Dear Coach,

Thank you for being cool when you found out I had a crush on Diana. I mean, I didn’t know you were driving that crazy boxcar you made for her (actually, I don’t know if you actually made it for her but that’s what we all thought). Seriously, though, how was I supposed to know you were driving it that day? And when I bought candles for her as a gift and I placed them in her car, you got them and you didn’t flip out (which I fully expected you to). You just gave them to her.

I think about the first time I met you, you literally scared the shit out of me with your piercing glare and your super sharp khakis (not sure how Janet made a crease like that but they had sharp edges). And your pants were too high all the time, but whatever. You rocked them.

I was a skinny eighth-grader who was new to the game of basketball and new to Chula Vista. I had not played organized anything up until I came to San Diego. My eighth-grade basketball team went to a game at the infamous Chula Vista High School. We were playing the Sweetwater Red Devils and the Spartan team was led by Carnell Penn and others who looked like big men to us little eighth graders. The best two teams were clashing on Friday night at our home gym, which was standing room only, and we were leading the conference. I remember walking into the gym and being completely engulfed by the energy in there. That moment was a pivotal moment in my love for basketball. I wanted to be a part of what was going on in that gym so I dedicated myself to being the very best I could be.

In ninth grade, I developed into a player that caught your attention, given that I was now in high school and excelling on the junior varsity team. After our season ended (which was earlier than the varsity team because we did not have playoffs), you brought me up to varsity to experience what that was like during the playoffs. Smart.

Even though I was there to gain experience and to help the starters prepare for the next game, my first game on the varsity team was an amazing experience, even though I was riding the bench for that game. I certainly wasn’t going to play, you did it purely to show me what it was like to be a leader. I mean, by that time I was full of potential and hungry to make you happy. Gameday came and it was an experience that you knew would grab me by the throat and choke the air out of my lungs. Warming up on the court to a fresh playlist Donnie had made us was out of this world, and as customary, we went into the locker rooms before the game started to get organized, talk strategy, and pray. You walked in with your stone cold face and your piercing look. You looked at us and threw your clipboard clear across the room and gave one of those “we are going to win” speeches. I was scared so I just looked at your creased khakis to not look at you in the eyes. You knew how to get kids from all walks of life to come and work harder than anyone else, together. Most of us younger guys were frightened that if we didn’t work harder, it would be bad news.

The following year (now a confident sophomore), you took an interest in me that I thought was unusual for someone who didn’t have the responsibility of raising me. But that year you treated like a son. You bought me some cool ass Nikes hightops that obviously made me jump higher. You would pick me up and drop me off when I needed to get to practice in your double wide extra long truck that looked like a camper. You made sure we were taken care of during season and off. You bought sandwiches and gave me the keys to the coke machine so I could take as much coke as possible without having to pay for it.  That year we won METRO, went to the playoffs, and I was named honorable mention as a sophomore. You were tough on me and I noticed it.

In the eleventh grade, the game slowed down for me tremendously. I was able to grow exponentially through your leadership, tough love, and focus. You were the first person to ever take a bunch of Mexican, Filipinos, White, Green, Purple, Black kids out of the south bay and take us to Delmar to the Delmar Fair. You took us to Hawaii (some of us had never been on a plane until that point) and other places we would have never gone without you. You didn’t want us to be normal (that was not an option for you and how you lived), you wanted us to grab life by the balls (or neck) at every opportunity. In this stage of our high school career, it was very evident that the faculty and staff were tight and working to make men out of boys through putting us in demanding situations where we could fail and win. You understood the power of resilience and we as boys saw that as a great example of what we all strive to be, still today. You understood the importance of competitive sports in the lives of high school kids, and you were tough but purely on the outside. You, at times, gave some of us a rare look at a smile and grin that said it all.

I needed to attend summer school going into my senior year and had you for a history class. Your meticulous classroom and highly intellectual humor was a hit off the court as well. You were giving essays for homework more often than anyone should ever give them out, especially in the summertime when we were only interested in MTV Summer Jam in PB. But all of those essays taught me to be a better writer. During summer school we got to know our personalities a little better. You didn’t have the basketball to get in the way of actually seeing me as a student, as a young man. You allowed me, my anger, my aggression, to develop into a beast on the court and my humor and high emotional intelligence to flourish off the court. You knew how to harness all of those emotions and my physical ability. Sure, I threw the basketball at a player from Bonita Vista’s face from two feet away and got ejected. Sure, I had great hands and elbows that from time to time got me in trouble. And yes, you were right in yelling at me every time I threw up a three, until the following year when I could actually hit them. You also yelled at me for many other things, but only we knew that those screams were actually saying “You’re doing great, good box out.”

We won METRO this year as well and went to the playoffs. We were 28 and 2.

I encourage you to read the post from last week to get more context HERE.

My senior year. You allowed the beast in me to come out and you loved it. From time to time, while I was physically and mentally demolishing some poor soul, you would crack a smile since it was what you had created. A beast.

We won METRO again this year and went to the playoffs.

25 years later. I have nothing but respect and admiration for you and the integrity that you lived your life with. How you loved Janet and your daughters, how you showed us all you cared about us. You were a man that wasn’t afraid of the hard, the work because working hard always paid off. You were innovative, you threw us into an offense that only Loyola was running on the college level, but little Chula Vista High School Spartans were running people out of the gym with it. You took all of these kids and made them play a fast game with big expectations. When we failed, you were there to pick us up. You were responsible for us. You were and are a real 1.

