Letter To Coach McCuiston

Last night I watched my alma mater Driscoll Catholic High School's girls' basketball team make their first appearance in the state championship game. This game was more personal for me than for some, since Steve McCuiston was the coach who succeeded my Dad. The excitement turned to near-horror as wild shots careened off backboards and balls were dribbled off their own feet. By the end of the first quarter with the score 22-8 against the defending state champions I texted Dona (since Dena was home ill): "It will be a great comeback!" I was kidding. Only I was right. They gave up only thirteen points the rest of the way, rallying to a dramatic 40-35 win. I was compelled to write to the coach in thanks.

Dear Coach McCuiston:

I confess that it had been about ten years since I’d seen a Driscoll girls’ basketball game. Back then there was little to celebrate about Dad’s team. Coaching boys for twenty years was a different universe from the girls’ squad he inherited near the end of his career, and his life. Like a five-star general put in charge of the circus, he had to redefine success. Some days he made it sound like great progress just to get everyone to look at him instead of the crowd during timeouts! No doubt God brought them together – when cancer took him, those undersized players regularly at his bedside showed the kind of heart more important than diving after loose balls. Still, in those few years, winning was mostly a dream. Or maybe not so much a dream as a vision, beginning with the development of feeder leagues, scouting and system. He talked about it often.

Tonight the team taught us too many lessons to count. The odds, the crowd size, West Hancock’s championship aura, and eventually the score were overwhelmingly against them. Such a terrible first quarter was the kind of sucker punch to the gut that life deals us all from time to time, and countless adults cave into it. But not this team, not this… family of players. They attacked ball handlers, passing lanes and shots. They sprinted down court, powered fearlessly into the lane. It was like watching a pack of wolves wearing down prey, breaking their confidence, feasting on every mistake. That is, until the last clutch free throws and rebounds had been settled, when love and tears flowed. If they can carry that poise, sheer will and joy into all their hard times, they’ll be role models for the rest of their lives.

How wonderful it was to sit in the stands and see that while Dad ran out of time, God’s plans never do. If we met, I imagine you could tell some jaw-dropping coach’s stories yourself. I can’t begin to imagine the amount of patience and effort you’ve exerted through the years to reach this point. The players, parents, teachers and Driscoll community all channeled the guidance of God to create this tremendous success. And holding back tears while watching that trophy held high, it felt as if Dad had been brought back to life for one more day.

Thanks for the memory of a lifetime.