Mickey-Miles Felton: The Heart of a Unique Visionary in Lacrosse

Sometimes in the throes of youth and exuberance, the message we try to convey as coaches gets tangled in a web of attitudes and misunderstood intentions. Players, armed with the fiery confidence of youth, often think they know better. They challenge our methods, question our choices, and magnify our flaws. But it's not the strategies, the quirky attire, or even the missteps that define our efforts. It's something deeper, more visceral—it's about the heart of a coach. The realization might not strike immediately; sometimes, it takes years. But eventually, for many, there comes that quintessential light bulb moment when they understand that their coach's heart was always in the right place, sacrificing countless selfless hours, channeling a deep passion for lacrosse to genuinely better their lives.

Mickey-Miles Felton, a man of vibrant style and boundless energy, faced these challenges endlessly. His unique approach was often met with skepticism—errant glances and raised eyebrows were part of his daily fare. But if you're out there, Mickey, reading this, know that your lessons have transcended time and skepticism. I get it now, and I'm grateful.

I played for Mickey in 1997. At first, his style bewildered me: red and blue boots—one red, the other blue, stitched into a bizarre sneaker-boot concoction. A necklace with a #14 pendant that seemed like a holy relic, and those infamous, wild voicemail messages. I was a 20-year-old kid, trying to find my footing, and Mickey was nothing short of a walking enigma—a blend of coach, salesman, showman, philosopher and friend.

Back then, I was fresh from Ithaca College, where I'd played under Jeff Long, a Navy star with a disciplined, methodical approach. A man who daily wore sweatpants, a flannel shirt and scared the bajezziz out of me with a long stare. And I thought he was fantastic! Mickey’s style was a stark contrast. I was thrust into a world of big hugs colored by those mismatched boots and Mickey’s larger-than-life persona. It was confusing, disorienting, and it challenged not just my understanding of lacrosse and the way things should go. The contrast could not have been greater.

Yet, here I am, decades later, with Mickey's home number still etched in my memory. That’s got to count for something.

Mickey wasn’t just molding a team; he was sculpting a movement. He didn’t just coach; he sold lacrosse to the Southwest with the fervor of a carnival barker. Mickey didn’t start a program at the University of Arizona; he breathed life into it. He wasn’t just introducing kids in Arizona to lacrosse—he was building the platforms and infrastructure needed for the sport to flourish in regions where it was as alien as ice fishing.

Former players transferred from a D1, D2 and D3 school to play for Mickey, called it one of their life's best decisions—not just for the lacrosse skills but for the life lessons on how to let yourself shine in whatever form that may be, be yourself and be proud of who you are.

From setting up the first varsity lacrosse teams west of the Mississippi to helping launch the Men’s Collegiate Lacrosse Association, Mickey’s impact was monumental. Mickey was more than a coach; he was a visionary.

Through it all, Mickey volunteered his time, energy, and resources. He raised funds for local charities, taught kids to read, and left an indelible mark not just on the game but on communities. For his efforts, he's been inducted into the Arizona Lacrosse Hall of Fame and celebrated as a transformative figure in the sport.

So, even though I didn’t get it at first—the mismatched boots, the wild messages, the relentless spirit—it all makes sense now. Mickey didn’t just coach a team. He championed a cause. And decades later, knowing his number by heart tells me that his lessons weren’t just about lacrosse; they were about life.