POWERING THROUGH MY FINAL SEASON

POWERING THROUGH MY FINAL SEASON

Well, I’ve seen all there is to see 
And I’ve heard all they have to say
I’ve done everything I wanted to do . . .
I’ve done that too 
And it ain’t that pretty at all
Ain’t that pretty at all

~Warren Zevon (1947-2003)

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“Growing old is not for sissies.”
~Jimmy Buffett (1946-2023)

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In Charles Dickens’s 1843 novella, “A Christmas Carol,” the last of the three spirits that appear to miser Ebenezer Scrooge did not speak. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come shows Scrooge a vision of the future. Scrooge was not shown a fate set in stone, but a future that can be changed… by changing his actions in the present. 

It seems I’ve had a similar experience.

I’m now 66. 

My dad died in January of 2023. He died on my parents 66th wedding anniversary. My mom, who is now 86 years old, is struggling with diabetes and severe nerve pain in her legs. She has live-in care 24/7, costing $8,000 a month. The 80s are seldom kind. 

Two people in my coaching network are struggling with stage-four cancer: Kurt Hester of Houston and Chris Dertz of Eastland H.S. Both inspire me every day. 

Sometimes my music library plays several songs in a row by people who are no longer living: John Prine, Guy Clark, Jerry Jeff Walker, Tom Petty, Steve Goodman, Jimmy Buffett, George Harrison, John Lennon, Leon Russell, etc. Thankfully, Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger are immortal. 

Ryne Sandburg was born in 1959, like me. I probably watched him play 100 times a year on WGN back when I still liked baseball. He’s now gone. 

As far as I know, I have a long time left to live. My dad died at 88; my mom lives on at 86. My grandparents lived to 100, 88, 80, and 75, an average of 85 years. I’ve read that lifespan is predominantly genetics. I will probably be blessed (and maybe cursed) by a long life. 

So why am I hyper-focused on age all of a sudden? 

I’ve always bragged that my “Feed the Cats” approach to coaching has been my fountain of youth. The “disciplined pursuit of less” and “making practice the best part of a kid’s day” reinvigorated me as a coach. I’ve boasted that I was younger in my 60s than I was in my 30s. And this was not a marketing ploy; I was being 100% truthful. 

After a devastating, injury-plagued athletic career, I was a healthy coach. I had no injuries, no ER visits, no surgeries, and no chronic ailments. For 98% of my 44-year career, my health was impeccable. I had been lucky.

My charmed life of avoiding health issues ended when I had to undergo three colonoscopies beginning in March of 2024. I looked down at my hospital gown and stupid hospital socks, and I was reminded of seeing the same on my dad when he went through his cascading medical problems in his 80s. I literally said out loud, “And so it begins.” By the way, I got a clean bill of health in February of this year. My next check-up will be in 2027. 

My mortality wake-up call was about to be amplified two months after my 3rd colonoscopy. 

IT WAS A FIVE-INCH STEP, APRIL 26, 2025

I was standing on an unpainted wooden step looking out over our garage as my wife and I discussed the difficulty of getting a carpet remnant into the rafters. We decided it might be too heavy and agreed we would leave it for the trash collectors the following Thursday. Being retired from teaching, one of the few remaining rhythms of life is weekly trash collection. 

I had never stood for any length of time on that first step leading from our house to our garage. My brain mistakenly perceived that I was standing on the concrete floor of the garage. In other words, I forgot that I needed to step down, not out. 

I stepped forward, not expecting a downward step. My instinctive, reflexive, protective-mother-of-a-brain took action to prevent a bad fall. My quad tightened. Time slowed down in the nanosecond it took for my foot to hit the ground, and my body fell awkwardly. 

My thinking brain seemed to have many thoughts in that nanosecond. I felt a “snap” before my 215-pound body touched the floor. Three thoughts were immediate, seeming to occur simultaneously. 1) I just tore my quadriceps tendon, 2) my running streak of 1025 CONSECUTIVE DAYS is over, and 3) how will I make the trip to Edwardsville tomorrow?

