Dear Coach,
I miss you. I miss you everyday, and think of you often. I often think what it would be like to come home and visit you. I tell myself the stories I would tell you when I see you. I think of all the times I frustrated you and all the times you cracked jokes that weren't very funny. I always remember the day we matched and you called me weird for noticing. I remember when you would kick somebody off the team for not making splits. I remember riding in the bed of your truck with the team because we were too sweaty to ride inside. I remember the Fridays you would miss practice to go fishing. I remember avoiding you in hallways so you didn't pick on me. I remember when you told me why you married your wife, she was the meanest woman you ever met. In reality, she was the nicest, just tough enough to put up with you. I think about all the moments you shared with the team, and I cherish them everyday.
It has been almost a year since I saw you last. It has been a year since the cross country team has seen you. 325 days to be exact. Remember when you drove your truck next to us at your first day of practice? Remember when you pushed us so hard you lost us in the neighborhood? Well, we did that on purpose, we cut through a street that didn't allow cars just so we could rest for a second. That day was the beginning for you, for the team, for the memories, for the rest of our lives, and the forever cherished days with you.
I still don't know why you came to my high school to coach. Compared to your past coaching jobs, we weren't anything. You were well known, colleges wanted you, but you wanted us. You may have threatened to quit one thousand times, but you never quit, you just left, but it's not your fault.
Over the three years you coached our team, we all experienced so many ups and downs with you and vise versa. You were a dad to me and so many others. One kid even named his dog after you. You set an example for me in so many ways. You told me to get out of that town and do better things, I listened. Anything you said seemed to take priority for us. You were the most influential person I ever met and knew. I say that on behalf of so many of your athletes.
After a year of you coaching, I wanted to write you a letter for Father's Day. We ran during the summer, so I would have seen you anyway. I chose Father's Day because you took on the role of a father to me (and the team). I wanted to write a letter, but being me I let the day pass. I brushed it off and planned to write you a letter the next year - after my senior year.
This letter never left my mind. If something funny happened, I made a mental note to mention it in my letter to you. When January of senior year rolled around I told you I would not be running track that year. I had nothing against you, but after 8 years of cross country and 7 years of track I was tired, but you weren't. You kept going.
You respected my decision, and told me I could go home during that class period. Because of this I would not see you as often, maybe in the halls. Finally, one day I passed you in the hall and didn't avoid you. I wanted to see what you had to say. I asked how you were and you replied, "I'm going to quit". I didn't want to believe you, but for some reason I did this time. I quickly said back, "you can quit, but not until I'm gone". You looked at me and laughed, probably because you could make me believe anything that came out of your mouth.
Fast-forward to senior cap and gown day. My friends and I were taking pictures on the track. I decided to send you one and I asked where you were simply because I wanted to take a picture with you. Most of the team wished to do so. The messages were read. I thought you were being typical Coach and ignored me like you often did the guys. I didn't think too much of it because I knew the team and I would see you as we would be walking across the stage receiving our diplomas a few days later.
Suddenly the principal called me and part of the distance team to his office. He had broken the news to us. The news that you were not well. The story of what had happened that morning. I don't cry often, but that day, the team and my principal saw tears flow from my eyes. That day I went home to my sister. She asked how my day was, I tried to hide the fact that I was dying inside. The more she asked, the quicker I broke down. That night I had the chance to go to the hospital. I saw you, but you didn't see me. The team was there, the other coaches, the principals. Coach you are so loved. You could hear our ugly cries, but could not do anything about it.
We all left your room with heads down, mouths silent, in awe of the situation. The next few days, school was weird. Weird is a vague word, but there are no words to describe the feeling of losing somebody and the student body being aware, but not caring the same way the team did.
The last day of school, I walked into the locker room for the final time. What I saw made my heart so filled, but still so empty. Somebody had put up sticky notes with quotes you had said and bible verses everywhere - on lockers, mirrors, walls. It felt as if somebody cared. I walked past the track again. I saw a ghost of you yelling and reminding us we weren't pretty enough to be your daughters. I looked into the weight room. I saw the track team laying down with their eyes closed, listening to a song you so badly wanted us to hear, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I saw you enjoying the tune as we pondered the meaning.
At graduation, each graduate, whether they knew you or not, wore a small strip of neon ribbon in your honor. You were color blind, so our team shirts were always neon so you could see us. I've never seen a school so supportive. I had written a note to you on the inside of my cap. I did my best to keep it together for you. You didn't want your teams to be weak.
At your memorial service, I was so numb to my feelings. Somewhere Over the Rainbow was played. The team wore our neon shirts you made us. The 4x400 relay team stood and talked about you taking them to state just a few weeks before. Your daughter spoke, she has become a coach just like you. Your family spoke. Your past athletes spoke. You raised them well, some have families now. Coach all your work was celebrated. You didn't need anybody to repeat your accomplishments, we all knew how great you were.
That summer I was asked to write a letter to someone who has impacted me the most. I started to write to you. I had so much to say. I soon realized the letter I was writing may get finished, but never delivered. You would never receive that Father's Day letter I promised myself to give you. The letter you will forever deserve.
We all love you Coach Derks. We will never forget you.
Your Ugly Daughter (one of many),
Kayla
