'Lean Into Your Heart: Let Your Passion Drive You'

Sports has long served as a unifier—a vessel to carry communities through chaos, loss, and grief. When COVID-19 brought the world, and the sports and live entertainment industries, to a halt, millions found unexpected solace in The Last Dance, the 10-part documentary series chronicling Michael Jordan and the 1997-98 Chicago Bulls’ pursuit of their sixth NBA title.

Airing in April and May of 2020, The Last Dance became more than a television event. It was a cultural frenzy, offering connection during a time of profound isolation. Each episode was an anchor—something to gather around, to feel again.

At the heart of that project was executive producer Mike Tollin. Over a dynamic four-decade career, Tollin has produced and directed award-winning documentaries, acclaimed films, and groundbreaking television. His work has not only shaped how we view media—it’s transcended genres entirely, reminding us of the human spirit and humanity that lives within every story.

And yet, beyond the Hollywood accolades and achievements, Tollin’s heart remains rooted in the city that raised him. A Philadelphia sports fan savant—he carries his Philly upbringing with deep pride.

Tollin speaks with love, grace, and an unmistakable passion for the craft. He’s not just a celebrated producer, decorated director, or media visionary—he’s a compassionate leader and storyteller, a true believer in the power of sports and narrative to connect, heal, inspire, and transform.

The Daily Coach spoke with Tollin about his Philly roots, the leadership shift between producing and directing, the values that guide his life, and what truly makes for great storytelling.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

…

Mike, we're grateful for you doing this. Tell us about your childhood and some key lessons from it.

Being a sports fan, the first team I rooted heartily for—and the first team that broke my heart—was the 1964 Phillies. One day, my dad brought home four tickets to the 1964 World Series—for him and his three kids. When he pulled them out, I was eight years old, and my eyes got big. To this day, I still have those tickets… to a World Series that never happened.

I was a huge Phillies fan, especially of their rookie slugger named Richie Allen, who later renamed himself Dick Allen. With just two weeks left in the season, we had a 6½-game lead over the Cardinals with 12 games to play. The tickets were printed. Everybody was ready. Philly hadn’t been in a World Series since way before I was born. It was a dream come true. Every night, I’d say goodnight, then sneak a transistor radio under my pillow, plug in my little earphones—not quite AirPods—and listen to the games. I’d hear them lose…cry myself to sleep… and slowly but surely, the lead evaporated. We ended up finishing second, one game behind the Cardinals.

We talk about the scar tissue of that disappointment—and in a lot of ways, I’m grateful for it. You asked what impact that had. I couldn’t have articulated it then, but when I look back on that experience, it reminds me how important it is to separate hope from expectation. I like to go into things with high hopes and low expectations.

They say in baseball, you can fail seven times out of 10 and still make the Hall of Fame. In what we do—pitching stories, creating content—we might fail 97 times out of 100 and still make some kind of Hall of Fame. But that doesn’t mean that each of those 100 times at bat, I don’t believe I’m going to succeed.

Every time I pitch a project or sit down for a development meeting, I believe it’s going to come to fruition. But I’ve learned: the greatest disappointments in life usually come from unreasonable expectations. That’s true for a sports fan, for a filmmaker, for any kind of leader or performer. The trick is to not let your hopes be diminished by things that don’t go your way…to bounce back, keep the spirit alive, and continue moving forward.

What’s one early memory or life experience that shaped the values you live by today?

1964 was a tough year. I was eight. It was the year my mom and dad split up…and the same year the Phillies collapsed. Don’t ask me which one hurt worse! One day, my dad brought me along to a business meeting. He was in real estate, and the meeting was in front of the Board—something about a zoning ordinance. I remember sitting in the audience and watching him get challenged. Then I saw him get madder than I’d ever seen him.

He said: “How dare you impugn my integrity.” That line stuck with me, partly because of how passionately he said it.

On the ride home, I asked him, “Dad, what does that mean?” He explained the words to me, and I’ve never forgotten them.

