Yesterday I got to attend a rededication ceremony for the track at Perry Hall High School, named in honor of my high school cross country and track coach, Jerry Martin.

Coach passed away in 2009.

The track had previously been dedicated to him, but years of school and community use had taken their toll. Through state and county funding, it was resurfaced and brought back to life. The school can hold events there again, athletes have a quality place to train and compete, and the community has a beautiful track to use.

I missed the original dedication years ago, so I really wanted to be there for this one.

Standing there brought back a lot of memories.

My freshman year of high school, Coach Martin plucked me out of a crowd, called me into his office and informed me that I was running cross country in the fall.

I said, “Okay. What’s that?”

He basically told me not to worry about it, handed me a running plan and said, “Do this over the summer and I’ll see you when practice starts.”

I probably did a third of the plan.

Maybe.

But I showed up.

I had never really had a coach before. I had never played on a team. At that point in my life, I needed and wanted to belong to something.

So once I got there, I was all in.

I took to Coach Martin’s coaching immediately.

My freshman year I ran three JV races. I finished second, then third, then first. After that he moved me up to varsity.

I didn’t really understand it at the time, but this was a good team.

My original plan had been to try out for basketball in the winter. After spending that fall with Coach and those guys, I wasn’t going anywhere.

I ran indoor track that winter, outdoor track that spring, and then all three seasons every year after that.

I was never the best athlete on the team. I wasn’t the star.

I was more like Coach’s utility player.

Distance. Middle distance. Hurdles. High jump. Pole vault. Long jump. Triple jump.

Whatever he needed me to do, I did it.

Not because I thought I could do everything. I did it because I trusted him.

One year at the county championship meet, Coach came up to me and said, “Bret, I need somebody else in the long jump. What do you think?”

I had never competed in the long jump outside of practice.

“Put me in, Coach.”

I finished third in the county.

That was Coach Martin.

He had an incredible ability to see potential in people.

He could take a kid who got cut from the soccer team and turn him into a state champion sprinter. He helped kids who had rough home lives find some direction and purpose. If someone was struggling with grades, he tried to find them help.

He didn’t just coach the athletes who showed up already talented.

He found athletes.

More importantly, I think he found kids who needed somebody to see something in them.

I was one of them.

Running was hard, but hard wasn’t new to me.

The difference was that most of the hard things I had experienced before that point were things I was forced to do. Work. Punishment. Things you did because someone told you that you had to do them.

There wasn’t a feeling of accomplishment afterward. There wasn’t some lesson that suddenly made the hard thing worthwhile.

I was forced.

Coach Martin introduced me to a different kind of hard.

I was being coached.

There is a huge difference.

In that environment, I thrived.

And instead of trying to avoid the hard stuff, I wanted more of it.

Coach offered practice before school?

I’m in.

The gym teachers said I could use my “weight training” class to practice?

I’m in.

I never actually set foot in the weight room, which is pretty funny considering what I ended up doing with my life.

Two-hour practice after school?

I’m in.

Somewhere along the way, doing hard things changed from something being done to me into something I was choosing for myself.

I don’t think I understood how important that was at the time.

Yesterday I was talking with Coach Martin’s son, and he told me he has heard versions of this same story from countless former athletes.

That doesn’t surprise me at all.

Coach had a line he said to me that has stuck in my head for more than 30 years.

“Damn it, Bret. You would make one hell of a coach.”

My senior year, the track team was understaffed, so Coach had me help coach the jumpers.

I loved it.

And now here I am, 32 years later.

I coach fitness. Nutrition. Mindset. Sometimes life. Sometimes I don’t even know what category what I’m doing falls into. People come to me wanting to accomplish something, and my job is to help them figure out how to get there.

Looking back, I wonder how much of that started because one man saw something in a freshman kid before that kid had any idea it was there.

Coach Martin was my first coach.

He was one of the first people outside my family to see potential in me and then expect me to do something with it.

He was an optimist.

He believed in me.

And when someone you respect believes in you long enough, eventually you start wondering if maybe they’re right.

I think that’s one of the greatest things a coach, teacher, mentor or parent can give another person.

Not false praise.

Not telling them they’re great when they’re not.

Seeing what could be there and caring enough to help them uncover it.

That’s the kind of coach I want to be.

I don’t need to become Jerry Martin. I couldn’t.

But if over the course of my career I can be even a sliver of what he was for some of the people who come through my life, I’ll feel like I did something worthwhile.

Maybe someone becomes stronger because I coached them.

Great.

Maybe somebody loses weight or finishes a race they never thought they could finish.

Great.

But maybe somebody starts believing they’re capable of something again.

That matters even more.

If you’re struggling to stick to something, or you’ve lost some confidence in yourself, there is nothing weak about finding a coach or mentor.

Find someone who has your back.

Someone who will encourage you but also push you.

Someone who wants what’s best for you and is willing to expect more from you than you’re currently expecting from yourself.

The right person can influence your path in ways neither of you will understand until decades later.

I’ll never forget Coach Martin’s viewing.

Funeral home viewings are usually quiet, somber occasions.

His was probably the loudest viewing I’ve ever attended.

It felt more like a party.

People were laughing, telling stories and remembering Coach. Everywhere you looked were people whose lives had intersected with his somewhere along the way.

At the time I remember thinking how unusual it was.

I understand it better now.

That room was part of his legacy.

Yesterday, standing on a newly resurfaced track with his name still attached to it, was another part of it.

But I don’t think the track is the real legacy.

We are.

All those kids he coached, pushed, helped, believed in and occasionally yelled at.

We’re still out here carrying pieces of him into our own families, careers, teams and communities.

That’s a pretty damn good way to be remembered.

And when my time eventually comes, I wouldn’t mind a loud room either.

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