“I can’t think of another coach who made a bigger impact on my life. He started my junior year of high school and was only there for seven years, but I was starting to get into some hard shit my junior year, and he quite literally saved my life.”
“How?” I ask as I make Jack’s bedtime bottle.
“I was at a party where other kids were shooting up heroin. I had a needle in my hand and was ready to shoot it when he walked through the doors, took the needle out of my hand, asked me what the fuck I was doing, and took me back to his place. Itturned out the heroin was laced with something, and another kid died that night.” His voice is quiet and broken as he talks. “It could have been me.”
I’m frankly shocked that he was into that sort of thing when he was younger, but the truth is that we all make mistakes. He was lucky he had someone in his life to stop him.
“But it wasn’t, Dex. You were always meant to be here.” I glance over at his son, and that’s all the proof I need.
“I just…I don’t know what to do.” He’s clearly conflicted.
“What can you do, babe?” I ask.
He’s quiet, and I think it’s because he’s contemplating my question. Instead, he says, “Babe?”
My cheeks burn. “It slipped out. Let’s move past it.”
“What if I liked it?” His voice turns a little warmer, and in truth, the fact that he called me to talk to me about this makes me feel like I’m in an important position here.
“Then I’ll do it again. Now answer the question.”
He gets serious again. “I don’t have any idea.”
“What would he want you to do?” I ask.
“His catchphrase was alwaysshow up or make excuses. I think he’d want me to continue showing up at camp.”
“I’m sure he would,” I say. If he’s half the coach Dex claims he is, he’d always put his athletes and their success first. “But it wouldn’t hurt to make some kind of show of support for him or his family.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. Off the top of my head, you could call his family—his parents or his wife. His kids if he has any. You could make a monetary contribution to his care. You could do something as simple as send a card letting the family know you care about him and your thoughts are with them during this difficult time.”
“Where do I even get a card?” he asks. “Or their address?”
“Dex. Show up or make excuses.”
He’s silent on the other end, and for a moment I worry I overstepped with those words. But then he shocks me by saying, “You’re right. Can you help me?”
“Absolutely.”
He fills me in on what he needs, and it feels good to help him out.
The next day, I mail a card to the family with Dex’s information on it.
A week later, he gets the call he was dreading. And once again, I’m the first person he calls after he finds out what happened from Ford.
“Coach Murph passed away,” he says, and his voice is quiet. So quiet that I can’t even tell if he’s been crying, but a soft sniffle gives him away.
“I’m so, so sorry, Dex. What can I do?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he mumbles.
“Do you know any of the arrangements yet? I can book you a flight to the funeral. Jack and I can meet you there if you want us—”
“I’m at camp for four more days,” he says, interrupting me with a pointed tone. “I can’t just leave.”
“Surely if you told your coach why—”
