First Person: The Coach’s Daughter

The author and her dad after a cross-country meet. Photography courtesy of Tess Lyons

The first time I watched “Friday Night Lights” as a kid, I was hooked. It wasn’t just the dashing Tim Riggins on my screen or the idea that I could be whoever I wanted in high school. It was the relationships that played out on screen. The sense of community spearheaded by coach Eric Taylor was something I desperately wanted.

I felt such jealousy toward Julie Taylor, the young coach’s daughter who reaped the benefits of the team’s adoration for her father. Football-playing jocks showed soft sides when around their coach and used his guidance to influence their next decision while always showing up for him and his family in the way he did for them. The show identified the feeling of togetherness I’d always wanted.

All my life I’ve been the coach’s daughter. It’s a title I wear loudly and proudly. Not because we’ve always had a perfect relationship — it’s those closest to you who grind your gears the most — but because being Bobby Lyons’ daughter means being the product of a man who has made an impact on hundreds of students’ lives.

My father has been the head boy’s track coach at East Providence High School since before I can remember. He coached the school’s football team, too, until 2016, and that same year became the head boy’s cross-country coach. He’s coached some of the most talented athletes and national champions, notably Jamie Silva, who went on to play for the Indianapolis Colts.

Bobby Lyons and his track team after winning the Division One State Championship in 2013. Photography courtesy of Tess Lyons

Jamie babysat my sister and me and gave talks at our schools when we asked. In 2021, my dad was inducted into the RI Track & Field Coaches’ Hall of Fame. The audience was filled with kids he coached, and one of his very first track students introduced him at the ceremony.

Being a Townie means something in East Providence, and my dad is arguably Mr. Townie himself. Growing up in Riverside in the ’70s gave my father the playground of his dreams. His early days were spent catching tadpoles by the water and playing games with the neighborhood kids until the streetlights came on.

His athletic abilities became obvious in his youth, excelling at every sport he tried his hand at, especially football and track. In high school, he set records that stand to this day. Family responsibilities and that Townie mindset kept him from attending any of the free-ride offers he received from top universities, opting instead to stay close to home and attend Rhode Island College.

There, he was encouraged to specialize in special education. He’s been teaching at Riverside Middle School, his alma mater, for decades.

So when I finished elementary school, I went there instead of the middle school all the other kids in town were attending. I arrived with zero friends and not knowing a single student.

My dad came to lunch with me every day and his co-workers ensured I never sat alone. His students, too, would come to my aid as I sat with my head buried in a book, trying desperately to seem unaware of my

obvious loneliness. I eventually found friends, but the check-ins from my dad, his students and his co-workers never stopped. I took comfort in knowing the whole school was looking out for me.

His teaching gave me a sense of safety in the new-to-me world of public school, but it was his coaching that gave me real community outside of the school’s walls.

The author and her sister Scout with the football team after a championship. Photography courtesy of Tess Lyons

My dad was born to coach. If one of the boys needed a place to crash when home life became too much, they were in our guest room. If they were slipping up at school, my dad would stay late to help them with their homework. His boys were his kids, and that meant they were our brothers. Every holiday, to this day, is celebrated with his athletes new and old. Growing up, I knew they always had my back as their honorary little sister.

Every boy I brought home was met with the image of my father and his track kids sitting on the couch, waiting to interrogate. If mom and dad got caught up at work, one of the boys would wait outside school to take me home and watch me and my sister until my parents came home.

Then 2011 hit, and my sister Scout was diagnosed with a brain tumor. My mom attended doctors’ appointments and treatments daily with Scout in Boston. An RN and the matriarchal heart of our family, it made sense she’d stay with the sick child while my dad handled me, a nine-year-old who barely understood the gravity of the situation. He continued teaching and coaching, however hard it must have been during that time.

Not long after the diagnosis, my dad arrived at football practice, only to have a fellow coach lead him onto the field. There, the whole team gathered to reveal their new helmets, which donned a heart with my sister’s initials.

Scout and the author hold a championship trophy. Photography courtesy of Tess Lyons

I remember hearing him tell the story to my mom when he was recounting his day. I was watching the latest Disney Channel original movie in the living room. I thought to myself: “Well, of course the team would act that way.” Whether it was protecting my four-year-old self during a state championship celebration or helping me with math homework in between workouts, my dad’s boys were always acting on the love and respect they had for their coach.

Being surrounded by that kind of love and support, then and today, has shaped who I am and provided me with such comfort during the darkest of times. I feel secure knowing I might run into someone my father has influenced. A trip to the supermarket frequently turns into a catch-up session with one of his old athletes or students, now buying food for their own families.

Back when my boyfriend Brandon and I had only been dating for a month, we went to a Peruvian restaurant in Providence. Sitting at the bar, we ordered with our budget in mind. Moments later a man sat down, skimming the menu only briefly before ordering more than half the items listed. Growing up a Lyons — meaning growing up social and unafraid of rejection — I started talking with him. He ended up sharing his dishes with us and revealed that he was a food critic for a magazine. Brandon and I spent the rest of the night chatting with him, throwing an intimate date night out the window and leaning into the camaraderie.

The Lyons family attends Bobby’s Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Photography courtesy of Tess Lyons

Around closing time, the topic of hometowns came up. Come to find out, the mystery man was from East Providence and played sports in middle and high school. “Oh,” I said. “Did you know Bob Lyons?” The man’s face lit up. “He coached my siblings and I,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I remember you and your sister, running around the field and using the training equipment as a jungle gym.” I laughed. After snapping a quick selfie and hugging tight, we parted ways. “Does that happen a lot?” Brandon asked. “Yes,” I answered with a chuckle. Turns out I really was Julie Taylor all along, albeit without as much angst.

Arriving home, I told my dad about our restaurant adventure, pulling up the selfie as proof. For the rest of the night, my father told stories about the food critic as a young boy. Tales of sibling rivalry and a young man’s state record dreams being diminished. I sat, mesmerized.

Not long after, Brandon and I were sitting in the living room alone watching TV when he said something to me I’ve heard my whole life: “You have a cool dad and it’s inspiring to see the impact he’s made.”

I smiled and responded how I always do, having had him as my old man my whole life.

“I know.”