We’ve all had “that coach.” The one whose voice we can still hear. The one we invite to our wedding(s?). The one who changed the way we play and the way we see ourselves.   By the time I joined the track team in 7th grade, Milton Academy’s Coach Richard Buckner was already a legend. He spoke like a Southern Baptist preacher, his booming voice shouting splits just as easily as it shouted proverbs; he dressed like a retired beatnik, his knitted skull caps seldom matching his tees, ties, shirts and slacks, his sneakers a clear nod to some prior decade; and he controlled his team like a seasoned army captain, setting strict rules and high expectations, even for a newbie 7th grader like me. Everyone was afraid of him, but everyone performed for him.   Amazingly, though we were a small, private school that did not recruit track athletes, year after year, no matter who he was working with, Coach Buckner produced league champions. Sometimes it was the entire team (the women’s team more regularly than the men’s team), and at others, it was individual athletes. I used to think we were just a really talented group of athletes but I realize now that we were an average group of kids with a spectacular coach. Coach Buckner was a formidable presence in every room, at every competition, at every practice and on every bus ride. I will never forget his voice or his words — still rely on them today.   http://www.theartofflight.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Buckner-2.mp4   In the winter, we trained in the wrestling room and the dreaded part of every practice, “Six Inches,” always came last. The entire men’s and women’s teams would lay on our backs, legs stretched out straight, fists resting under our glutes, heads and necks relaxed, and we’d wait for our command: “Six Inches!” With a collective heave and guttural groans, we’d raise our legs 6 inches off the floor and freeze. Coach Buckner would start pacing through the room, slowly weaving his way through outstretched bodies with one arm resting on the small of his back like a rudder and the other stretched out in front of him like a staff, as he spoke. That sweaty wrestling room was one of his many pulpits. His booming voice would start quietly, reflectively, every time: “The race does not belong to the swiftest… Nor the battle to the strong… Kurt! Get those legs down an inch!… But to he who endures until the end… Beatrice! Straighten them legs up!… This Saturday, we got North Field Mount Herman… Bus leaves at 6 am sharp… It’s a dual meet but (chuckling), mmmhmm… It’s gonna be a battle. It’s gonna be a battle… Andre! Legs uuuup!… They got the ISL champion in the quarter mile, so that means you, Miss Wendell, are gonna have to bring all you got, it’ll be the race of your life… Yetsa! Get ‘em up!… They got Sarah McDowell, she’s already jumped near 18 feet this season as a freshman… Yetsa? (chuckling) She. Is. Not. Playing with you!…”     And he’d go on like that for minutes at a time, calmly preaching and pacing, like a drill sergeant practicing elocution. Legs would shake, feet would drop, faces would grimace, loud gasps would escape in staccato bursts, moans and groans gurgled through the room, but he remained unaffected, calmly preaching and pacing… “It’s a battle, folks! Legs down.” THUD! A few whimpers. The assistant coaches would come around checking on us (making sure we were still alive) and the whole thing would start again, “Six Inches!” HEAVE!   One of his favorite phrases to preach was “Maintain Contact!” He’d shout these two words during practice and competition alike, indicating to the runners at the back of the pack that they couldn’t allow too large a gap to form between themselves and the pace-setters. He said it in his usual unique way: both syllables in “maintain” were delivered in a low monotone, and the “-tact” of “contact,” was emphasized in a rallying crescendo:  “mayyne-taaane.. conTACT!” In 7th grade, I was one of about 2-3 young runners consistently grouped with the seniors (gulp!). For longer speed endurance intervals (200m, 250m, 300m, etc.), I knew at some point I’d hear Coach Buckner’s “mayyne-taaane.. conTACT!” as I struggled to stick with the stronger, faster runners. His voice cut through the air like a knife, scaring and motivating me at the same time. “All you have to do is maintain contact,” I’d tell myself as my legs and lungs burned. I’d pick something to stare at – a logo or a pattern on the back of one of the seniors’ tee-shirts, fix my eyes on it and tell myself “all you have to do is stay close enough to read that… Maintain contact…” and we’d get through the interval.   That cue, “maintain contact” was effective because it challenged us just enough to step up to a daunting task, and an impossible goal, and feel that we could control one small aspect of it. As a 7th grader, it was daunting to run with seniors and it felt impossible to overtake them. But it was possible to at the very least, maintain contact. So in the midst of real fear and a perceived threat (you best believe I was trembling and nauseous every time I stepped up to the starting line with those seniors!), I could focus on Coach...