Robert "Brothy" Rothschild was born in New York on August 19, 1983. At the age of 23, Rob left behind a legacy characterized by a lifelong love of learning, and pursuit of excellence on and off the field. Rob will be remembered as a loving son and brother, loyal friend, dedicated coach, and inspirational teacher. He always led by example. He will be missed by all.
Tributes and Condolences
Thinking of you... / Amanda DeAloe (Close Friend )
I know it's been a year, but it still feels like yesterday that I last heard your laugh or saw your smile. I will carry those memories with me forever. I miss you, and my prayers are with you and your family always.
I miss you / Miryam Jivotovski (student, friend )
it's been almost a year and i feel as though the fuss has died down, but really, it hasn't. i miss mr. rothschild more than anything.
mr rothschild we miss you / Kumpei Kobayashi (subtitute teacher )
mr rothschild you were a great sub and as i heard from many of my friends that was coached by you a great coach and a great friend and a great person although i decided to play football a year too late and missed the great coaching skills that y...
Continue >>
well miss you / Scott Bass (friend, stuedent, player )
Coach Rob,You were not only a teacher, not only a coach, but a good friend. I miss seeing u in school everyday and talking about sports when you subbed. I learned alot from you as a person and your legacy will live on.R.I.P. Coach
Ill miss u / Sam C. (family friend )
The tears keep dripping down my cheek and i know you would be there to wipe them away. Remembering you i will do forever untill i meet you up in heaven. You were so nice and kind and everyone loved you i cant believe your gone. I miss you so much you...
Continue >>
R.I.P Mr. Rothschild / Adam Urban (sub. teacher )Read >>
ill miss you / Troy Dubrowsky (role model )Read >>
Robert Rothschild Achievement Fund Contributions welcome to carry on Rob's spirit of athletic competition, academic excellence and community outreach
Awarded to Tappan Zee High School Senior selected as Athlete of the Year, each year beginning 2007.
27 Hickory Hill Rd Tappan, NY 10983
"23-year-old Tappan man remembered" Journal News 3/2/07 http://www.thejournalnews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2007703020394
"Family, friends mourn Tappan athlete killed in car accident" Journal News 2/27/07 http://www.thejournalnews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2007702270371
Making Weight This last hill is always the toughest. Jogging slowly in place Matt Dolan stares cautiously at the steep, long incline present in front of him, silently counting every puffy cloud he exhales, “One…. two…. three…” the numbers echo inside his head. His street is not one of the more heavily populated in his town of Tappan, but it is definitely one of the longer ones. He can remember as kid, the street so imposing, tempting every child within a three-block radius to sled the icy blacktop. He stands underneath one of the lone streetlights, casting a long shadow into the center of the asphalt; Matt’s breath, visible in the cold night air, clouds his vision in half-second intervals as his chest heaves up and down. Having just completed a three and a half mile loop around his neighborhood, Matt knows this final sprint is not going to be easy. “F- it” he murmurs to himself, and in one deft motion pulls his hood over the top of his exposed shaved head and bolts up the incline. Sprinting away from the light that offered a brief shelter, Matt’s heavily clothed form becomes increasingly difficult to see. Visible to the naked eye are the heavy wool brand sweatshirt, complete with hood, and equally black fleece pants cover his legs. Beneath his outer shell of clothing Matt is also hauling with him a turtleneck long sleeve t-shirt, his favorite Metallica t-shirt, and a cutoff white undershirt. Matt doesn’t like to wear too many layers on his legs because he feels it puts unnecessary stress on the joints in his knees; similarly he refuses to ever wear those leg weights that recently have become so popular, because there are rumors that such equipment greatly increases the likelihood of knee injury. Glancing from left to right at the darkened windows of each house he passes Matt’s vision blurs once again, but this time because of sweat which repeatedly finds its way into his eyes. The salt stings for only a moment as the cool wind serves to blow away any moisture resting on his brow. “One, two, three, four,…” Matt silently counts the number of steps it takes him to reach the center of each successive light post, which eerily line only one side of his street, Pine Tree Lane. It pains him whenever he doesn’t reach the center of the light in an even number steps, but he feels compelled to count them anyway. “….six, seven…” no sooner has Matt mentally counted his odd numbered steps from the first light to the second, than he has to immediately begin again, “One…. two…” his mind, always preoccupied, never allows for a moments rest. Matt’s chest, heaves violently against its woolen cage, burning as he continues to suck down the cold air. “Almost winter” he says aloud. In the not too far distance the only light not provided by the street lamps originates on the porch of a modest, two story house. Matt bounds over the lip of the driveway and silently notes to try and not bottom out tomorrow morning when he leaves for school – the front bumper on his Ford Probe takes enough of a daily beating, he doesn’t need to subject it to scraping the driveway on a daily basis. Ahead there is a small path through some overgrown grass which leads to a staircase, and then finally a door. Matt covers this distance in fourteen steps. Satisfied with the evenness of such a number, he takes one look behind him, and simultaneously reaches out and turns the doorknob to let himself into his home. “One… two…” Matt opens and closes the door two times before he lets himself inside. Still in the doorway Matt dares not turn on the lights, or even make an audible sound, because his mother is asleep upstairs. “What time is it?” he wonders silently. His night vision now fully installed Matt leans only slightly to his left and peers into the kitchen. “11:34” Giving himself a well deserved pat on the back Matt does some quick math in his head and figures he has been running for just a little over twenty five minutes. His running shoes fit like a second skin, but Matt quickly shakes them off his size twelve feet without wasting any effort to untie them. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he needed to tie any of his shoes, he always just slips them off and on – another thing his mother always chides him about. “You’re going to ruin those shoes if you keep…” Matt can hear her piercing voice in the back of his head. Shaking himself out of his momentary daydream he realizes he’s still standing by the front door. Pulling his hood tighter to his head, so as to not let any unnecessary heat slip from his body, Matt takes two steps and then with another, final two steps quickly leaps up the stairs to the hallway. “One…two…” he opens a door and walks into his room. The sweat is really pouring down his face now. It always happens this way; during the run he can never seem to break much of a sweat, mostly because of the temperature and wind he believes, but he never fails to become completely drenched as soon as he rests for a moment in his home. This is a facet of cutting weight his coach repeatedly harps on. “Never let your engine cool down” coach B would say, “your motor keeps running even after you stop, so don’t mess with it for at least half an hour after you exercise.” The first time he is introduced to these words Matt could not even begin to understand the meaning behind them; over the years, however, they become his lone commandment: “Don’t drink, eat, or take off your clothes after a workout, you will compromise the heat your body is producing and stop yourself from losing weight.” “Wouldn’t it be easier to just say that?” is the general opinion of any freshman wrestler who happens to hear one of B’s patented speeches. “Yeah,” Matt would say in response, “but then he wouldn’t be coach B.” Matt never falters when it comes to listening to his beloved wrestling coach. Even now, in the overwhelming darkness of his room, Matt sits on the edge of his twin bed and envisions himself in the wrestling room after practice, listening to one of coach B’s tirades. In between all the gruff speech, curses, and general sweating and huffing his coach actually makes some really good points, ‘not cooling your engine down’ in particular helps Matt make weight every match. He gets up from the corner of his bed, leaving a slight sweat imprint behind, and crosses his still dark room to the digital scale in the corner. Two Oh Six Not ideal, but workable. By tomorrow morning at seven o’clock he will need to be seventeen pounds lighter, but he figures that with all of his sweat soaked clothes still on his body, he actually weights a lot less; Matt feels he only has about six more pounds to go, very doable by his standards. Intent on not letting his engine cool down Matt steps back across his room, finds his bed with his hands so as not to walk into it and make a loud noise, and climbs comfortably underneath the sheets – hood still pulled tightly across his face, nose still buried into the turtleneck. In his head are visions of what the morning will bring. Already he sees himself, head tilted downwards, his body completely naked, staring intently at the red numbers on his digital scale. In Matt’s mind the numbers combine to form ‘one ninety four.’ Matt, as the wrestling community likes to refer to them, is a ‘drifter.’ He, by virtue of only sleeping, is able to lose several pounds by simply sweating during the night, a talent not many wrestlers possess, but those that do cherish. However, even though he is a ‘drifter,’ he knows he won’t see one hundred and ninety four pounds on the scale in the morning. “Come on, be honest with yourself for once in your d--n life,” Matt says aloud, momentarily interrupting his trance. Closing his eyes, the numbers reform, this time they come together and say ‘one ninety eight.’ In his mind Matt’s naked body steps from the scale, takes note that it is only five in the morning and he still has an hour before he needs to leave for the gym; he then moves a perfect four steps toward his closet, its always perfectly when he imagines it, even though the distance can not be covered in any less than five steps. From his closet Matt draws out another pair of fleece pants, red this time, and a varying assortment of cut off t-shirts, undershirts, and turtlenecks. Each time an article of clothing touches his body Matt wonders what it will feel like in a few hours. Wet, clingy, completely drenched in sweat, it seems like the past three months he has been drowning in his own moisture. Matt’s body tenses in his bed as he mentally envisions what will happen the following day; he does not look forward to the endless amounts of crunches, jumping jacks, sprints, and anything else that will help him shed these last few pounds of water that his body so desperately clings to. He can’t fail though. There is nothing more embarrassing to a wrestler than not making the weight, “If you say you’ll be there, you damn well better be by tomorrow morning,” the words of his coach resound strongly within Matt’s head. Pulling the garbage can, less than an arm’s reach away, closer to his bed Matt leans to his right and spits out the water that has been building in his mouth. As he watches the foamy, dehydrated saliva creep down the black garbage can Matt thinks to himself: “Tonight is gonna s--k,” and with his down comforter drawn just below his chin and his hood pulled down just above his eyes, Matt tries to rest for the first time all day.
Tributes and Condolences
Add to favorites 
