Jon Joseph Thibodeau

Coach T

A few months ago I was riding on the train, lost in thought, when a scent wafted through the car. As it hit me I thought “I know that smell. That’s Mr. Thibodeau’s cologne.” In an instant it brought me back to the core days of my childhood. I was reminded of my second family. The one that raised me alongside my own. We spent countless hours together. It means something when decades later I can still recite your home phone number without any effort.

Your dad – Mr. Thibodeau, as I still called him even into adulthood – was a second dad to me. As I reach back into my earliest memories the Thibodeau’s are already there - driving me around, feeding me, and welcoming me into your home. We were so familiar that I'd often show up unannounced, let myself in without knocking, and head straight for the kitchen to say hello to whoever was there. More often than not, the first person I'd find was your dad, standing over a cutting board or a steaming pot, at work preparing an excellent meal that I would be sure to linger around long enough to enjoy. I particularly remember those long summer nights where we’d sit for dinner out back on the screened in deck, indulging in a buttery red snapper or a perfectly grilled chicken. I recall the time your dad acquired a paella pan and proceeded to make dinner for my entire family. To this day, it remains one of the best meals of my life.

Many of our childhood friends will remember your dad as Coach Thibodeau. I am one of the lucky ones who can say he was much more than a coach to me.

I remember those early days, riding around in the backseat of his metallic Acura, AM radio sports talk blasting through the speakers as if the volume knob was turned to 11. During the commercials I’d find myself in debate with him, defending my love for the Yankees against his beloved Red Sox. His fierce love for the Red Sox (and contempt for the Yankees) taught me early on that being a fan was simply not enough. I had to know why I was a fan, and remain ready to defend my position to anyone who asked. He was, in those moments, teaching us a much more important lesson about life. What you believe isn't enough on its own. You need to know why you believe it.

During these years our families came together to cultivate what I consider to be an idyllic childhood. The community they formed to support us and our extracurriculars provided a structure in which we could thrive. Your dad was a key fixture of this. He helped create what I consider to be the sacred ritual that became the cornerstone of our childhood.

This ritual would begin almost every Saturday morning. Baseball practice is where you and I developed a special bond with our dads as coaches. We were the first to arrive and the last to leave. We had a spotlight on us because our dad’s expected us to lead by example. Your dad in particular pushed us to be our best. He exuded a passion for the game which he actively tried to instill in us. And he was successful, evidenced by us both transitioning baseball into a year-round sport.

What I will remember is your dad did not settle with simply teaching us how to play baseball. He taught us how the game should be played. He held a reverence for the history and the ceremony of it all and ensured we understood and appreciated that. He taught us to have respect for the game. Ultimately, he was doing much more than building our skill. He was using baseball to help us construct our character.

When practice would finish the ritual would enter its second phase. We’d trade stirrups for shin guards and assemble the same cast of characters on the soccer pitch. Despite relinquishing coaching duties to Mr. Lee and Mr. Prutting for this part of the ritual, your dad was anything but a passive bystander. If soccer was intended to be a rest for him, he didn’t seem to want it. As long as sports were being played, he showed up with his trademark energy.

As I've gotten older, I've come to appreciate the sacrifices our parents made for us. As kids, we had nowhere better to be. Our parents on the other hand had countless other responsibilities competing for their time, yet they still chose to invest it in us. Your dad in particular did so with total devotion. He wasn't just a coach standing on the sidelines. He was as much a part of the team as any of us. He set an example for what it means to sacrifice time and energy for the things and people you love.

When our soccer games would finish, a brief respite would ensue in the evening. Our families would eventually share many meals and memories together during this era. It's in these moments where we had the opportunity to witness our parents not simply as guardians, but as individuals. We may not have known then, but looking back, seeing our families bonding and enjoying each other’s company, we were learning what true friendship and healthy community looked like.

