Losing Coach Luke

I remember lots about the 4 years I spent with Luke Hotte. But, like Maya Angelou famously remarked, the things I remember most aren’t the things he did or said, they are the ways Luke made me feel.

Luke felt like someone I could have easily known growing up. He made me feel a sense of belonging. You see, like Luke, I was raised in northern New England. I was on the other side of the river in New Hampshire (Luke, in Vermont), but the sweet fermented smells of dairy farms–silage and manure–provided the background to my childhood. This was true for Luke as well. His life had always operated on the cyclical nature of Vermont dairy farm life: hard work, early mornings…and lots of local whole milk and blocks of cheddar the size of cinder blocks.

I knew I’d found a kindred soul in Luke the first day–in the old Middlebury “bubble” that served as quasi-permanent indoor track and squash courts–I heard his deep, slow, curt, t-dropping country twang (think pronouncing mountains without the “t”). When he introduced himself, he’d pronounce his name in a monosyllabic tone that truncated each of his names to the degree that he cut it off before the word even passed his lips. To describe it phonetically is nearly impossible as I sit here, try as I might to say it aloud and put a keystroke to it. The “k” in Luke was there, but disappeared the moment you heard it, almost like he was saying: “Lu’ Hut.”

Under Luke’s guidance, my freshman roommate, Bobby Marcoux would end up as an All-NESCAC discus thrower. Bobby was 6’7” and played basketball for the Panthers, but it was under Luke’s tutelage that I watched him really perform. Bobby used to joke that he and his fellow throwers were always trying to get Luke to go out to the bars with them and, while he sometimes showed up, he once confessed to a few of us who were stretching in a hotel hallway somewhere outside of Boston before a meet that, despite his stature and size, his college friends at “No’theast Missouri State” always referred to him as “Two beer Luke.”

Luke had a great sense of humor. When he found out I was going to be student teaching at his alma mater, Middlebury Union High School, he joked, “yup, that’s harder than anything you do on the track.”

I also remember almost getting struck by a hammer that was flung through the air on the indoor track while I was running an 800m interval. Luke sheepishly walked up, apologized, and cracked a joke about the track and field Gods looking out for distance runners.?

I went to San Diego four times with Luke and the track team. Seeing his smile, baseball cap, and the huge shadow he cast over the track at Point Loma in the early mornings there will be one way I’ll always remember Luke. I remember him teaching javelin throwers how to throw a football to work on their form and sitting by the pool in his long-sleeved Middlebury crew sweatshirt.

Of course, I’ll also remember that the only time I’ve ever shot a gun was under Luke’s direction at his annual “Bullets and Barbeque” event at his house. Usually it was only throwers, but as a team captain I got the VIP invite my senior year. Luke had guns lined up to try in his back yard range, huge steaks on the grill and–of course–a gigantic block of Cabot cheddar with a steak knife in it on the dining room table.

The reality is that, despite all these stories, I didn’t really know Luke all that well. I was a distance guy and he was a throwing coach. But that was the thing about Luke. With his no’th country wa’mth, his kind smile, and his willingness to smile and joke with anyone, was one of those people everyone felt like they knew and loved. His stories and presence were just that big and that warmth will continue to be felt on Dragone Track for years to come.

The night I heard of Luke’s passing, I texted Bobby: “have a beer and a big block of cheddar tonight for Luke.”

“Will do.” he typed back.

I am sure ‘Coux and I were not the only ones reminiscing about Luke and pouring one out for the man with a voice like the deep hum of a truck engine in February and hands like catcher’s mitts.

Rest well, Luke.