I lost one of my “kids” last night.  Oh, I guess the word “kid” is a stretch since she was 47, but when a coach looks back on players they had the opportunity to work with, they’ll always be “kids” in one way or another.  Java Reynolds Stanley played basketball at Memphis State (now the University of Memphis) from 1987 – 1991.  As a young assistant coach I had the opportunity to be a part of her recruitment and in turn her career as a Lady Tiger.  I would like to tell you we stayed close over the years and traded birthday and Christmas cards annually, but that wouldn’t be accurate.  It wasn’t one of those love – hate relationships that coaches often have with their players or any other dramatic story.  Life relentlessly moves on and though you continue to care and keep them in your heart, time and distance seem to grow and grow before you know it.

Friends in Memphis kept me up to date.  I heard she had returned home to Savannah, Tennessee.  They told me she had married and I learned about the two girls she and her husband Wayne were so proud of.  Like any coach, I got a kick out of hearing that she had become a science teacher and a coach herself.  And I heard she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Java was a tough player, a hardnosed country girl that absolutely made the most of the tools she was given.  She wasn’t going to be an All-American, lead the way on the break or pull rebounds off the rim.  Java was going to outwork you, outsmart you and lord knows you were going to pay if you left her open on the perimeter.  She was the kind of player every coach knows is an integral part of successful chemistry both on and off the floor.  I didn’t mention that you would be hard pressed to find a teammate or opponent who knew her that didn’t genuinely like and respect her.  Odds are if you didn’t like Java Reynolds, you either didn’t really know her or had some sort of personality disorder of your own to deal with.

Unfortunately, cancer knew Java, too.  In typical fashion, she got the upper hand and had it in remission after the first appearance in 2009.  Sadly, it made a return and though she battled it courageously time and again over the years, cancer ultimately claimed her life with her passing Saturday evening.  However, don’t mistake her death as a concession that a cruel and despicable disease got the last word.

Her husband Wayne Stanley and daughters Mallory and Molly will be eternal reminders of a life well lived.  The community will never forget her as one of their own who made them proud and then came home to help the next generation in the classroom and beyond.  The awareness coming from her own battle may be the catalyst that helps others take on and survive a malady impacting so many of those we love.  Java’s determination will not be forgotten as an example of how to face down the challenge of cancer and take it to overtime with every fiber of your being.

I had the opportunity to visit with Java one last time just a month ago.  It was good that I went but I left with regrets that I hadn’t stayed in touch better after her playing days ended.  Facebook and the like have provided insights and updates on the lives of people who we’ve shared time with through the years.  Maybe that’s one of the redeeming values in an often murky and cold environment of social media.  But it’s not the same as a phone call or a personal note.

No, I’m not telling coaches that you should be dialing up your old point guard or composing deep, meaningful messages while you’re trying to put together the next scouting report.  But maybe you should make it a point to reach out to a former player once a week.  Not for the alumni game or the “Where Are They Now” page on the web site or some other self-serving cause.  Do it because you still care.  When we recruit players we find out everything we can about them.  I’m betting a lot of the answers you get from former players in their 30’s will differ from the ones you got from them as a teenager.  Tell a few stories, share a few laughs, remember some special moments…and even though they probably already sense it…let them know they still hold a place in your heart.

I coached for 25 years and a lot of players were on the rosters of the five different programs I was part of.  Even though I’m no longer on the bench, there are a lot of individuals I would love to find out how they’re doing, what they’re up to and catch up just a bit.  You don’t have to be an old timer like me, either.  If you’ve coached five years you’ve got at least one class of former players who have moved on to the next chapters in their lives.  A lot of the recruits I signed had telephones on the wall and some research is necessary for me to even track them down.  Younger coaches most likely still have their cell numbers on speed dial.  Take a moment, hit a key.

A daughter…a wife…a mother…Java will no doubt be missed on a daily basis.  Going forward, it will hurt knowing of the time cruelly taken from her family, friends and community.  Grandchildren will be told stories of her but will miss the smile, warmth and love that defined the person that she was.  Teammates and coaches will still share the memories with a smile but also with a twinge of sorrow.

It would be unfair and an overstatement for me to say I’m going to miss a player I had limited contact with over the years.  However, what I will miss is the satisfaction that came with knowing she was making the most of her life, doing well and embracing all the world had to offer.  The spot she’ll forever hold among those who knew her will not be idealized because of how she died but more so by how she lived…and in the end how she fought.  It was a privilege to be her coach and an honor to be a friend.  If the value of our lives is judged by the people we cross paths with along the journey, I’m a richer man for having known Java.  Thank you my friend.