Minutes to Memories

Jon was built to be a fullback, or a wrestler. Maybe even a boxer, but not a basketball player. By basketball standards, he was short. By any standards, he was thick and strong.

I was 21 years old, fresh out of the University of Arkansas, and too young to be coaching high school basketball, but there I was in August of 1992, holding my first practices, and checking out my team. Jon was 17 years old, one of four seniors I would eventually start that year, alongside his classmates, Rusty, Daniel, Jeremy, and a talented junior named Rob.

Jon had the odd mixture of playfulness and intensity that made him a team favorite - and a scourge to the opposition. If there was ever a star opponent that needed to be bothered endlessly – and there often was – I would sic Jon Coleman on him. Jon relished those opportunities.

If our school was big enough for a football team, or in those parts of the country where wrestling is the dominant sport, he would have been a star. We just offered basketball and track, so Jon made his way to the starting five through hard work and determination, and found a place in track throwing the shotput and running relays.

Jon graduated high school and moved on to my alma mater, the University of Arkansas. He graduated with a bachelor’s degree, and then law school to follow in the footsteps of his father. He returned to Jonesboro to practice, and though I lost touch with him completely, I can imagine he became one heck of a lawyer. I can picture his bulldog intensity, along with his mischievous grin, endearing himself to clients, and frustrating the stew out his adversaries.

I called my mom yesterday, and she told me the news. Jon died Sunday morning at his home of natural causes. He was 32 years old.

In less than an hour, visitation will begin at Emerson Funeral Home in Jonesboro, Arkansas. I am five-hundred miles away, but my heart is there with the mourners. Tomorrow morning, Jimmy Adcox will deliver a tender eulogy I’m sure, but I will be at work in Ocean Springs. I have to attempt my bit of dealing with the news by typing out words on a keyboard tonight.

Jon’s father preceded him in death, so the burden lies heavily on his mother, Jan, and his younger brother, Kyle. I cannot imagine how they feel tonight. I left my message on the guestbook at the funeral home, and already there are seven pages filled with condolences. I hope those help in some small way.

Of the fourteen or fifteen guys I handed Falcon basketball uniforms back in 1992, two of them are gone now: Jarrod left us at 19, and now Jon at 32. Death is sobering, and as the years pass, it grows more sobering still. We posed for a team picture back then, and two of those faces have faded away now. Over time, one at a time, we’ll all have our turn.

You don’t know what you have in a moment of time. The flash blinds us, the memory is secured, but you just don’t know that this moment will never be replaced. It is an irredeemable treasure.

I shared part of one year with Jon Coleman, and I hadn’t seen him in close to fifteen years, but all of a sudden I miss him tonight.

I hope he knows now, if not before, just how many lives he touched along the way.