Dear Coach,
It's been about three months since you passed away.
I finished high school! I'm about to start bowling on my college team and I'm super pumped for it. I wish you could've been here to see my transition from high school athlete to a college athlete. It's been a tough but amazing experience.
And I couldn't have done it without you.
From the get-go, you never gave up on me. No matter how much I frustrated you or complained about my ability to bowl, you never stopped helping. You'd just simply get up and have me try something new. I remember certain skills taking weeks, if not months, to learn successfully. Even though I dreaded those days when you would pull me off the lane and work with me one-on-one, in the long run, those were the practices that helped me the most.
When we found out you had lung cancer, I couldn't speak for a long time. It just didn't seem possible. You had had hardships before, but when you told us, I looked over at my teammates and mouthed: "He's not coming back." I didn't even know how bad the diagnosis was, yet I had it set in my mind that you weren't going to make it. That was the worst part of it all.
The last conversation I remember having with you was after your first chemo treatment. I asked how you were holding up and you said, "I'm hanging in there." That simple conversation meant the world to me. For the first ever, we were able to talk about something personal. When it came time to decide if I was going to see you one last time, I decided not to do it. I never want to remember you as sick, I want to remember you as a strong coach.
My strongest memory from this past season was at regionals. We started using the "1,2,3 For Coach" chant and pulled off an almost unheard of score for our last baker game: 254. Even with that amazing score, we didn't think we would make it through to semi-state. I walked over to my bag and pulled out a necklace I bought in honor of you. It was a pearl guitar pick (the color for lung cancer) with a ribbon on it that said hope. I pressed it into the palm of my hand and walked down the bowling alley, thinking that my high school bowling career was done.
Soon after that they called the results. Still holding the necklace, I listened, hanging onto the slim chance that our tribute to you helped us become one of the few teams making it on. We heard seventh place....sixth place....
I never remember hearing who placed fifth. Because someone, I still don't know who, whispered: "We just made it to semi-state."
We went nuts.
Everyone was crying, even our former team captain. Everyone was hugging everyone, regardless of the drama that had happened in the past. We knew that with you in our minds, we could do anything.
Not only did we make it to semi-state, we made it to state for the first time ever.
The day we went to state was the same day we found out you were terminal. It was a frustrating day of bowling for all of us, yet I can't distinctly remember much of it. I remember walking out of the bowling alley in tears. While onlookers may have thought I was upset over losing state, I was crying over losing you. I remember standing in the parking lot, just bawling. I remember my teammate sitting in the car, trying to be strong for me, yet still sniffling and wiping away his tears.
The only thing that ever made me feel better was that you finally got to see your team make it to state. I'm so grateful to have been a part of that team to achieve your dream. You gave up coaching a college team for us. You never let us down, and in return, we never let you down.
At your funeral, your wife gave me a hug after I spoke and said, "Little Danielle, he was always so proud of you." I had never met your wife before. To have validation that you were truly proud of me meant the world. In that moment, I was reminded of when I was a junior and just trying out. You gave me a chance not because you had to, but because you knew I had it in me. You knew that I would become a great bowler before I did. And I have to thank you tremendously for that.
Last week, I attended a bowling camp at the college I'm starting at in the fall. I walked in, took a deep breath, and said, "This is where I belong." And as I got out onto the lanes, I knew you were looking down on me and smiling.