Jill, who saw the whole thing, wondered if her husband had just died of a heart attack. She asked several questions in a panic before I answered. 

I eventually communicated that I must have torn my quad tendon. After answering a few more questions with my face still pressed against the cold concrete, I rolled over and sat up. My right leg had an indentation where my lower quad should have been. 

I laid back down, dazed. Maybe in shock. I got nauseous but never vomited. 

I thought of my uncle, Coach Kelly Kane, who had snapped the quad tendons of both his legs at around the same age (66), slipping on ice. His recovery was long and seemed to initiate a torrent of health problems. Senior citizens don’t recover like professional athletes. 

The ER doctor confirmed my diagnosis and put me in a brace until I could see an orthopedic surgeon. 

We discussed my plan of still attending the Winston Brown Meet of Champions, a 25-team meet in Edwardsville hosted by head coach Chad Lakatos. I coached Chad in three sports from 1989 to 1992. He remains one of my best ever. Chad’s assistant and right-hand man is Alec Holler, my oldest son. Together, Alec and Chad have built the #1 track program in Illinois, winning the state meet or placing top-two in 2012, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2022, and 2024. They were outstanding again in 2025.

My team has been excellent too. In the past six times we attended this giant meet, our team placed 2nd, 3rd, 1st, 2nd, 1st, and 2nd.

In addition, my son Quinn’s team (Tinley Park Andrew) makes the four-hour trip to this meet. 

To make it even more of a reunion, I want to mention that two other head coaches attending this meet were my former athletes at Harrisburg, graduating in 1999 and 2001: Brian Weiss from Troy Triad and Joey Speaks from O’Fallon. 

Joey Speaks, Quinn Holler, Tony Holler, Alec Holler, Chad Lakatos, Brian Weiss

I think you get the idea. It’s more than just a track meet for me. 

The ER doctor did not forbid me from making the trip, but Jill wished he would have. The doctor suggested taking a baby aspirin to prevent a life-threatening blood clot.

Jill drove me to Edwardsville the next day so I would be more comfortable and we could be free to stop if needed. We stayed relatively close to our three minibuses. My four rookie assistant coaches (Dawson Piper, Jaden Ferlita, Ricky Del Toro, and Amiri Buchanan) grew up quick. None of them have lived a day in the 1900s. I’m a grandfather figure to them. 

My team stayed four to a room at a Super 8 in Troy, IL. Jill usually stays with my son’s family in Edwardsville, but she stayed with me this time. It’s nearly impossible to deal with something like putting a sock on your foot when you can’t bend your leg. Just imagine living without your right quad attached to your kneecap. 

We placed a distant second to Edwardsville at the meet, in spite of our three stellar distance runners choosing to attend the “Palatine Distance Night.” Only in track & field can you go 23-1 and feel like you lost the meet. 

It was a weird day, not just because of my torn tendon; THIS WOULD BE THE LAST TIME I WOULD EVER TAKE A TEAM TO THE WINSTON BROWN INVITATIONAL. The days of enduring four-hour minibus rides and spending the night in a Super 8 are long gone. I’M DONE AT PLAINFIELD NORTH. 

At our first indoor meet in early March, I decided that this season would be my last coaching at Plainfield North. It was the first time I’d ever heard an inner voice say, “This should be my last year.” I didn’t know whether to trust that voice or not. I had presented three times at the Glazier Football Clinic in Pittsburgh the day before and didn’t arrive back home until after midnight. Pittsburgh was the 6th time making presentations in the previous 7 weeks (Alabama, Washington, Tennessee, Maryland, Florida, and Pennsylvania). Maybe I was just worn out. 

The feeling did not go away. It was time to go. 

When I encountered challenges over the following two weeks, I found myself thinking, “I will never have to go through this shit ever again.” This perspective was quite different from my usual mindset, as I have always considered myself a positive thinker, perhaps to an excessive degree.

In mid-March I told Jill that this would be my last year of coaching at Plainfield North. She was surprised. Coaching track had become my identity. Identities don’t go down without a fight. 

