A memorial service for former Maryland coach Dick Edell, who passed away last month, will be held Friday. Liz Piper, current manager of game administration for US Lacrosse and a former lacrosse manager for the Terps, penned a letter to the Big Man.

Dear Dick,

Thank you. Thank you from my whole heart for being such a good friend, mentor, and role model. I know you would gladly accept the first two and probably shy away from the last one, but there is nothing you can do about it. You were a friend, mentor, and role model for so many young men and women during your lifetime. With that influence, you have influenced future generations as those men and women moved on from the various schools at which you engaged, laughed, scolded, and coached them. Your legacy is truly boundless.

For four years I served as a manager with women’s basketball where I made some lifelong friends and paid for my diploma. Those four years do not compare to the family I joined when I became a part of the men’s lacrosse team. Basketball is my first love and I treasure those experiences; however, you, Slaf, Scotty, your families and the team showed me a greater level of acceptance. I quickly became indoctrinated into the culture of the University of Maryland men’s lacrosse team which was created and embodied by you. A culture of "Be The Best" and "Play With This and These."

What does it mean to "Be The Best?" While I know you didn’t coin the phrase, you carried on the legacy. For a Maryland Terrapin, to Be the Best means to give it all you have. This applies to life, not just the lacrosse field. You work hard on a daily basis to put your best foot forward. You treat others with respect while challenging them mentally and physically. You support your teammates, friends, and family. You laugh; at yourself, your friends, and life in general. You find joy in being. It may sound a little existential for a lacrosse philosophy, but Big Man, you were the best example of just enjoying life.

Your Maryland teams were known for blue-collar lacrosse. They played hard, hit harder, and left it all on field, and you led them by your example. You could be tough and the guys might’ve groaned when you were mad about some boneheaded decisions that were made, but we all knew it was because you cared. They laid it all on the line for you and their teammates because you laid it all on the line for them.

People respected you because you gave them respect. I remember asking you about why you would let the score run up against the some of the small school in early season games we played. You said something to the affect, "How can I tell these guys not to go to goal when this may be the only game they see the field all season?" It gave me a new perspective from the black and white one I had always believed. You wanted those guys who came to practice every day and challenged the starters by emulating our opponent at practice — those guys who knew their role and played anyway because you made them part of the team — to have the ability to say they scored a goal in college; that they stepped on the field as a Maryland Terrapin. I remember how distraught you were when you were instructed by the A.D.’s office to cut down the squad. There were probably 50+ guys on the team and I know you didn’t want to cut anyone.

Dick, you were the most genuine person I’ve have ever known. You treated everyone like they were your best friend. It didn’t matter if it was a student working the concession stand at Cole, the president of the university, Richie Moran, Carl Runk, or your family. When you asked someone about their life, you genuinely cared about their answers. You always remembered to ask about my family by name. "How’s your brother John doing? How’s his season going?" "Are mom and dad okay?", knowing both of my parents have had medical concerns over the years. I always knew where I stood with you because you were unconditional with your love and support. That’s not to say you couldn’t be disappointed in any of us, especially if the "fire water" caused someone to do something stupid.

Probably the best trait you had was your ability to laugh and enjoy life. Even in your later years when bound to a wheelchair, you enjoyed every day you opened your eyes. They say laughter is the best medicine and I truly believe it is why you lived such a long life after suffering a debilitating disease. Most of the time, you had a smile on your face. It might have been while telling the story about a picture taken at the beach which made it look like you were running out of the ocean with a curvaceous women with bodacious tatas or while retelling a time one of your coaching friends pulled a prank on you or vice versa. Or maybe it was your love of phrases such as, "does a one-legged duck swim in a circle, does a bear shit in the woods, or is a blue bird blue," when you could have just said yes.

I remember laughing pretty hard when you got in trouble with your mom. It was the 1998 ACC Championship game. It was a rainy game at Virginia and your mom was watching it on TV. Apparently the camera happened to catch you on the sideline calling someone a pecker and you got an earful from your mom at 54 years old.

I could always hear the smile in your voice when you would call me at work and inquire about the latest gossip. I never understood why you were asking me when your network reached farther and wider. Shoot you knew things happening at my office before I did! Regardless, it always made a bad day better when I saw your name on my caller ID and heard you calling me Leapin’.

I also got a kick out of the times you would tell me to walk away when you were about the address the guys. You were going to use some motivational language that wasn’t appropriate for ladies. The best part about it was that you didn’t wait for me to truly get far enough away that I couldn’t hear what you were saying in that falsetto voice you had when trying to yell.

When I decided to propose an internship to you back in 1997 it was one of the best decisions I have ever made. It started a friendship that does not end with your passing, but continues on through your legacy and the wonderful memories I carry with me. I love you, Big Man. This is not farewell, but until we meet again. Give Dan my love and you two behave yourselves.

With love,

Leapin’