I've told this story on here before, so excuse me if I bore anyone.

When I was thirteen, my father died, and I was lost, on a road to ruin. In trouble, real trouble, police trouble, all but uncontrollable.

A man who had coached me when I was younger found me, virtually forced me to play baseball, and gave me something to do that didn't involve getting my picture and fingerprints taken.

That man saved my life.  But before we get all maudlin about this guy, he was a prison guard in real life, and a blue-ribbon, brass-plated son of a bitch who I hated more than I liked. But I owe him a debt I can never repay. He's the reason I got through one of the worst times of my life, and he's the reason I've coached for over twenty years. 

I'd say my track coach made at least a bit of impact.

When I played basketball in high school, my trainer never said one word to me. All he did was tape my ankles before game time. Not a word. ... My coach was one tough SOB and when I asked him, Coach can I ask you a question? He responded, Didn't really give me a choice there, did ya buddy?