One day I was sitting across from my Poppop at breakfast, choking down a terrible cup of decaf coffee. He insisted the caffeinated kind would kill him, and since he was buying breakfast, I wasn’t about to argue. Somewhere between bites and sips of that disappointing coffee, it occurred to me that there was something I didn’t know about Poppop—something vital to the history and lore of the Marshall family.

You see, I grew up around lacrosse fields. Whether it was watching my dad or my sister play, or during the brief period I stepped onto the field myself, lacrosse was always said to be in our blood. That was because of Poppop.

You couldn’t think of lacrosse without thinking of Poppop, and you couldn’t think of Poppop without picturing one of his countless lacrosse hats or his well-worn Queen Anne’s County Lacrosse tracksuits. Lacrosse occupied a large portion of his heart.

From the time I first held a lacrosse stick, I knew he’d played at Johns Hopkins and later coached the game. I knew he must have been pretty good because, somehow, they had put him in the Hall of Fame. Because of him, my sister and I got our own gear, learned the rules, ran drills in the backyard, and kept stats for my dad’s teams. Even today, we faithfully watch the NCAA tournament and continue the proud family tradition of wishing nothing but heartbreak upon Syracuse. No self-respecting Hopkins or Maryland lacrosse fan roots for anyone outside the state lines.

Lacrosse wasn’t just something we played—it was part of our inheritance.

But one question lingered: How did lacrosse become part of the Marshall family story in the first place?

So, over that dreadful cup of decaf, I asked, “Poppop, what made you want to play lacrosse?”

He looked up from his breakfast, wearing his heavily worn Queen Anne’s County Lacrosse tracksuit, and said matter-of-factly, “Well… I never wanted to play lacrosse. I was a baseball player.”

That answer caught me completely off guard.

He told me that in high school, the athletic director simply looked at him one day and said, “Arlie, you’re not a baseball player anymore. You’re playing lacrosse.”

And that was that.

He traded in his baseball glove for a lacrosse stick. Overnight, he stopped being a baseball player and became a lacrosse player.

Naturally, I had other questions (I am nosy after all).

“Well then… how did you get into coaching?”

He smiled.

“I didn’t plan on becoming a coach either.”

After his final game of a season playing club ball, one of his coaches called him to the front of the bus and said, “Your playing career is over, Arlie. It’s time you started coaching.”

And just like baseball, that was that.

As he told those stories, something about him changed. His eyes lit up.

He talked about the young men he’d coached over the decades and the different places the game had taken him. He told me about coaching two World Championship teams and meeting the President of the United States after winning the gold medal in 1990. He shared what it felt like when parts of the American lacrosse community turned on him for coaching Team Canada in the 1994 World Championship. (Benedict Arlyn – catchy but also entirely rude)

Story after story poured out of him.

It was difficult to reconcile those adventures with the grandfather I knew—the man who duct-taped his shoes instead of buying new ones.

Finally, I asked one last question.

“What’s been your favorite team or level to coach?”

He didn’t give me one answer.

Instead, he gave me stories about many different teams.

But one answer has stayed with me, especially as his health began to decline.

“I’ve loved coaching high school kids. They’re still playing because they love it—not because they’re getting anything out of it. For some of them, senior year will be the last time they ever pick up a stick until they can hopefully pass the game on to their own kids. For others, maybe I can help get them in front of the right scouts and give them an opportunity to use lacrosse as a ticket to college and a better life. But high school… that’s the purest form of love for the game. They play because they can.”

That conversation changed the way I understood our family’s legacy.

I realized that lacrosse was never really the inheritance.

The inheritance was passion.

The inheritance was the willingness to say yes.

Young Arlie could have ignored the athletic director who told him to put down his baseball glove and pick up a lacrosse stick. He probably still would have been a good baseball player. He may have even played somewhere in college.

Instead, he accepted the possibility of failure.

He risked embarrassment.

He gave up a season with his friends.

He admitted that sometimes someone who cares about you has enough perspective to speak difficult truths into your life.

“I’m sorry, Arlie. You’re not a baseball player.”

He didn’t have to accept that new identity.

But had he refused, he would have missed discovering the game he would spend the rest of his life loving.

Years later, while still a talented player, he could have ignored the coaches who told him it was time to stop playing. He could have focused on what he was losing instead of embracing what was being offered.

Instead, he stepped into coaching.

And he never left.

He remained “Coach” until his final breath.

Even the nurses and staff at hospice knew him simply as “Coach,” because coaching had long ago stopped being a title and had become part of who he was.

When breakfast ended that day, I went home, brewed myself a real cup of coffee, and wrote everything I had learned in my journal.

That’s when it finally hit me.

The true legacy of lacrosse in Poppop’s life wasn’t the medals.

It wasn’t the championships.

It wasn’t the Hall of Fame.

It was the courage to say yes—to new opportunities, new seasons, and new callings—and to allow those opportunities to shape the person he became.

When I woke up last Tuesday to a text telling me Poppop had passed away, I wasn’t sure where to begin processing the space his absence would leave behind.

To the lacrosse world, Poppop was a legend. His decades of service and his impact on the game touched thousands of people. His passing is a tremendous loss to that community.

But to me, he was so much more than a lacrosse legend.

He hated my long hair.

He despised ripped jeans.

He never hesitated to tell you exactly what he thought.

He wore sweatsuits to the beach and somehow never broke a sweat—a gift I clearly did not inherit and was reminded of that loss each hot and humid summer in Maryland.

He never cooked.

Instead, his oven served as an exceptionally secure filing cabinet.

He dumped loose change onto the floor of his car, and once a year he’d clean it all out, stuffing the coins into long black tube socks. Every Christmas, the cousins would race to claim the sock we thought held the most money.

He was wonderfully quirky.

And he was ours.

The lesson Poppop left behind extends far beyond a sport.

His legacy isn’t confined to a lacrosse field or measured by championships.

It lives in the people he loved, the lives he shaped, and the family fortunate enough to call him ours.

Rest well, Poppop.

You’ve fought hard and long.

We’ll take it from here.