If you ask me now, “What’s the word I live by?” It’s integrity. What does that mean to me? Acting with honesty. With authenticity. With respect. It means the world to me.

What makes for great storytelling?

Well, first of all, you need compelling characters. Hopefully relatable and accessible characters. But I also think great storytelling often involves people who have to overcome obstacles to get where they want to go. That’s a broad definition, but it’s a guiding principle.

If you look at the stories we’ve told—the people we’ve gravitated to, the work that’s resonated—I’d say we’re often drawn to characters on both ends of the spectrum.

On one end, you’ve got iconic global sports heroes—like Michael Jordan and Hank Aaron. Jordan was the most famous person in the world for many years in his heyday. Hank Aaron broke what was arguably the most sacred record in American sports: Babe Ruth’s home run record.

But look at what Hank Aaron had to endure—relentless racism, death threats, hate mail. He needed a 24/7 armed guard from the Atlanta Police Department just to live his life. And still, he just showed up every day and did his job. Jordan? He famously got cut from his high school basketball team. We all know how that turned out.

On the other end of the spectrum, you’ve got Coach Carter and Radio—real people who were largely unknown before we made movies about them. Coach Carter was a part-time, volunteer coach at Richmond High School in Northern California, earning $13,000 a year. He turned a struggling program into a State Champion contender and then had the courage to say, “We’re not playing again until I see your grades improve.” He sent his team to the library instead of the gym. That was not a popular decision—but it was an inspirational one.

And Radio is about a man living on the margins, for whom football became a refuge. Coach Harold Jones—played by Ed Harris—was truly heroic. He made space in his life to make sure Radio had a place to go every day. He made him a valued part of the South Carolina community.

So yeah, I do tend to lean into the heart and humanity of stories. I’ve been doing this for over 40 years now—and I still find myself drawn to the same themes, the same messages… and, hopefully, bringing the same passion.

How does your leadership mindset shift when you're wearing the producer hat versus the director hat?

The producer hat is more of a macro role, while the director hat is more of a micro role. Both are leadership roles, but in different ways. As a director, you’re the leader of the set every single day. Everyone’s waiting on you — to say action, to say cut, and to make all the decisions in between. That includes choosing the color of the dress, the size of the lens, and the position of the camera.

What I’ve learned from directing is this: making no decision is way worse than making the wrong decision. Because the wrong decision — you can usually recover from it. We can reframe, reshoot, redirect.

But indecision? Inertia? That freezes everyone. Leadership is committing to a direction — and following it until you need to pivot. And not being afraid to pivot. Not being afraid to admit you were wrong. I read a Daily Coach piece recently on forgiveness, and that resonated. I believe in both apology and forgiveness — two different sides of the same coin, but equally important in leadership and human relationships.

Someone once told me, after spending time in my office, “You run a really flat society.” At first, I wasn’t sure if they meant that as a compliment or an insult.

But when I asked what he meant, he said: “Most leadership environments look like a pyramid. Yours doesn’t. Everyone’s seated around the same table, and everyone’s ideas carry equal weight.” And I thought: Well, thank you. That’s the goal. To be collaborative, respectful, and focused on the merits of the idea, not where it came from.

Recently, someone described a certain director to me as “just the right amount of stubborn.” And I liked that. Because leadership also means judgment —knowing which battles are worth fighting, which ones to let go. Which ones you’ll stand your ground on, and which ones you’re okay losing — to win the larger war.

That’s my idea of leadership: Staying true to your vision, but being open and collaborative enough to welcome input from anywhere — the assistant director, the star, the producing partner, or even the folks working the craft service table!

…

Part 2 of our interview with Mike Tollin releases next Saturday, April 5. We’ll dive into the art of negotiation, overcoming obstacles, and navigating our attachment to the work once it’s released into the world.

…

Q&A Resources

Mike Tollin ― Mike Tollin Productions | MTP LinkedIn

…

Let us know what you think...

Did someone forward this to you? Subscribe for free here and get daily emails like this directly in your inbox.

Is there a story or theme you'd like to see The Daily Coach dive into this year? We'd love to hear your ideas here.