As dawn broke on Sunday, the final and most significant fixture of the sacred ritual would take place. The church was the baseball diamond, the congregation consisted of parents and siblings, and our dads were the priests, leading us in pursuit of victory. The Game Ball would become our communion.

From the first pitch to the final out, your dad was in his element. On that diamond, he was a force of nature.

As a kid, I couldn’t have told you what your dad did for work. This is due to the fact that I couldn't imagine him being more passionate about anything other than our baseball team. When he stepped on the field, his identity was a coach and when he spoke, we all listened. May we all discover a passion in our own lives that burns as brightly as your dad's love for our team.

As a coach, he pushed us to reach our full potential. He was quick to encourage and extract every bit of talent. He was also first to stand up against any bad call or busch league behavior from other teams and umpires. This, of course, culminated into one of the most infamous moments of Cardinals baseball lore. Every single player will remember the time your dad was ejected – likely in a fierce rivalry game versus the Diamondbacks or Dodgers – and remained in the parking lot coaching from the car. Through his own devotion to our team, he showed us what genuine love for the game looked like. He transferred this love in particular to me and you. He was the first person to put me in catcher's gear and proudly bestow upon me the moniker of Pudge. I only wish I'd had more years with your dad as my coach.

As we grew older, we got into our fair share of foolish shenanigans. Launching cars down your driveway and getting kicked out of CCD are two that immediately come to mind. When we’d get caught doing something stupid, it was your dad I feared most. Far more than my own parents. He was quick to call us out when we were being idiots, but he always did it in a way that showed he believed we were capable of more. During our years as "pool rats" at Seven Locks – without question our most mischievous – it became clear that there was never anything we could hide from him. He always saw right through our schemes, as if he’d already seen and done it all himself. In calling us out, he forced us to be smarter and better versions of ourselves. At the very least, more discreet in our mischief and better at covering our tracks. Against the backdrop of the coddled environment of Bethesda, your dad made sure we still developed a healthy dose of street smarts. He knew those were the skills we would really need in life, and probably weren’t getting from our day-to-day education.

Your dad called it how he saw it. Always honest. You always knew where you stood with him and what he expected from you.

As we entered into post-Norwood years and our paths diverged, a new relationship between our families emerged thanks to the Seven Locks Dive Team. This led to your dad growing close to my sister and becoming another father figure in her life. That relationship, in turn, fostered a special bond between Ally and Genevieve, rooted in their shared love of diving and strengthened by the encouragement and support your dad gave them both. It was in this time that your dad transitioned into a Dive Dad and was a constant fixture at summer dive meets. It became clear that the passion he had poured into coaching us on the baseball and soccer fields was now being poured into Genevieve. It was expressed more gently, and with a much quieter voice than from the dugout, but the love and unwavering presence were every bit as evident.

The years went on and I only encountered your dad a few times after we left for college. On these occasions, he greeted me not as the kid he used to coach, but as an adult. It was a reminder that although our lives naturally drifted apart, our relationship never stood still.

Your dad helped raise me. He watched me grow, stumble, and helped me find my footing. I like to think he decided we turned out pretty okay. If that's true, he deserves a lot of the credit.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that through all of these years, your mom was always by his side. Together they were nurturing parents, excellent hosts, energetic counterparts who made family – and everyone who entered their orbit – the center of their lives. I count myself lucky to have been welcomed into that circle and to have benefited from their love and generosity.

Your dad taught us far more than how to catch a baseball or play the game. He taught us how to live with passion, how to be honest, and how to let our character define who we are. I have no doubt there are countless others whose lives he shaped with those same lessons.

May we all strive to live lives as full as your dad's – with the same passion and love that he shared with those around him.

When I think of Mr. Thibodeau, I think of warmth. He exuded the feeling and channeled it into every aspect of his life.

I can picture him so clearly in Thibodeau kitchen with a seltzer in hand as he served a bowl of the most delicious mac n’ cheese or taught us how to properly crack a lobster on their sun porch. I can hear him say, “Hey Sass” and his laugh during numerous baseball parties or pranking fellow dads on the drive to baseball tournaments.

