By April Terry (personal blog http://faithwarming.blogspot.com)

There are a few moments in my life that I recall when someone outside of my family was truly kind to me.  Sadly, they can be counted on one hand, but they lay inside my heart like shiny coins in an old bottle.  There was one kindness, however, that has stayed with me over the years and has shone more brightly than the rest.  It was during the summer of 1983 shortly after I had graduated from high school and it came in the form of a letter that I will always be thankful for.

I started playing tennis about the summer of 1978.  I was just going into Jr. High school and our family had moved across the street from the Jr. High and High schools and I started going over to the tennis courts alone.  I got a little obsessed with the game and I was determined to become the next Tracy Austin, the young, sweet girl who was challenging the great Martina Navritilova at that time.  I played against the backboard at the courts because I didn’t have anyone to play against until, by the end of 1979, I started to get pretty good.  That was when I would occasionally start to play against the boys that came to the courts who were my age.  There were some pretty good players in my school and I become known around the courts and, well, I was pretty much there every single day.  In fact, on most days, I would play a couple hours in the mornings and three hours in the evenings, spraying myself down with Deep Woods Off! to keep from getting mosquito bites all over my body.  I set a goal that I would be a real tennis star for my high school and I worked toward it.

In my sophomore year, I started to play competition in High School and the town that held the most competition in our region was Manti, Utah.  They were known to be the toughest team and they went to state every year.  They had an exemplary coach there named Coach Wilbur Braithwaite.  He was a very kind person and his daughter, Carolyn, could beat me in singles every time.  During my three years in high school, I never once beat Carolyn, and it frustrated me to no end.  She was confident, secure, and placed the ball extremely well.   In contrast, I had a hard serve and strokes like the boys, but I couldn’t place the ball and my emotions often got the best of me in the game.  I didn’t act out or anything, but I just didn’t have the head game for tennis.  That would come very much later for me.

My last opportunity to beat Carolyn came in my senior year in the last match we had with Manti.  I stepped onto the court fierce with determination and butterflies in my stomach, but when I stepped off the court, I was beaten in a long, three set match both mentally and physically.  I sat down on the Manti courts and cried and it was Coach Wilbur Braithwaite, Carolyn’s dad, who came over to console me.  The last of my last chances were gone and I would not go down in the Hall of Fame at my school for anything.  It wasn’t my lowest point in high school, but it was up there.

After my graduation, I received a letter in the mail.  I opened it and inside was a letter.  This was before cell phones and laptops, and it was hand-typed on a typewriter.  It was a note from Coach Braithwaite thanking me for my competitive spirit and for my good sportsmanship throughout my school years.  It held a little encouragement and a lot of hope.  It ended with a poem filled with tennis analogies and similes, but it was a poem more about the game of life than anything.  His effort to send me that little letter has always touched my heart.

I keep that letter in my special shoebox.  It’s the box where all the precious moments of my life reside, my box of precious memories.  There, you might find a pressed flower from a special day or a piece of material from a party dress.  None of it will have any value to anyone else at all, but it’s there in my little treasure box that you will also find
Coach Wilbur Braithwaite’s letter, perhaps my greatest treasure.

Through an internet search, I was deeply moved to find out that Coach Braithwaite died this last April  at the age of 83.   Reading his obituary, I was not surprised to find out that he was also a WWII veteran who had received a purple heart.  He even carried the Olympic torch from Greece to Salt Lake City.  I knew him as the kindest person that I have ever had the fortune to know.  Coach Braithwaite was one of those coaches who probably affected the lives of a lot of kids like me.  I believe God puts people like him out there in the world to give us  hope.  I was one of the fortunate ones because for a brief time between the years of 1980-83, I was touched by real greatness and I wish I could have appreciated it more.