Coach
B memorial speech
Stephen
Burnett, the man, the myth, the legend, 4/29/1958 - 5/13/2021
June 13, 2021
Alameda High School
(Bold are speaking
bookmarks.)
(My
name is Yong Joo. (I’ve been a teacher at Alameda High for 15
years.)) Earlier this week, I was rollerblading
around
town thinking about Coach B. I came by the school and rolled up the
hill of the senior circle, stopped and looked around, and saw him
everywhere: The picnic tables by the old gym, where he sat every
morning and greeted everyone coming on to campus. The bench at the
corner of the library where he watched over everyone going into and
out of the main building during passing. The bench at the head of the
parking lot where he’d be during food fair. The table halfway to
the bike racks where he’d sit and talk with kids who were probably
supposed to be in class. Every direction I turned, I could see him
still there where he’d always been.
Coach B used to call
me his #2
teacher in
the whole world. #1 is and always will be Miss Harrington. I don’t
know how I climbed so high in his estimation, but he somehow saw that
potential
for greatness in
me just like he saw it in so many of you.
I was also once
mistaken
for Coach B.
Who wouldn’t, right? Chiara
Duncan,
as a freshman, looked up from her work one day, turned to me and
said, “Hey, Coach B I mean Mr. JOO!” and she was so embarrassed.
I know she didn’t actually think I was Coach B, she just reached
into her brain and grabbed the wrong name. But the fact that Coach B
and I resided in the same part of her brain...I’m still proud of
that. It was my first year as a teacher, and it told me I was doing
something right.
After
B’s passing,
I heard from quite a few of you who are here today. And a common
theme mixed in with the grief was guilt.
I understand that because I felt it, too: I should have spent more
time with B. You have to let that go. It’s okay to let that go.
Shame made it hurt too much to think about him, and he deserves
better. Allow yourselves to think about him freely, and feel good
doing it. Because you can’t remember B and not smile.
Coach
B was magical.
He did things that were unexplainable. He knew more kids in the
school than every teacher and administrator. All kinds of kids, but
especially the ones who had little respect for nor trust of any other
adults in their lives. These kids would act a fool at football games
and B would yell, Hey, get over here! Anyone else, they’d ignore
us, or run away, or yell back, or maybe beat us up. With B, they’d
stop, trudge up, yes sir, sorry sir, and walk away quietly. Not out
of fear but respect. Teachers have kids for an hour a day, every day.
He saw kids in passing once or twice a week, for seconds? And just in
that time, he got to know so many, gained their respect, and somehow
earned their love. That’s not something they can teach you in
teacher school. It’s magic. Real magic.
For most of us
who work here, this school and its kids are a big part of our lives.
But for
some of us, it's our entire life.
It certainly was for Coach B. That’s not something to feel sorry
for; it’s something to be jealous of. His life was blessed. Blessed
by all of you. He had entire multiple careers before he came here to
be a coach and campus supervisor. I think he played semipro
basketball in Europe, was retired from first the Army and then NASA
in Alabama. And he didn’t talk much about those, not because they
were secrets, but because none
of that made him as proud as
the kids of AHS. He made thousands of jumps
out of airplanes as
a paratrooper, and I know almost nothing about it. But you better
believe I know who Cat
Wu is,
and she graduated before I ever got here. I know all about Angelica
Rivera’s little sister,
and she didn’t even go to Alameda High but Encinal.
Coach
B was *the*
biggest fan of Hornet sports,
and it was my great privilege to get to sit and watch with him at
many of your games. He showed me that it was not only possible to
watch every
single football game,
home and away, but that it wasn’t even something exceptional, just
normal. That driving 120 miles to Ukiah for an NCS game was not
exceptional but normal. That personally knowing so many kids in so
many sports that he didn’t even coach...well, that was exceptional.
Those relationships didn’t start or end with high school. He
travelled to UC Davis and Sac State and Santa Clara U to watch
Hornets play in college. Pretty much every alum who ever came back to
the gym to watch a game came over to shake his hand or give him a hug
and tell him what was new in their lives. Every year when his senior
golfers graduated and I asked him how his team would be next year, he
already knew which 8th graders were coming up that would make his
team even better, and which 5th graders would be coming up 3 years
later. And though he was passionate about beating those Jets, his
love for individual kids flowed past school borders. They were all
his kids.
Coach B said
a lot of things only he could say.
For instance, every time they came out, he’d turn to me and say,
"There's
my favorite cheerleaders in the whole world."
Like it was the first time he’d ever said it. Every single time. It
wasn’t hyperbole, and it wasn’t just lip service. For him, it was
just truth. Plain and simple.
I have to tell you that he
wasn’t
always a happy fan.
On rare occasions, he’d be so disgusted with a game that he’d
leave in the middle. It wasn’t the losing that bothered him. It
hurt him to see you be less than what he knew you were capable of. He
believed in you. You can’t doubt that, because he devoted his
entire life to that belief.
And you
brightened his life beyond measure.
I watched him light up every time he saw one of you again. So again,
don't regret. Feel satisfied, that as much as he brightened our
lives, each of us here brought light into his. Look around you and
see how much brightness he had in his life. Alicia
Fong,
if you’re here, you get special props, for the thank you letter you
wrote him telling him the best teacher you’d ever had was Coach B.
He showed me that letter with such joy, and he carried that letter
around in his pocket for at least half a year, kind of exactly like a
proud grandparent. You made his year.
I have one last
Coach B-ism to share with you. You remember what he used to say when
a ref blew a call? "Even
Stevie Wonder saw that!"
For something so clear even a blind man couldn’t miss it. I think
that captures how we feel about you, B. Even Stevie Wonder saw how
much of a difference you made to these kids, this school, this town.
And even Stevie Wonder is going to see how far your lessons and your
love stay with us and carry us through our lives. Thank you, B.