Protect Your Team Players

In high school, I worked for a few years at a fast-food restaurant. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was a much-needed paycheck. I was fortunate that my first real job included a manager who treated people well. He knew our names. He noticed when someone was having a hard day. He cared about the customers, but he also cared about the people behind the counter.

Looking back, I didn’t have the language for it then, but this was healthy leadership.

Because I respected our manager, I wanted to be a team player. I was willing to serve in whatever role was needed on a given shift. When he asked if I could stay late—even on a school night—I often said yes. And while it can be hard to get a teenager out of bed on a weekend, when he called to ask if I could come in early on a Saturday, I did that too.

People loved working for him. After a few years, he left. He was replaced by someone very different.

One Saturday morning, the landline at my parents’ house rang at 6:00 a.m. It was the new manager saying they were short on staff and asking if I could come in now instead of my scheduled 11:00 a.m. start. I said yes because I had learned to be a team player.

I rushed to put on my uniform, got in my car, and drove a few miles to the restaurant. When I walked in, I was ready to help wherever I was needed. I asked, “Where do you need me? Drive-through or front line?”

Instead, the manager told me he had a project for me.

He handed me a small metal scraper—the kind with a short handle and a dull blade—and pointed toward the dining room. I was told to scrape gum off the underside of the tables.

I remember lying on the floor with the cold tile against my back. The smell of grease that never really leaves a fast-food restaurant. The pink and gray wads of gum stuck in clumps—some were fresh, some so old they had become one with the table.

That’s what I did for the next ten hours. Table after table. Booth after booth. The breakfast and lunch crowds came and went above me.

Let me be clear: the gum needed to be removed. That wasn’t the issue.

The issue was this—one person, called in early on a Saturday morning, was asked to do a job that should have been shared. My willingness to be a team player wasn’t honored. It was taken advantage of.

After four hours on that greasy floor, my neck aching and my stomach growling, I finally stood up and walked over to the counter. I asked, “Do you mind if I grab a fifteen-minute break? Since I came in early, I didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast.”

He replied, “Company policy is that you get a break after six hours.”

I thought, “Oh. You want to play that game.” Quietly, I made myself a promise: this would be the last time I came in early when he called. I kept that promise.

My first manager understood that having team players under your leadership is something you must hold carefully. He knew that when people give you extra effort, it isn’t something you squeeze for all it’s worth. It’s something you protect.

The second manager saw team players as people to be used.

When people say yes—when they show up early, stay late, volunteer, or step up for the team—they’re offering more than labor, they’re offering trust. They’re saying, “I believe you’ll treat me fairly. I believe in your leadership. And I believe you wouldn’t ask this of me if it didn’t matter.”

Healthy leaders honor the gift of having team players. Unhealthy leaders use and abuse it.

I’ve seen this pattern repeat itself in workplaces, schools, teams, and organizations of every kind. Often, the most committed people are the ones who burn out first, not because they lack resilience, but because their leader failed to protect their willingness to serve.

Leaders have a responsibility to protect their team players.

That means you don’t just appreciate the people who always say yes—you actively guard them.
You intentionally distribute the workload so the same people aren’t carrying it every time. You pay attention to who raises their hand first and most often. You step in before their willingness turns into resentment. And when necessary, you are the one who says, “You don’t need to take this one.”

Assuming people will keep saying yes, without protection, is not leadership. It’s taking people for granted.

People don’t stop caring because the work gets hard. They stop caring when their willingness to be a team player is mishandled.

I remember my first manager’s name—Kevin. Thirty-five years later, I can still see his face. I don’t remember the name, or even the face, of the second manager. But I remember exactly how he made me feel.

When someone is willing to get on a greasy floor and scrape gum off tables for ten hours, your job isn’t to see how much more you can get out of them. Your job is to protect that team player and the trust they placed in you.