For Kyle Merber, Frank “Gags” Gagliano was more than the coach who helped him become a better runner. He was the partner who stood beside him through the toughest moments of his career, reminding him that his worth extended beyond the stopwatch. Now, as the legendary coach’s death at 89 leaves generations of athletes mourning, Merber has shared a deeply personal tribute to the man who changed his life.

Merber’s final memory of Gags came at this summer’s U.S. Championships at Icahn Stadium, where the veteran coach received an outpouring of love from family, friends, fellow coaches, and former athletes. Merber sensed that the moment might be his last chance to say goodbye. He wanted to repeat one of Gags’s familiar instructions, “go to the elbows!” But what stayed with him most was something his coach had told him countless times: that he was proud of him.

That pride reflected what made Gags different from so many coaches. As Merber explained in his tribute shared by Citius Mag, “A good coach knows how to respond to an athlete, and that’s what Gags understood. Putting strength and speed in a bowl and mixing it up to make a champion didn’t require rocket science. The training philosophy was simple yet logically progressive, and that was the beauty of it. But the true differentiator was the way he knew when to push and when to pull. It’s a long year, full of dozens of races and God knows how many workouts, and what Gags did best was know when it was time to ramp things up and when to just have fun.”

Merber first encountered Gags during his senior year at Columbia University, when he joined one of the coach’s workouts at New York’s Armory. After running well enough to attract attention from agents, teams, and shoe brands, he wanted to remain close to home and join the New Jersey-New York Track Club. But when he initially asked Gags to coach him, the answer was no.

Merber had committed to completing his remaining collegiate eligibility at the University of Texas. Gags believed in keeping promises, so he told the young runner to finish his education in Austin and return afterward.

A year later, Merber came back with a different story. Injuries and disappointing performances had derailed his time in Texas, leaving him with fewer professional opportunities. The NJ-NY Track Club could offer him a room in a house shared with six other runners and a modest monthly stipend. Gags assured him that he would manage if he worked hard and found a part-time job.

For Merber, that was enough. He joined the team in 2013, even though his running had reached a low point. During an early practice, Gags shouted at him for falling off the pace. Merber, already frustrated with his form and his previous season, took the criticism badly and refused his coach’s attempt to comfort him after training.

Their relationship could have ended there. Instead, Gags called him that afternoon, and the two spoke honestly. Merber explained that shouting did not motivate him, while making it clear that nobody needed to question his commitment to the sport. Despite overseeing more than 40 athletes, Gags listened and changed his approach.

For the next seven years, Merber said, their relationship felt less like a traditional coach-athlete arrangement and more like a partnership. Merber wanted to understand the reasoning behind each workout, and Gags gradually began sharing the training plan with him. The coach knew that getting the best out of an athlete meant understanding the person behind the performance.

A legacy built on care, not just Championships

Gags’s willingness to invest in runners regardless of their credentials defined his coaching career. Across more than six decades, he worked at Roselle Catholic High School, Manhattan College, Rutgers, Georgetown, and several professional training groups, including the Reebok Enclave, Nike Farm Team, Oregon Track Club Elite, and NJ-NY Track Club.

He coached more than 40 sub-four-minute milers, over a dozen Olympians, and a world championship medalist. At Manhattan, he helped guide the program to the 1973 NCAA indoor title. At Rutgers, he coached Mike Roche, who represented the United States at the 1976 Olympics, and Ron Speirs, the program’s first sub-four-minute miler. At Georgetown, he helped build a powerhouse that won 23 Big East team championships and produced 140 All-Americans.

Yet Merber’s memories of Gags were not limited to medals or personal bests. He recalled an early-season indoor race at the Armory when he started too quickly and struggled badly over the final lap. The following morning, a 6 a.m. voicemail from Gags offered an unexpected verdict: “Merber, you had a great career. I am proud of you for trying and appreciate all you’ve done for the team. Stop by practice tomorrow and hand in your jersey.”

Then came the coach’s unmistakable laughter. Gags hung up, leaving Merber with another example of his ability to turn a difficult moment into something lighter.

Behind the jokes was a coach who stayed close when athletes needed him most. Merber remembered exchanging more messages with Gags during injuries and rehabilitation than during his strongest racing seasons. After surgery left him unable to train, the coach kept checking in. When running offered little comfort, Gags made sure his athletes never felt forgotten.

That connection explains why Merber and so many others considered being one of Gags’s guys a badge of honor. They ran for themselves, but they also ran for the man who believed in them. As athletes shared their memories following his death, Merber found comfort in knowing that the grief belonged to a community Gags had spent a lifetime building.

For a coach who helped so many runners chase Olympic dreams, his most enduring achievement may have been making each athlete feel that the journey mattered, and that nobody had to run it alone.