Through middle school and high school, there was so much my coach did for me. He taught me trigometry and how to serve in tennis. He taught me how to shoot a basketball and run a perfect in-bounds play from under your own basket (tip, keep your eye on the in-bounds-er). The wins and losses are a blur to me now, but I know we won more than we lost. He and I would play one-on-one after practice, him indulging me long enough before he would pull out his famous hook shot, from ‘downtown’ and there was no, absolutely no way of stopping that shot. More times than not, he would drive me home, making sure I got home safely.

My parents were home, of course, just busy with their live at five news program competing for their attention with the scotch on the rocks that they had just poured. Mystifies me now, but at the time I didn’t blink an eye. Thought it was totally normal to walk home in the dark, through some woods, in the dead cold dark of winter, still sweaty from practice – in the years before cell phones or portal flashlights…that just was what was expected. That was a different time I suppose – except I know that I was the only one on my team without a ride home.

By my junior year in high school I had gotten into a terrible situation. I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time I thought I was in love, at the time I thought it was normal. Normal for my summer beach boss to feign love and interest for blow jobs and back rubs and sex in the back of his toyota four runner. He gave me the attention I didn’t get at home, and took me surfing and gave me gold earrings and cash and beer to drink. He took me to physical therapy appointments which made all that time in the car with our clothes off much more easy to schedule. This went on in front of everyone. My parents, co-workers at the beach club. People in the community. I know he bragged about it to his work friends. I know we once borrowed one of his friends houses while they were out of town. With a wink wink nod nod to it all. I know one time when my parents were away we were almost caught – and instead of my dad being concerned for me, my wellbeing, he called me a cunt. Angry and upset. And then once he calmed down – that was when he was so worried about how it might all look in our small communitiy if I were to quit my job. Not worried about what was happening to my body, or to my soul, but what would it look like? How would we explain it?

The denial was easy for everyone it seemed, except when it came to my coach. He didn’t like it one bit. He sniffed it out and asked me over and again, “hey, you ok with that guy?” I was young. and so utterly confused. “That guy” was a respected teacher and active in the community. He was married with kids just younger than me. His wife worked in the high school as a librarian. Sure, I was smart and mature, had to grow up fast in my house where my parents were drunk most of the time. But still, I was so so young and easy. All that guy had to do was show me some attention and affection and it got so very confusing so very fast.

This morning I read how Megan Kelly thinks the victims of Jeffrey Epstein weren’t young enough for him to be wrong or a pedofile. And I am sick to my stomach. Nauseous. That isn’t consent. I didn’t consent. He was my boss, he was 29 years older, he did know things – like how my parents were checked out (after all, he went to college with my father) – and that I was pretty much on my own. A minor child is too young to understand – and vulnerable. Full stop.

My bad situation went on for years. He would follow me to my college and take me to an awful cheap motel where he paid in cash. I would have burn marks on my lower back and sore where it really hurts the most for days after.

I don’t remember how I made it stop. How I got out. I just know that it did. Maybe I got too old. I was far enough away from home and maybe the distance did the trick.There is so much blurry around it for me now.

But my coach, he cared. He was brave enough to ask. I will never forget that. All the stuff he taught me, about math and basketball and hook shots, that was all really good stuff. But the most imporant lesson of all was how to speak up; to ask the hard question; to check in on someone when you see something that just doesn’t feel right. I was so close to telling him the truth, but I just never found the courage. But because he asked, I felt less alone and that, beyond all else, is the most important lesson he ever taught me.