By now, most readers of this blog have probably heard of the
passing of Marist’s longtime coordinator of sports medicine (head athletic
trainer) Glenn Marinelli late last week at the way-too-young age of 56. Glenn
valiantly battled brain cancer for the better part of the past three years.
While his passing was not surprising given the extreme uphill battle he was
facing, the deep sadness that accompanies it is very, very real. I was talking
to someone who knows and loves Glenn very much last night, someone who has
spent time with his grieving family, and she said to me: “I’m just trying to
find the silver lining in all of this. Where is the silver lining in all of
this?” A healthy guy who took good care of himself, a loyal and loving husband
for 30 years, with three children of whom he was so proud … it’s just so normal
to ask why, isn’t it?
Glenn touched so many athletes’ lives through the years. He
was especially close with the men’s basketball and football teams, with whom he
traveled for decade after decade. But really, Glenn was a friend to all
athletes and everyone around the McCann Center. Nothing but kind words continue
to be uttered for this great man, who was taken from our midst far too early.
I have so many memories of Glenn that they may be too vast
to share in the space of one blog post. I will try to gather some thoughts here
now …
As I was so quoted at GoredFoxes.com, Glenn was my trainer
when I arrived on campus back in 1982 as a skinny and scared freshman. Glenn
was an active runner, having completed the 1982 and 1983 Boston Marathons. And
remember, I had only started running my junior year in high school, so I was
new to all the pitfalls of our sport as I embarked on high mileage training for
the first time in my life. Glenn guided me through the blisters (
he popped many of my ugly blisters back
then!), the sore muscles and tendons, the achy knees.
The term “bedside manner” is often referred to with doctors.
Glenn was affectionately known as “Doc” around McCann, and his bedside manner with
all the athletes and staff members he treated was unparalleled. Whether he was
taping your ankle or Achilles tendon, applying stim or ultrasound, or just
listening to another endless case of knee tendonitis, Glenn listened and Glenn
cared. He was never rushed with you, and he always remembered to ask how you
were doing the next time he saw you. Although most of the time it was the
commonsense “ice it a lot tonight,” or “heat that knee before you run, and grab
a bag of ice for later,” coming from Glenn gave it extra credence and somehow
just made you feel better.
When I was a young sportswriter at the Poughkeepsie Journal,
I remember hanging out with Glenn at the Junior Davis Cup tennis tournament one
endless summer afternoon in 1986 at the tony Poughkeepsie Tennis Club. Glenn
was working the tournament as a side gig for extra money, and I was assigned to
cover it as one of my first jobs as a full-time journalist. We spent most of
the afternoon together, talking about anything else but the tennis matches we
were watching.
As I got to be older, I became a colleague and coworker when
I was hired to coach at Marist in 1991, and we saw each other pretty much every
day around McCann. When I ventured into the curious world of ultramarathons in
the mid-1990s, Glenn was there to calm my fears of torn meniscus in my always
sore knees – he said there might be tears in there all right, but as long as it
doesn’t bother me too much to keep running … what great advice!
One time, when this klutzy coach tripped on the sidewalk and
fell hard on my shoulder during an early morning run, Glenn was there later
that day to apply ice and stim and give me an analysis of the grim situation –
free of charge, free of hurry and best of all free of judgment. He surmised
that I had probably torn my rotator cuff, but as he said, “unless you are going
to be in the starting rotation for the Yankees, there is no need to get it
surgically repaired.” We always joked about the time that he put the stim on
that bum shoulder, told me to take it off after 15 minutes, and I forgot to do
it while he went out for a run – leaving burn marks all over my shoulders!
Although Glenn was most often out with the football team or
in McCann with the basketball team, his increasing role on the academic side of
things made him a big part of our program. He was the one who approved the
little known special topics 2-credit course called “Track and Field Coaching,”
which I have been teaching on and off for close to a decade. He became close
with our Athletic Training majors, a field of study he helped to start at
Marist. Several of our track alums have forged successful careers in the AT
world, and they view Glenn as an important mentor and role model in their
lives.
Even as this damn disease started to ravage his body in
recent months, Glenn would always sit and talk with me about the old times. He
loved reminiscing about my early days as a coach, when I had really long hair,
and certain academic administrators on campus didn’t like that. We reminisced about
my crazy college coach back in the mid-1980s – Glenn was one of the few guys in
the building that actually remembered him and his insane antics.
Over the past year, as his mobility slowed and his
unsteadiness increased, Glenn continued to come into work. He was bundled up
like it was midwinter even while indoors, as the disease and the meds he was on
made him constantly feeling chilled. Unless he was down at Sloan for treatment,
Glenn was still coming into his office to work each and every morning. He was
an inspiration to us all, and his wife said his coming to work each day
improved the quality of his life.
As I would make my inevitable walks to the men’s room each
morning, I would always pop my head into Glenn’s office. When the light was on
and he was in there, my day would brighten as we would sit there and shoot the
breeze for a few minutes about the past and present. When the light was off and
the door was shut, my heart sank as I thought of him enduring more treatment
down in the city or elsewhere.
His prognosis was grim from the start, and he outlasted numerous
dire predictions by the doctors. I never once heard him complain. Never. Once.
Instead, in fact, he did exactly the opposite of this: He posted inspirational
messages on the doors and the walls of the training room, and he spread those
messages to teams (including ours) before MAAC Championships. His motto “Never
Give Up, Never Surrender” is permanently plastered on the wall of the training
room for all to see, a lasting legacy of a great man and a good man.