I told my kids two weeks later. I told my good friend, Andy Derks, in early April. I told my fellow TrackTown head coaches (Jason Crowe, Mike Adamson, and Jeff Purdom) at the TrackTown Hunt Invite on May 1st. My Athletic Director, Ron Lear, was informed the next day. I let my team in on the secret in mid-May. 

I didn’t want to become the focus of my team’s track season. I didn’t want ceremonies or any special recognition for my 44-year career. Track coaches, even the best ones, coach their sport in relative obscurity. Track is an orphan sport, a stepchild of the sports world. My father, as a basketball coach in the Midwest from 1958 to 2006, was a local celebrity in comparison.

POST INJURY

The 12 days following my accident were chaotic. X-rays, an MRI, three doctor visits, a pharmacy visit for pain pills, and a random visit to the dentist (teeth are important to senior citizens!). The whirlwind was intensified by my insistence that I attend three track meets during those 12 days. I took great pride in the fact that I was retiring from coaching at the peak of my career—healthy, youthful in spirit, and mindful of not overstaying my welcome. Things change.

When I met Dr. Kellen Choi, my surgeon, I was impressed. The surgery was set for Tuesday, May 6th, my 12th day of not running. 

The recovery would be difficult. I had to use a brace and crutches for a period of six weeks. The brace would be ever-present for up to six months, even while sleeping. Generally, a full recovery would take 12–18 months. When I asked him if I would ever run again, Dr. Choi said, “Only God knows.” (Weird answer!)

I learned that my injury was the career-ender for Charles Barkley. He never played again. I was beginning to understand that quad tendon tears are devastating injuries.

If the visits to the ER, the pharmacy, the MRI, Dr. Moon, and Dr. Choi were not enough, I had to be cleared by my personal physician for surgery. Dr. Deol’s frequent absence from the office led to my referral to Dr. Hussain at the Advocate Office in Oswego. I only had a two-day window to undergo a checkup, EKG, and bloodwork. Luckily I got it all done on the one-week anniversary of my injury.

For the five days following surgery, I basically sat with my foot elevated, taking pain pills. I have read two terrific books on the opioid crisis (Dopesick and Empire of Pain), so I’m well-schooled on the addictive qualities of opioids. I’m thankful I hate them (even though they were 100% necessary). I didn’t shower for three days. 

I really missed running. I also missed my music that always accompanied my running. I noticed the pain and codeine kept me from reading, paying attention to the TV, and appreciating food. I was miserable.

Three days following my surgery, I missed the Bill Jackson Invite in Lockport. I had not missed a track meet in 44 years of coaching. I spent my night refreshing Athletic.net Live. 

THE CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON

I used to talk to my teams about “Miracles in May.” My teams have consistently produced “WOW” performances at Conference, Sectional, and State. All great teams do.

We had won our conference indoor meet and were ranked IL #5 at the end of the indoor season. We were good in every event except the high jump. With this being my final season, the anticipation of Championship Season was bigger than ever.

Conference, Sectional, and State were huge disappointments. We still featured 16 All-Conference athletes, one shy of a school record. The SPC Conference Champions, Oswego East, had an epic meet (like great teams do). At Sectional, we qualified two relays and four individuals. We expected to qualify 3 relays (maybe all four) and 11 individuals. We expected to be a top-ten team at the state meet. We weren’t even close. 

Our 4×8 team’s great performance salvaged the state meet, but nothing else worked out. My four seniors had to gamble on our 4×2 handoffs to qualify. We dropped the first exchange. That’s how my career ended. I can’t help but think that I let my team down. As John Hiatt wrote in one of his songs, “The surface will heal, but it feels like a permanent hurt.” 

Physically, I barely survived those three meets in May. The conference meet was a smoking-hot, ten-hour day for me. I was only eight days out of surgery and living on pain pills. The Sectional was the same. Both times, I had the school bus take me directly to my house rather than call my wife for a ride home. The song “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” echoed in my head. I was a beaten and battered soldier returning from battle. A losing battle. 

During the long, hot IHSA State Prelims, I had this text exchange with my good friend, Chris Korfist. For the past several years, I’ve been allowed on the field to take pictures. I must have looked like I was about to collapse. 

