A Thank You Letter to my Most Important Teacher

Coach Mac Westmoreland, Irmo Middle School (SC). 1983-86

Dear Coach,

You may remember me as an out-of-shape schoolboy in your middle school physical education class from 1983 through 1986. Writing this letter and thinking of those times summons from sealed crevices the sort of insecurity that makes me fear that you might not remember me at all. I certainly did nothing noteworthy in your class. On the contrary, I was always the slowest, the weakest, the least nimble and coordinated, and always the very last to be chosen in team activities. Yet I remember well your loving kindness and am assured that you probably do remember me, if only because of the degree to which I stood out in those respects. 

As I think about your gym class years later, three things stand out most prominently in my mind. First, I had P.E. right after lunch, which made an already uncomfortable experience even less pleasant. Second, I remember changing into our gym uniform—how I hated those polyester gym shorts—and then back into our regular clothes, which meant spending the last periods of the day caked in perspiration. Third, and most important, I remember that you were always there for me and others who did not belong, and I will never forget that.

During South Carolina’s cool autumn months, after the oppressive Summer humidity had lifted to release refreshing breezes that had been locked away since Spring, you would lead us all down to the main track, where we began our cross-country course. 

No matter how disheveled your troops, you were always distinguished in your pressed Bike tennis shorts and short-sleeve sports polo shirt, your whistle fastened snugly around your neck. 

Our class was full of misfits, either slow-pokes like myself or athletically gifted youths too naïve and filled with hubris not to look down upon their classmates. There was only one true student-athlete among us: Lang S., who was kind to everyone, excelled in the classroom, and yet was never second best on the playing field. Although he didn’t need my help, I always cheered for him silently. 

Your warm, encouraging personality reached out and brought us all together. Outside the gym, we settled into the boundaries of our own comfortable worlds—the good students, the athletes, the punks, the rich, the poor. In your class, however, we were One, all behind you, for fifty minutes each day. I would have worn those horrid shorts all day if only the other class periods could have been warmed by your presence. 

The cross-country course began with a half lap around the track before we disappeared into the forest that took us over two miles around all the school’s fields. Lang and a few others raced to the front of the pack and disappeared into the woods. I would not see them again until I was back in the locker room. 

I remember those woods well, with their roots and low branches and hills, all of which conspired to send me to the back of the pack. The course ended with a brutal climb followed by a steep descent that spat us back onto the track where we had begun. I never once made it to the end without a cloud of steam emerging from my tired lungs. Not once. Yet without fail, you were there for me as surely as you had been minutes earlier for the gazelles who had navigated the course effortlessly. Without fail, you cheered encouragement as you watched me labor up the final hill, so sure were you that I could finish. When I did, you high-fived me and lifted my spirits, making me whole in an environment where that feeling was fleeting. You were always there, and for that, I will always remember you.

Years later, I have grown up. I have gone off to college and law school and have entered the Great World for which you dedicated yourself to preparing us. 

I have always defined my personal success in terms of academic and professional accomplishments, but my dream is one day to complete an Ironman Triathlon. I have done three century rides, run several half-marathons, and swam a personal best of 6,900 meters. It would be the greatest feat of my life. One must dream. 

Please forgive me for listing these accomplishments. They are not superlative. I have no basis to boast, even to my favorite P.E. teacher. But I wish to share these moments with you because I know that I never would have had the inner strength to set and realize those goals had you not both always been waiting for me at the end of that cross-country course. I have never completed a single event without thinking of you. Even today, when of giving up, I think of you and press on. I finish and thereby I win. And I know that you are always waiting for me.

During the past few years, I have meant at least one hundred times to sit down and write you this letter to let you know what a difference you made in my life. I once checked the Irmo Middle School website to find the school’s address. I was delighted to discover that you were the assistant principal, which came as no surprise. But for whatever reason, I waited until now to write to you. 

I learned last year that you had passed away after a long bout with cancer. My heart sank. I swore expletives born of the deepest regret, as I had thought so often of writing you this letter. I cannot express my profound sorrow that I did not thank you or share with you the joy of my accomplishments when they would have meant the most to you. I am sorry that I was not there for you, as you were for me. After some searching, I was able to share the letter with Mrs. Westmoreland. She wept.

Life blesses each of us with many teachers, and you were the best. You saw in me an inner strength that I would not see for years to come, and your encouragement provided a fundamental piece of the foundation upon which I continue to learn and grow. Coach, I am eternally grateful to you. I will never forget that you were—and are—always there for me. 

Cover Photo: Jeremey Lapak on Unsplash.

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