d foster an environment that reset things each day, with numbing talk of a “zero and zero” mentality. Every day until one day, Daigneault’s team became the youngest No. 1 seed ever.
A storm years in the making
Players rejoiced and howled and then held their breath.
It took everything to contain the excitement. The Thunder was moments removed from a Game 4 win over the Pelicans last month, breaking an eight-year franchise drought and delivering its first playoff series win since Kevin Durant’s departure. These days weren’t so clear four years earlier. Not when OKC sought new leadership and a new direction.
Players knew what the moment meant. They’d felt the weight of the world for a season, bombarded by questions of age and expectations. But for as long as they needed, they kept quiet. Something was missing.
Jaylin Williams hid behind the door. Players reached for cold waters. Chet Holmgren grabbed a bucket.
Daigneault swung into the locker room, still hoping to inspire. Still in stride, he pointed at several players. His voice broke the silence.
“Bad (expletive), bad (expletive), ba —”
Before Daigneault could deliver his speech, every available drop of water was dumped on him. A few of them mimicked Daigneault, dousing him and jumping up and down while shouting his words.
His players weren’t just celebrating a franchise milestone. Daigneault, private and constantly dealing in modesty, let film tuck him in the night before. He carried on as if he hadn’t just won coach of the year.
He’d talked so much about being present, being limited to the moment. But this was it. The distant dream he swiped away at all those years, both through winning streaks and being labeled the black eye of the league. The vision he wasn’t supposed to look ahead to.
Amid the shower, Daigneault was muzzled. He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t preach, couldn’t deliver his Thunderisms. He ran his hand through his soaking hair. He paced, looking to the floor and around the room while showing teeth. Hands in his pockets, his thoughts let the room cool to a silence.
Daigneault wasn’t forced to think of who he will be. He was forced to think of who he is.