Monday, June 11, 2018
June 7 at 8:49am ·
We simply called him “Coach”. He was the gym teacher at my first teaching gig, Scholastic Academy/School 18, and an absolute character. We were a true family there at that time, and he was the fiery, hilarious uncle. Always a fixture at our happy hours, laughing along with you and your latest teacher stories, always buying you a drink before you realized it had even happened. At school, when he wasn’t busy running out the door collecting quarters at his laundromat during his lunch hour, he’d be flying around the building in his Sergio Tacchini tracksuits, hooking you up with coffee, tea, or some ice cold sodas that he had tucked away in the mini-fridge of his gym office (greatly appreciated when working on the top floor of a 100-year-old building on a stifling hot June day). He looked out for the young teachers, sticking up for us whenever he felt like we were being taking advantage of. My most vivid memory of Coach, though, was the morning he came to my classroom door to tell me about the events of September 11th as they were unfolding. We had limited access to the outside world then, and his checking-in was vital. He truly cared, knowing that we had family members who worked in Manhattan. Rest In Peace, Coach. Gone far too soon
