White pea

I learned recently that the head coach of my childhood United States Swim team passed away a few weeks ago from prostate cancer. While growing up, he was always this towering figure whose stern demeanor instilled fear in my little heart. He'd be on deck, all 6'+ of him, wearing his wayfarers (you could never see his eyes) and sporting some sort of Hawaiian shirt with flowers or palm trees or something.

His sense of humor was a little off, so you could never tell if he was being serious, but that's what added to his mystique and frankly, kept me frightened of him. He had a reputation for being a tough coach with a short temper, but also a great coach whose swimmers went on to Olympic glory. All throughout my childhood, I admired his swimmers who consistently broke national records, seemed huge and powerful, and appeared to be demi-gods.

When I turned 14, I moved into his group and had the chance to experience his coaching style firsthand. In that year, I made the most significant gains in my swimming (puberty may also have had something to do with it), but I also learned how to train hard. For as much (or as little) talent that was in my bones, it was clear that I had to work hard to get better. And to earn his respect.

It's true that he was a hard coach and expected the most out of his swimmers, but he also had a soft side that he rarely showed. We were required to keep workout logs where we'd record our feelings about practice every day - and he would review these logs from time to time. He always wrote the most inspiring words of encouragement and it showed that he believed in my talent in a way that no one had before. He pushed me to get better and to strive for greatness. In may ways, he helped instill in me a sense of confidence that carries me through my life today.

He also helped me understand that swimming could be a team sport. Your teammates helped to carry you to greatness, but they also could help tear you down. I remember one brutal swim meet in the middle of summer where he made me swim the 400 Individual Medley, a horrific event that I was not at all good at. It was the last day of the meet and all I wanted to do was get it over with, finish the meet and go home. I finished in 27th place or something ridiculous like that, so I returned that evening for the finals session all dry and ready to cheer on my teammates. Sadly for me, enough people had scratched the finals so that I was in 10th place. And scheduled to swim it against one other person in the consolation heat of finals. I certainly didn't want to go head-to-head with someone who had beaten me by a wide margin that morning. And I certainly didn't want to endure that brutal race again!

But despite my imploring, my coach made me commit to the race. He helped me see that it was an opportunity to better myself. To rise above the situation and to improve (even though I had earned a best-ever time that morning). And I remember clearly, swimming this race against one other person, with my entire team at the ends of the lane, cheering me on, while a handful of his teammates cheered for him. And I felt myself being buoyed by my teammates in a way that I had never felt before. Not only did I win my race, but I shaved of more than 10 seconds from my earlier swim - and clearly it's an event I remember nearly two decades later.

The sense of team really was something that I learned that year, and one that I made sure to encourage in my future swimming (and work) situations. This coach definitely made me a stronger, better person today and I'm sad to hear of his passing. From the response I've seen to his memorial service, it's clear he touched the lives of so many people and I'm sure they all have that same sense that they would not be the person they are today were it not for him. Even if you could never see into his eyes and he scared us all shitless.