You showed us a world outside of Fourth St. You allowed us to grow. When I think about it, I see you as a man who took all of these kids and put them in a jump house where we could go jump around and get tired but never fall out of the safety of the netted jump house.

You showed us how to respect a woman. We saw what a healthy relationship you had with Janet and how supportive she was to you, to your daughters. We were 16 and 17 years old. This was so important and I know you knew what you were doing all while keeping us winning.

When I heard you were not doing well, it was my turn to pick you up, to be there to walk you around and to tell you how important you were to me and many others. You had given me so much, so many tools, so many lessons that I use today; more than I got from Mr. Larson’s math classes.
Yesterday, I walked into your new home away from home and saw you with your friends and family surrounding you and loving you. Sure, it was nice to meet them, but to be honest, I wanted them to leave so I could get some alone time with you. You were sitting on the chair outside and you didn’t really look up. I saw you were very weak. We spent a little over an hour outside and it was getting a little late to be out. Your brother asked if you wanted to go inside. I started to hear that old man who was complex and loving. “Leave me alone, I will walk in myself”, I could hear you say, still without you knowing I was around. Janet asked me to go ask the attendant for a wheelchair so you could be wheeled in, so I went in to look for one which was taking for-freaking-ever. By the time I came back, they were already helping you sit on one to get you inside. From what I heard, you had not been able to walk around that well recently and previously you were in the hospital.

When I came back out, you were in the chair and your family all left except for Janet. I was then able to get you alone where I could squat down and look into your eyes. Which I did.

“Coach, Coach”, I said. You looked at me and with that side smile and square chin, you smiled. “Hey, help me out of this thing, it’s killing my knees”, you said in a strong/weak coach Collins voice. “Let’s do it”, I said and got one foot down on the floor and out of the wheelchair. I asked if that was better. “Yes, now help me with the other one.” I did and put both of your feet down on the ground. 

The next thing I saw was you fighting to get out of the damn chair that you hated (of course you do, I would fucking hate it too). I was watching you struggling to get out of that chair on your own and my mind flashed back to you yelling at me to get off the floor. “Get your butt off the floor”, “run back”, “put your ((HANDS!!!)) HANDS up.” I saw you fighting to get up just like you taught me to do. I leaned back down and asked if you wanted to get up.

“You wanna get up?”

“YES!”

“Ok, let’s roll out.” And we started walking. You grabbed my hand, I put the other hand on your back for balance and started walking to the door to go back inside. I looked over at Janet and her big eyes. She was smiling from ear to ear, looking scared/happy/shocked since you had not been walking recently.

We walked to the door to go back inside and, as expected, you wanted to do everything on your own. “Give me that door, push the button so we can get in.” I had one hand on your back to help with your balance. You were walking too damn fast though. You grabbed the handle and opened the door and inside we went. People had just finished dinner so everyone was outside of their rooms congregating in the TV room, but you just wanted to walk.

We started walking down the hall, slowly, with my hand on your back for balance. It was like you wanted to speak with me to see how I was doing, who I grew up to be, what mistakes I had made, and how I recuperate from them. So we walked…

“Give me a name right now and I’ll tell you all about them”, you asked.

“Alberto Marzan.” You stopped your steps, looked at me and said, “a beast”, smiled and continued walking.

Fighting back tears, especially since my last post, we continued walking. I was examining you, you were examining me and all along I was trying to figure out what was going on with your brain, your hands, your feet. I knew they weren't working like they were before. I knew inside you were fighting. I knew inside you were Coach, especially when you started tucking your shirt in and then pulling your pants up well past the point anyone should ever pull their pants up. You wanted to change your shirt, which told me you were concerned about your appearance. You wanted to share some string cheese (which was amazing, so thanks).

“Give me another name.” Jonny Robinson, Jerome Green, Chris Larson. You looked over and said, “So many names, sometimes I can’t remember them all” in an embarrassed/tired way.

We walked. Onward!

“Get your hand off my back!”, you would grunt at me.

“No!”, I said.

You cracked a smile back at me. I know you were telling me you didn’t need help (as expected) and when I said no, you realized I wasn’t helping you, I was enjoying my walk with you as well.  

We walked.

“Do you want to sit down?”, I asked.

“Yes let’s sit here for a moment.”

“Coach, do you remember me?”

“Of course I do. You were very consistent, and a beast.”

Inside of my body, head, I could feel some rusty pipes starting to work again, which if you read the previous post, doesn’t happen often, but this old man, who taught me how to fight, was still fighting himself.

The other parts of the conversation will remain private. We walked around for a good 30 minutes and talked. I had my hand on his back, he was happy I was there. He was surprised. He was upset this had happened to him. He was angry at this disease that had taken him over completely. He was tired.

“Get better so I can come back to see you”, I said. He smiled again and took this picture. We’re holding the number one up not because we were bragging on how we were both beasts, nor was it because he and Janet had raised hundreds of boys to men, nor was it for all the championships banners he hung up in the gym. We were raising the number one cuz you, Sir, are a real 1.

Well done, you beast. See you soon.

Six weeks ago, coach Mike Collins was golfing three times a week and today has been diagnosed with the most aggressive and rarest dementia known as Lewy Body Dementia. You can read more about that disease here.

Thank you Janet for being strong and allowing me this opportunity.