FAREWELL TO A GREAT MAN: Guido Regelbrugge passed away on January 30. He was my high school soccer coach (and my two brothers' coach, too), and he was my friend Paul's father. (You've seen Paul post here many times. Although our politics don't exactly align anymore, our hearts are still in the same place, we've concluded.)

Guido was a lion. He was *that* coach, *that* teacher, the one who immediately earned a superhero nickname ("Mr. R." or "Coach R.") and the respect of parents, students, and players alike. He was the adult who took young people seriously, who challenged them to exceed their own expectations by taking themselves seriously. He was not one to let the young off the hook simply because they were young. He invited us to open our ears, to learn, and to grow into ourselves in a hurry. His lot in life -- a blessing and a curse, I'm sure -- was to immediately belong to all he came in contact with. His words and gestures bred stories and mythology. Everybody had a favorite Coach R. story, if not several.

A few of my favorite memories:

Upon arriving at a rival team's home field, our coach was greeted with a loud "Guido sucks" from the opposing crowd. (So notorious was he as a coach that he actually inspired people to yell stuff like this!) After we played a great game and kicked their butt, our coach graciously stayed around and congratulated the other team and coach on their fine play. Meanwhile, we all loaded onto the bus. A few minutes later, a somber Guido boarded the bus and paused at the front. We grew silent immediately, waiting to hear what he would say. "Guido sucks!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, bursting into a huge smile. We went nuts.

Junior year I received a note in one of my high school classes. "Coach Regelbrugge would like to see you as soon as you're free." I hustled up to his room the minute the period broke. "You're a good kid. You work hard. But you will not be a starter on the soccer team next year. There are young guys who are better than you," he told me. I was crushed. I was certain I'd start my senior year, or at least I was hoping. And you know, even as I write this, I have to be honest. Crap. I knew he was right. Deep down I knew. Then he gave me hope. "If you want to be a starter, there is a way. I want you to be our goalie next year," he said to me. "You will go to camp this summer, and you will learn how to play 'keeper. You will work your butt off, and you will be our starting goalie next year. You're smart, and I trust you to play that important position." I did as he said, and he delivered. God, I'm smiling just writing this. Because I'm also remembering his speech at our awards banquet at the end of the senior season. "Scott Hess was not a great goalie. But he was a hard worker, and he gave us his all, and sometimes that's enough. I want to thank him." Pure Guido.

A tiny moment, but one I'll keep with me forever: Guido joins us during a scrimmage and manages to fake a defender to the ground and deliver a no-look pass to a rushing forward who then parks it into the goal. "The old man can still play!" he celebrated, arms extended to the heavens in triumph.

Indeed he could. And so the old man will be mourned and missed by many, including this grateful writer, who will never give up these memories, and who will always feel that Guido lives on for as long as I do.