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 Excerpted from "The Man Who Taught Me Everything," By Amby Burfoot, published in Runner's World, March 2007.
If you are
lucky in life, you might meet someone who changes everything forever. If you
are very lucky, you might meet this person when you are young and lacking
direction. If you are very, very lucky, this person might remain an influence
for decades to come--a touchstone you can revisit for counsel and wisdom. I was
very, very lucky. But I sure didn't see it coming.
It's September 1962, and I've just finished my first high-school cross-country
race. I'm losing the struggle to keep my lunch--hot dogs and chocolate milk--so
I've ducked under the football bleachers, hoping no one can see me. I've
already decided that I'll never run again.
But Mr. Kelley spots me and jogs over. He's an English teacher at my school,
and the cross-country coach. I figure he'll turn back when he notes my
distress, but he keeps coming, like someone who's seen this sort of thing
before. Kelley rises up on tiptoes--I'm six inches taller than he is--grabs me by
the shoulders, and turns me toward him. We're face to face, his bright blue
eyes ablaze. "Amby, that was a great race," he says. "You've got
real potential in this sport. If you stick with it, there's no telling how far
you might go."
No way. I've finished ninth or something pitiful like that. Coaches don't talk
to losers like me. Only winners get praised. This Kelley's a strange one. I'm
dubious, but people say he won the Boston Marathon a few years back. He must
know running. At home that night, I decide to massage my sore legs. Maybe I'll
try them again tomorrow.
Three years pass. I'm running a five-mile road race in Rhode Island when I notice something
unusual. There's a mile to go, and I'm gaining on the leader. The leader is
Kelley. This has never happened--by now I've finished well behind Kelley in
dozens of races--and I don't know what to do. I slow down for a moment. I can't
imagine passing the master; I am a mere student.
Except for my oxygen debt, I might have realized that Kelley had been preparing
me for this moment. I'd heard him muse so often on the nature of things--the
big bang, planetary orbits, tectonic plates, ocean currents, seasons,
evolution, the miracle of the sprouting seed--and yet I had never considered
how similar forces apply to the aging runner and the young aspirant. I feel a
tightness in my throat, but I pass him with a half mile to go, and break the
tape. It's my first road-race victory. After finishing, I stumble over to a
shade tree to catch my breath. I can't quell a creeping sense of shame for the
act I have committed.
Kelley crosses the line, sees me, and runs straight toward me, a big smile on
his face. He reaches out a hand, grabs mine, pumps furiously. "Great race,
Amby," he says. "You timed that one perfectly. When you caught me, I
had nothing left."
Two Aprils later, in 1968, we are running side by side in the Boston Marathon.
Kelley's time has come and gone, but he's still a fierce competitor, and he
hangs with the leaders for 13 miles. My tide is rising. I make a move, and
Kelley falls back. An hour later, I cross the Boston finish line as the first American
champion since his win in 1957. Someone puts a laurel wreath on my head, a
medal around my neck. I hear cameras popping on all sides. I am surrounded by
mayors and governors and newspaper reporters.
But I only want to talk to one person--the one who made it all possible. He
finishes 15 minutes later, and fights off his fatigue to find me. I've never
seen anyone look so happy after a bad marathon. "Amby, you did it,"
Kelley says, wrapping me in a big hug. "I knew you could. I knew this was
going to be your day."
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Good mentors, coaches and disciplers prepare their proteges to surpass them. 
Here's a list of things you can say to communicate blessing and cast a vision for those to whom you're passing the baton of godly faithfulness:
