Back On the Bench, Lori Mabrey Finds Strength in the Game She Loves
The gym feels familiar the moment Lori Mabrey steps inside. The echo of bouncing basketballs, the squeak of sneakers, the rush of young athletes chasing their dreams — it’s the soundtrack of her life. For years, the Rio Rancho High School head coach has thrived in this environment, where passion meets discipline and belief turns into opportunity. But this season, when she walks across the hardwood to the bench, it’s different.
Mabrey is still the fiery leader Rams fans have come to know. “I’m still a yeller, I’m still a foot stomper, I’m still high energy,” she says with a grin that tries to hide what she’s been through. “So that hasn’t gone anywhere. I think you could still expect to see that.”
It’s not the coaching that’s changed — it’s the absence beside her.
In December of 2024, Lori lost her husband, Buster, the former Executive Director of the New Mexico High School Coaches Association. He passed away after several difficult weeks in the hospital, battling severe health complications. His death was not just a personal loss — it was a moment of silence in a community he helped build. Coaches across the state knew him, learned from him, and leaned on him. But nobody leaned on him more than Lori.
Basketball was their shared space. The game they talked about on long car rides. The box scores they studied over dinner. The players they poured their hearts into.
“There were times last year I was ready to come back as head coach,” Mabrey says. “But the team continued on for 18 games without me, and I didn’t want to disrupt their rhythm and flow.”
She could have rushed her way back into control. Instead, she watched, listened, and found her footing. The players, the staff, the families — they didn’t just hold down the fort. They held her up. “I do pretty good until I think about it,” she admits, voice steady but vulnerable. “These kids probably saved my life. They’ve been so good to me and understanding and helped lift my spirits on a day-to-day basis.”
What she endured didn’t harden her — it softened her. Where there once was urgency, there is now patience. Where there was heat, there is empathy. “I probably have more empathy than I had in the past,” she says. “That’s probably a good growth area for me. It’s given me some patience — I haven’t always been the most patient coach. I think this helped me expand in areas that maybe were not possible before.”
Lori doesn’t pretend she has moved past loss. That’s not the story. The story is that she stands, even when it hurts. She laughs when she thinks of Buster’s sayings — those blunt, sarcastic reminders that coaching requires a thick skin. “He had a lot of Buster-isms,” she says. “Some one-line ditty’s that he used to spout out. Things like, ‘Coach ’em up,’ ‘Suck it up coach,’ stuff like that. So, I’m going to try to remember his one-liners.”
She knows the stands will hold faces she loves — players’ families, former athletes, friends — but not him. Not the man who sat through blowouts and nail-biters, who waited to hear her breakdown of the game.
Still, she knows what he would tell her now.
“I think he’d be proud of me,” she says, a tear tracing the corner of her eye. “I think he’d be pleased with my courage, and I think he would want me to be on the bench and continuing on.”
And so she is.
Not because the road is easy, but because the game is still hers — and because somewhere in the rhythm of the ball hitting the floor, in the roars of young players chasing something bigger than themselves, she finds the strength to keep going.
Lori Mabrey is back.
Not as the same coach she once was, but as one rebuilt by grief, lifted by her players, and driven by the memory of the person who always believed in her most.
