This week, I watched my son’s intense college soccer game at SUNY Plattsburgh. The Cardinals were down by a goal — demonstrating one of sports’ great paradoxes: the score doesn’t always reflect the quality of play.

The announcer boomed the two-minute warning, inciting chaos. The seconds ticked painfully down until, with a minute left, the Cardinals were fouled. They were awarded a direct kick only 35 yards from the opponents’ goal — striking distance. To the surprise of all, the Cardinal goalkeeper abandoned his net, sprinted forward and joined the attack. The ball was lofted in and hit the back of the net. The keeper’s last-minute diversion worked!

The buzzer sounded to raucous cheers from the Plattsburgh team and fans. A tie might be “like kissing your sister,” but it’s better than a loss. Hands were slapped, officials thanked. Despite the fleeting euphoria, I couldn’t help but notice the opposite team’s dejection as they sulked back to the bench.

As we drove home, Kris and I talked about our most memorable sports losses. Mine was at the high school state track meet, my freshman year.

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John Cogar. Bobsled God.

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Our 4×100 relay team had promise. After a string of wins, we were told someone from the U.S. Bobsled Team was coming to be our sprint coach. Wow! We felt like Very Big Deals.

The next day, a tall, tan man in silky shorts strolled onto the track carrying blocks. Dr. John Cogar in the flesh.

Before that moment, my only connection to that level of hot was the Teen Beat centerfolds of Patrick Swayze. It was easy to talk to Patrick in those frozen muggle photographs. But John was real. Gulp.

Coach John said many important things that first day. He’d been a state champion in the 440. He was on the U.S. Bobsled Team. And most importantly, he told us the mantra of the starting blocks: “Get out quick.”

We stammered and stared at his Colgate smile and muscular legs. Laura Landon, our anchor, didn’t seem completely bamboozled. She said intelligent things like, “Okay,” and “Yes.” I nodded, which was now my love language.

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Rabbits and foxes

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For six weeks, Dr. John Cogar — a veterinarian by day — coached us with intensity and focus. Starts, plyometrics, 10 million handoffs. He taught us to mark fly zones by smearing dandelion heads on the track. Some sessions we dreaded. Some we loved. Not all of it had to do with his shorts. John gave a lot, and he expected a lot. He made us better.

Sometimes John was curt — singularly focused on our ascension. There was no denying it: his methods worked. We were shaving off time every week. Several Saturdays, John arranged for superstar senior Eric Wilson to pace us, running easily just off my shoulder.

Eric teased, “Are you gonna start sprinting, Cheney?”

John’s theory was: “Rabbits are faster than foxes — otherwise, there would be no rabbits.” So Eric chased us like a fox.

We won sectionals, becoming a (somewhat) local Very Big Deal. We broke the school record. Then we qualified for the State Meet — an overwhelming affair with a few thousand spectators. I had high hopes for us, but apparently a small town girl didn’t know diddly-squat about the big leagues.

John gave us pep talk and we heeded to warm up. I was the first leg, so all those starts were on my mind. They called our race. From the grandstand, as I loaded into my blocks and sized up a row of competitors air-dropped from the Amazon, I heard his voice cut through the noise: “Get out quick!” Then the gun blasted.

We did our best. We broke the school record again. But not to spoil the fantasy ending — we also got our arses handed to us finishing second to last. Afterward, John found us subdued.

“Hey, did you do everything?” We nodded. “Then be proud.”

I carried “Get Out Quick” through three more years of high school track, exiting roundabouts and awkward social gatherings. But it wasn’t just a track lesson. It became something larger.

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Two-minute warning

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I didn’t know Dr. Cogar in the kind of way that gives you permission to speak with authority about someone’s life. We shared moments in exam rooms — new puppies, cut paws, the grace of death for old K-9 friends. Over the years, John offered flashes of insight or a story about a trip. He lived in the land of perpetual motion. John never told me outright that he was chasing meaning, but I believe he found it.

As we walked in the house after the soccer game yesterday, I imagined an alternate universe where James Earl Jones announced the end of your life in his commanding Darth Vader voice: “Two Minutes Remaining.”

Would you want to know when the fat lady is warming up to sing? Would you want an audible two-minute warning? What would you change? Would you abandon your net, running pell-mell up the field in a last ditch effort?

If I pictured John at his two-minute warning, he’d be sprinting in scrubs and hiking boots with a racket in his backpack, off to the next adventure.

John Cogar was a Very Big Deal. John’s sparkling, energetic wake is one of altruism, dedication and zest for life. John didn’t just live fully — he played fully, and when the time came, he got out quick.

A celebration of Life for Dr. John Cogar will be held today, Oct. 11, 2025, at Mt. Pisgah.