"Carlos, if I had eight more like you, I'd be a happy man."

Those were the words my high school baseball coach said to me one day during my senior year in 1982. Now, more than forty years later, I still remember them.  

That's the impact that kind words can have on a young man and it's a reflection of the character that my coach embodied throughout his life.  

Coach Dunk, as he was known by his ballplayers and assistants, was a players' coach. A man's man, who was genuine through and through. He loved his players, whether they were the stars of the team, or the also-rans like me. And, his players loved him, on and off the field. 

For many of my teammates, he was the only father they knew. For others, who were fortunate to have loving fathers, he was like a second dad. He had the innate ability to make people laugh, feel good, and feel loved, because he sincerely cared.

This week, the man we called Coach Dunk, Sheldon "Shelly" Dunkel, passed away. He lived a good life. He was 86. Yet, despite his age, it was a jolt to his family and his wife of 62 years. His health had been waning for several years. It forced him into retirement after 21 years of coaching at my alma matter. But, his wit, sense of humor, love of cigars, salty language and spirit was sharp until the end.

He had recently told his grandson to break up with his girlfriend because her name sounded like she was a dancer at a strip bar. It was a joke, of course, but that's the kind of man, Dunk was. No holds barred, genuine and bigger than life. 

After his son struck out three times in a game one time while growing up, Dunk went up to him after the game and said, "Congratulations." His son perplexed asked, "What do you mean, dad?" Coach answered, "You just joined the KKK!" His son told that story at the funeral service. Everyone had to laugh. (K is what score keepers write for a strikeout) 

Now, don't get me wrong. He wasn't all fun and games. He was tough as nails. He had to be all his life. Standing 5'6" with his shoes on, he had to scrap all his life. He starred at Miami High School after his parents moved from New York to Miami and made their Hall of Fame. He starred at the University of Miami and became team captain by his senior year. 

As I sat there during the service with a row of my teammates at my side, in a packed chapel with former players from his first high school coaching gig, dating back to 1970, his only MLB player that he ever coached, former coaches, colleagues, friends and family, it occurred to me that despite being called a "legend" by many of those that spoke at the podium, his true legacy was his family and the people he touched during his life. 

He loved his family. In fact, that became a common theme, his love of baseball, his faith, and his love of family. Family was everything to him and he was everything to them. It was quite evident. 

He was a devoted husband, a present and loving father and grandfather, who never missed a baseball game or dance recital, and a selfless friend. 

When he had a fight in the heat of the moment with an old friend who was coaching a rival team one time and they didn't speak for about 3 weeks, Dunk wrote his friend a letter saying he wasn't going to let baseball come between their longtime friendship and apologized. The friend's son took the letter and gave it to his wife before the service. 

Some members from his original high school team, an all-black school during the racially charged environment of the early 1970's, came to tell their story of what Coach Dunk meant to them. Coach was the only white teacher at the school. They said they couldn't figure him out at first, but he taught them more about life than about baseball. He showed them unconditional love and respect. He brought them to his home and to his family. They felt his genuine affection for them, and they reciprocated in kind. 

Dunk had a heart of gold. I remember my senior year, our high school team had scraped and clawed to win the district championship against two very strong rivals. We faced off against another powerhouse in the regional championship. 

The game was a dogfight that neither team wanted to lose. It was zero to zero at the end of 7 innings and we went into extra innings. There were highlight-reel plays made by our shortstop and right fielder to get us to that point. But we couldn't score against one of the best pitchers in the county, who had come into the game in relief because he had pitched in their district championship a few days earlier. 

In the bottom of the 9th inning, we ended up losing one to zero on a fly ball that sailed over our centerfielder's head. He was playing shallow to reach any short fly behind the infield and throw out the runner at the plate and couldn't reach the long fly ball. The runner would have scored regardless. 

It was a heartbreaking defeat. It was possibly as close as Coach Dunk ever got to the state championship. Most of the guys were in tears, including Dunk. He wore his heart on his sleeve and this was an emotional loss for all of us. It is one thing to lose a game in a blowout but it's devastating to be left on the field. 

I still remember his face after that game.  Then the next day, during a team meeting, as he lifted our spirits and said how proud he was of us, he choked up again. There is crying in baseball! Maybe, that's where I learned that it's okay for a man to show emotion and, as my family can attest, I do it well. 

Through the years, as life went on, we lost touch. I saw him at a couple of alumni games. I went to see him when I was considering trying out for my college team and asked him to write a recommendation on my behalf, which he was honored to do. I attended an event in his honor as he was about to retire from coaching. We got together at a team reunion about 15 years ago when my daughters were young. And my most recent contact with him was through Facebook a few years ago. He read a blog I had written on a former high school football player who had been his student and he took the time to tell me he read the article and agreed with my conclusion. 

During the service, the rabbi quoted from Ecclesiastes, "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted... A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance..."

I remember the same reading being used by a priest at my great uncles' funeral Mass a few years back. It made me reflect on my own family. The legacy that my dad, who is about a year and a half younger than Dunk and about to celebrate his 60^th anniversary with my mom, is leaving me. The legacy that I'm leaving my daughters and son. 

I thought of the words of St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians, "If I speak in human and angelic tongues, but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal... if I have all the faith so as to move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing... Love is patient, love is kind... It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

Love is forever because it's a choice not a feeling. That is the legacy that Dunk leaves behind through 62 years of marriage, three children, six grandchildren and a great grandchild on the way, through 40 years of coaching, teaching, mentoring, and leading. It's not that he was a legend, though he most certainly was, it is that he leaves a family that loves him, friends, students, and players that love him, and a long list of memories that they will never forget. That is a life well lived.  

At the end of my life, that's the only legacy I want to leave. A legacy of love, of faith and of family. It's the greatest legacy any of us can hope for. 

Mother Teresa once said, "Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless." Without a doubt as Coach Dunk's words to me would testify...