Coach McCool to a region. Dad to me. This is the part of the story the newspapers never got to tell.
He wore a lot of hats: husband, father, grandfather, mentor, and friend to more people than I could ever count.
To Northern Virginia he was Coach McCool. To my two older sisters, my younger brother, and me, he was simply Dad, and growing up in his world was an education all its own. During his time here he left a lasting mark on so many lives, and I want to remember the man behind the record.
Mount Vernon was our playground. My brother and I knew every inch of that school, the gym, the locker rooms, the hallways long after the lights went down. And whenever someone who didn't know us tried to shoo us off, we had the only credential we ever needed.
"Our dad is Don McCool." "You mean Coach McCool?" "Yeah." "Oh, okay, never mind."
It was an unlimited get-out-of-jail-free card, and the look on their faces was priceless.
To his players, Coach was something like a father figure, always looking out for them and always teaching. I found out just how seriously they took that the day I got crossways with one of his guys, a player we called Fish.
I figured I'd play my usual card. I was wrong. Fish gave me a spanking worse than any punishment my dad had ever handed out, and Dad let it stand. The lesson landed for good: never mess with Fish, and if you're going to dish it out, you'd better be able to take it.
Dad loved his teams and he loved the work of coaching. Winning was fun, but it was never really the point. His joy came from watching his players succeed and grow into better people. He never wanted the spotlight or the accolades. He loved the competition and he loved helping others, and that is what kept him motivated through all those years on the bench.
Basketball was more than a game to him. It was his passion, and he wanted to share everything he knew, along with the work ethic behind it. He grew up playing West Virginia-style basketball before the rest of the country caught on, pressure defense and fast-break offense, and that is exactly what he taught his teams.
His style barely changed in thirty years. I think that consistency says everything about his dedication and his love for the game. More on how he coached.
As a father, he was someone I looked up to and admired without reservation. He led by example and never asked anyone to do something he wouldn't do himself. He sacrificed for his family and for his teams, and he put other people first as a matter of habit.
The thing about my dad's coaching tree is that I grew up inside it. In 1984, he brought a young coach named Brian Metress onto his Mount Vernon staff and taught him the press, the preparation, the "nowhere to hide" practices. Metress went on to become one of the winningest coaches in Northern Virginia history, with more than 500 victories.
At Centreville, both of my high school coaches came straight out of my dad's tree. Todd Crowley coached me all the way through, and Brian Metress was on the bench from 1988 to 1990. So I didn't just inherit my dad's values at the dinner table, I got them on the court too, handed down through the very coaches he had shaped. The same game, the same standards, coming back around to his own son. That's the kind of legacy you can't put in a record book.
And the lessons never stayed on the court. So much of what he taught me through sports, the preparation, the accountability, the team-first mindset, the idea that effort is non-negotiable, I carry into my professional life every day. I still quote him. The things he said in a gym in the 1980s come out of my mouth in meetings and with my own teams now, and they still hold up. That's the truest measure of a great coach: his lessons keep working long after the final buzzer.
He made us promise not to be sad when he went to heaven.and we are trying, Dad
We will always miss his pregame pep talks and his motivational speeches. We can't help feeling the loss, but we carry his spirit and his love with us every day.
Rest in peace, Coach. And thank you, Dad, for all of it.