Whether he was meeting you for the first time, hosting home-cooked dinners, cheering on Zach and Genevieve from the sideline, or giving loving pets to Cleo, you could feel his zest for life, his pride in the wonderful family he created, and his kind and welcoming spirit. He never failed to make others laugh with his dry sense of humor and to remind us Yankees fans of his fervent love for the Red Sox. Above all, his love of his family shined through in all that he did. The world was brighter and lighter because of him. He was truly special and he will be so missed.

I have lots of fond memories of Jon:
- From freshman year at St. Gabe's to trips to his home in Westminster, where we would defiantly root for Boston College against Holy Cross and Jon displayed his proud patriotism in his Eagles.
- Senior year, when we roomed together and he was manager of the campus pub, where we would loan our stereo system to the pub for alcohol as rent! We had the best bar in Hillside's and were known as the Kamikaze Suite, where there was always a recipe of kamikazes ready to go.
- Fond visits with Jon to DC, where I grew up.


While I didn't stay in close touch with him in the last few years, it breaks my heart to lose somebody so early who I had such fun with at BC. Jon, rest in peace, knowing that you did good, you created a great family, and you leave behind a legacy of friends. You will be missed!

I will remember Jon as a family man who adored his children. He always spoke with pride about both Zach and Genevieve and their respective accomplishments while growing up and, in more recent times, as adults. He would joke about how he did not know where they got their smarts, implying not from him. But that was false modesty. Jon was highly intelligent and Colette and Jon were the kind of parents who gave their children the best possible of all possible starts in life.

I will always remember Jon, and Colette together, as the consummate hosts at Thanksgivings, Easters, baby showers, or nearly any occasion for gathering and food. He loved trying new recipes and I remember hearing when Genevieve was young about how it was their “thing” to watch videos together of chefs preparing new dishes for them to collaborate on. I remember Colette giving Jon a Christmas gift or birthday gift of chef lessons. If I asked how he made his mac n’cheese, or where he got his parchment paper to prevent food from sticking, the next time I saw him he would hand me the recipe or a roll of parchment paper.

Without a doubt, cooking was love for Jon. I remember him sending over meals whenever anyone in his family or circle was ill. During his mother-in-laws’ final illness, while his wife, her siblings, nephews and nieces, and friends, stood vigil, taking turns at Georgetown Hospital in the hopes Joanne would rally one last time, he brought food and sustenance to fuel the crew. In later years, when my husband was not well enough to travel to the Thibodeau home for celebrations, Jon always inquired after Spencer and plied me with food to take home to him. When Spencer died last November, I should not have been surprised that despite having barely moved south, the Thibodeau family flew back up for the funeral.

I think in another life Jon would have been a restauranteur in a cosmopolitan corner of Europe, greeting his regulars, welcoming newcomers, and shooting for a Michelin. Colette would tease that Jon loved to do the food shopping and hit the nearby gourmet Balducci's. But food, as we all knew, was his “way” of giving. It was also an outlet for his generosity and his warmth. Jon’s death was untimely by any measure. He was poised, after a lifetime of working, to play golf, enjoy uninterrupted time with his beautiful wife, and revel in the years ahead with his two beloved children.

But instead of focusing on what was taken, I will instead remember how Jon and his family lived a full life together during the time he was given. He rooted for and took unabashed pride in Zach’s baseball prowess and Genevieve’s acumen as a diver. He traveled with his family to so many worldwide destinations, was able to be a love and support to his parents until their passing, and enjoyed a strong familial bond with his brother and sister. He got to father and raise two great kids. He even got to build and revel for years in his gourmet kitchen in his beautiful home in Bethesda. Jon and Colette had great friends whom they valued, two of whom, were in large part the impetus for their move to a warmer climate. Against all that, in our hearts, the sorrow as to the brevity of time he was allotted, must be diminished.