As I was in my dorm room, doing final packing after the state finals for the final time, I hit shuffle play on my iTunes. I kid you not, the first song was Tom Petty’s “It’s Time to Move On.” 

“Yeah, it’s time to move on, time to get going; what lies ahead, I have no way of knowing.” 

Tom Petty was my age (66) when he died in 2017. (By the way, Warren Zevon, referenced above, also died at 66!)

And it ain’t that pretty at all.

THE PREVIEW?

My quad-tendon odyssey has given me a preview of my eventual future decline. I hope it’s not THE DECLINE. For the final five weeks of my season, I lived like an old man… like an 86-year-old man. I was immobile and in need of a caretaker. Opioids caused a persistent brain fog. No driving. I was excessively cautious, taking small steps and focusing on the ground to avoid falling. I gained ten pounds. I was depressed. 

FAST FORWARD 

Ten weeks into my recovery, Jill and I embarked on a 10-day Viking Cruise from Vancouver to Seward, Alaska. I wore my brace for only one day (I got so dizzy from seasickness I thought I might fall). I worked out every day (exercise bike, elliptical, rowing machine, pushes, pulls, and farmer carries). 

My flexion is now 126 degrees, and I can straighten my knee fully. I’ve walked a 17-minute mile. I walk up and down stairs using both legs. After working out, my knee swells, but I’m told not to worry. Occasionally my kneecap clicks because it’s not tracking correctly. I’m told that strengthening my adductors will alleviate this. 

Our Viking Cruise further educated me on aging. It felt akin to going on a cruise with my grandparents, occasionally forgetting that I, too, am a grandparent. The average age had to be 75. Anyone in their 50s looked like a kid. (Side note: Viking Cruises are elite. I can’t recommend them enough. Viking Cruises accommodate around 900 paid passengers on their ocean ships and fewer than 200 on their river cruises. No kids! Our river cruise from Prague to Paris was our favorite.)

I would estimate that 10% of the 900 passengers used walkers or canes. At least half of the overwhelmingly Caucasian cruisers seemed to walk with a limp, or worse.

On the first day, the cruise director reminded the women to keep track of their husbands when onshore for excursions. “It’s always the men who go missing.” The description of the missing men is consistently the same: “they have gray hair and wear glasses.” 

It depressed me in my age-obsessed state of mind when I thought that 50% of these people will be dead in ten years and most of the others will be unable to travel. For many couples, it seemed to be their last hurrah. Time is undefeated. 

It warmed my heart that couples seem to care for each other as if their lives depended on it. Love and survival are power drugs. I often thought how awful it would be if these people were growing old alone. 

I had fascinating talks with several passengers. Bill, from Philadelphia, became my morning coffee buddy. Bill was a cruise expert. He read everything. Actually, Bill wasn’t a coffee drinker. Instead, he chose to drink screwdrivers (doubles) when we would meet between 6:00 and 7:00 AM. I once sat with a retired military gentleman from Boston who walked with a cane and seemed to be a hybrid of Dick Cheney and Dr. Strangelove. We agreed on nothing, but we were respectful. Another individual, a Vietnam veteran, protested in Grant Park, Chicago, in 1968. We agreed on everything (Vietnam, Trump, Bernie, Gaza, etc.). When the 81-year-old learned I was a track coach, all he wanted to talk about was running the 4×4 at the Penn Relays in 1962. 

Al Kovnat, age 81, is on the far left in 1962.

I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated the struggles of aging until fairly recently. Young people engross themselves in their hectic lives. 

I’ve witnessed what’s yet to come, but my fate is not set in stone.

What I do in the present can shape my future. I am striving to transform into a youthful, robust senior citizen once more. It feels strange to possess the ability to reverse the aging process. I just want to feel like I’m 66 again, and I’m getting close. 

“I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” ~Bob Dylan

I intend to run again by January 2026.

Power through! 

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EXPECTED TFC DATE:
DEC 5-6
Stay Tuned

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Tony Holler Speaking Schedule 2025