It is with a kind of sadness that sits heavy on the chest and lingers in the quiet moments that I share the news so many hoped would never come.
Liam Gleason, Siena’s beloved lacrosse coach, a mentor to countless young athletes, a man whose presence brought energy into every room he entered, has died.
He was only forty-one years old.
Just days earlier, on Friday, he celebrated his birthday with the people he loved most, unaware that time was about to slip through his fingers far sooner than anyone could have imagined.
On Sunday, a terrible fall inside his home changed everything.
A single moment.
A single accident.
A single event that no amount of strength, expertise, or whispered prayer could undo.
Despite every effort, Liam did not recover.
And the news that followed has left an entire community trying to make sense of the kind of loss that never feels real until it arrives at your own door.
Liam was more than a successful coach.
He was more than a list of victories, more than the championships, more than the statistics that once defined the arc of his career.
He was, at his core, an extraordinary human being.
A man who embraced life with a kind of contagious enthusiasm that lifted others simply by being near him.
A man who looked at his players not as numbers on a roster but as young men standing at the threshold of becoming who they were meant to be.
A man who lived for his family with a devotion so steady, so unmistakably pure, that everyone who knew him understood that this was his true legacy.
His wife, Jaclyn.
His children — Kennedy, just nine years old, with her bright smile and her father’s gentle confidence; Penn, six years old, full of the kind of curiosity that makes parents laugh and marvel in equal measure; and Tate, only four, still at the age where bedtime stories are magic and a father’s arms mean safety.
These three children are far too young to lose their dad.
Far too young to understand why the world suddenly feels different.
Far too young to carry memories that will now have to stand in place of moments they will never get the chance to share.
The lacrosse community has been devastated.
Players have cried.
Parents have whispered to each other in disbelief.
Alumni who once ran drills with him have found themselves staring at old photos, hearing his voice in their heads, replaying moments that now feel like treasures they didn’t know they needed to protect.
Siena and UAlbany graduates have reached out.
Coaches from rival schools have reached out.
Families, friends, strangers — all connected by the same thread of grief — have rallied around the Gleason family with a generosity that speaks to the kind of man Liam was.
A GoFundMe created to support his family has grown quickly, filled not just with donations but with heartfelt messages from people whose lives he touched, people who admired him, people who understood that a tragedy like this leaves behind more than financial strain — it leaves a void that cannot be filled by anything money can buy.
And yet, even with the outpouring of support, even with the kindness of thousands of people who refuse to let this family grieve alone, nothing can ease the ache in the hearts of those who loved him most.
Nothing can make his wife’s nights less quiet.
Nothing can make his children’s mornings less confusing.
Nothing can replace the father who tucked them in, the husband who kissed their foreheads, the man who loved them with the kind of steady devotion that made them feel safe in a world that now feels unsteady without him.
What makes this loss even heavier, even more piercing, is the chorus of voices echoing the same sentiment — He was their favorite coach.
Not one mother said this.
Not two.
But multiple parents, from different families, all describing the same truth in almost identical words.
Of all the coaches their sons had ever learned from, played for, or looked up to, they loved playing for Liam the most.
And when parents repeat the same message without knowing the others have said it, it becomes more than a compliment.
It becomes a legacy.
It becomes a reflection of the way he led — with kindness, with patience, with a rare ability to challenge without discouraging, to push without breaking, to teach without diminishing.
He coached the game, yes.
But he also coached the heart.
He believed in second chances.
He believed in discipline rooted in respect, not fear.
He believed in showing up — not just for practices and games, but for people, for moments, for life.
One photo has been shared repeatedly in the last twenty-four hours — Liam hugging one of his players on the field, his smile full and bright, his embrace strong and genuine, the kind of hug that says I see you, I’m proud of you, and I’m here for you.
It is the perfect photo because it captures everything he stood for.
Compassion.
Strength.
Guidance.
And above all, love.
He loved his players.
He loved his staff.
He loved the game.
And he loved, most fiercely of all, the people waiting for him at home at the end of every day.
Out of respect for the Gleason family, many waited to share this news until it was confirmed.
They waited because the truth felt too fragile to hold.
They waited because grief deserves gentleness.
They waited because a wife needed space, and children needed time, and a community needed a moment to breathe before the world began speaking his name in past tense.
But now the truth is here.
And the truth is this:
A good man is gone.
A family is grieving.
A community is aching.
And a legacy built on kindness, leadership, and love will continue to echo long after the final whistle of the final game he ever coached.
Tonight, we hold space for Jaclyn, for Kennedy, for Penn, for Tate.
We hold space for the players who lost a mentor, for the parents who trusted him with their sons, for the colleagues who admired him, for the friends who laughed with him.
We hold space for the man who left the world far too soon.
And we remember him — not just for the way he coached, but for the way he lived.
With purpose.
With passion.
With heart.
With open arms.
With a smile bright enough to lift others on their hardest days.
Those who knew him will never forget him.
Those he coached will carry parts of him for the rest of their lives.
And those who loved him… will continue loving him in every sunrise, in every victory, in every quiet moment when the world feels unfair but the memories feel strong enough to hold.
Rest gently, Coach.
Your impact will not fade.
Your story will not dim.
And your name — spoken with love, whispered through tears, carried forward by the people you shaped — will endure.
