Jerry Roger Grant

Jerry Roger Grant, a man whose life was as generously lived as it was lovingly told, passed away on May 2, 2026, at the age of 85. Born in Cheboygan, Michigan on Halloween — a birthday he wore with a quiet, knowing grin — Jerry was raised in Alpena, where he attended Alpena High School and where the roots of his character quietly took hold. He was the son of Gregor and Althea Grant, who gave him a foundation of faith, family, and purpose that would define every chapter of his life.

From the time he was old enough to grip a bat, Jerry Grant was a baseball player — and not merely in the casual sense. By the time he was 13 and 14 years old, he was already competing on travel teams and men’s leagues, holding his own against players years his senior and turning heads everywhere he played. Those who saw him then knew they were watching someone exceptional. His friends took note too, and somewhere along the way they hung a nickname on him that stuck for life — Mudcat, after the major league pitcher, a name that told you everything about the kind of player and the kind of character he was. He graduated from Alpena High School in 1957 and carried that reputation with him when he arrived at Western Michigan University as a freshman with a glove, a swing, and something to prove, competing at a high level that turned heads from the start. He later transferred to Central Michigan University, where he continued his playing career, pledged the Theta Chi fraternity, and earned his undergraduate degree in education — the first credential in a life devoted to teaching and developing others. Central Michigan would remain his academic home; he later returned to earn his master’s degree in counseling and psychology, deepening the tools he brought to the students and families who needed him most. He was never content to simply show up — he always prepared, always sharpened, always grew.

When his collegiate playing days gave way to something greater, Jerry made his way to Bay City — and Bay City, in turn, became his. It was there that he met the love of his life, Claire “Geni” Eugenia, and the two were married in 1965, beginning a partnership that would anchor everything that followed.

From the moment he became a husband, and then a father, Jerry’s purpose came into sharper focus than ever. His family became the center of everything — not in word only, but in the deliberate, daily way he lived. He understood, with the clarity of a man who had been paying attention his whole life, that children learn far more from what they see than from what they’re told. So he set out to show them. He showed them how to work hard, how to keep their word, how to treat people, how to love openly, how to give freely, and how to keep the faith when the road got long. Every lesson he ever taught a student or an athlete, he taught first to his own — by example, by repetition, and by simply being who he was, day after day, year after year. Greg, Angelique, and Tony grew up watching their father live the very things he hoped they would carry forward. And later, his five grandchildren would inherit that same gift — a Papa who didn’t just tell them how to live, but showed them. Jerry Grant raised his family the way he did everything else: with intention, with devotion, and without ever taking a day off.

For 47 years, he also poured himself into Bay City’s students, athletes, and families, serving as teacher, coach, counselor, and mentor. Much of his coaching life was spent on the sidelines at Handy High School, where his voice carried across Friday night fields and his influence reached far beyond the final whistle. It was there that he coached his eldest son, Greg — one of the quiet privileges of a coaching life, to have your own child line up under your instruction and watch him rise to the challenge. Later, Jerry brought that same dedication to Bay City Western, where he coached his younger son Tony, proving that his gift for developing young men was matched only by his devotion to his own.

But football was only part of the story. For years, Jerry also competed on the fast pitch softball diamonds of Bay City, and those days held a special place in his heart. As a proud member of the Green Hut team, he found something that went beyond competition — a brotherhood of teammates who became family. He spoke of those years and those men with the kind of warmth reserved for the things in life that shaped you without you even realizing it at the time.

Jerry’s classroom was never limited to four walls. He was an avid outdoorsman who found as much to teach in the woods of northern Michigan as he ever did in any school building. At his beloved camp in Glennie — known simply and affectionately as the Eighty — he was completely at home. He would walk the woods with his children and grandchildren, pointing out the moss on the trees, the wintergreen berries underfoot, the subtle markings left by deer along a trail, weaving together nature, patience, and quiet observation into lessons that no textbook could replicate. And when darkness fell, he didn’t let anyone head inside. He would walk them out into the night, teaching them not to fear the dark but to trust it — to slow down, breathe, and let their eyes adjust to the moonlight until the world revealed itself again. It was pure Jerry: taking something that made you uncomfortable and turning it into confidence.

His love of the natural world extended across every season and filled the family calendar with traditions that were entirely his own. Every spring, the whole family watched for the first robin — a friendly competition that Jerry turned into a rite of passage, the surest sign that winter had finally loosened its grip. He taught his children and grandchildren to watch the ground just as closely, waiting for the first lilies to push up through the cold earth after a long Michigan winter — a quiet miracle he made sure no one took for granted. Come summer, he’d check the cornfields with the practiced eye of a man who knew the land, measuring the season against that timeless Michigan benchmark: knee high by the Fourth of July. In Jerry’s hands, nature was never just scenery. It was a living, breathing classroom, and every season had something worth teaching.

Generations of young people came through his door uncertain, struggling, or simply in need of someone who believed in them. Jerry always did. He had a rare gift: the ability to meet people exactly where they were and, through patience, humor, and a perfectly chosen story, show them the way forward. He was the kind of man who made you feel, in his presence, that your potential was never in question — only your awareness of it.

The coaching never stopped — it simply found a new sideline. In his later years, Jerry could be found in the stands at his grandchildren’s games, leaning forward with that familiar intensity, never once short of something worth saying. Whether it was technique, work ethic, the finer points of the game, or simply the quiet art of believing in yourself, he never missed an opportunity to pull a grandchild aside and leave them with something they would carry long after the game was over. For Kaitlyn, Alivia, Gavin, Alyssa, and Ava, Papa Jer wasn’t just a presence in the bleachers — he was a voice in their heads, a hand on their shoulder, and a reminder that someone who knew exactly what they were capable of was always, always watching.

And the stories. Oh, the stories. Jerry Grant was a storyteller in the truest, most ancient sense of the word. He didn’t just tell stories for entertainment — he wielded them like a craftsman, shaping lessons, delivering comfort, cutting through confusion with a narrative that always, always landed. If you crossed his path, you were getting a story. You might not have known you needed it. You almost certainly did.

But sometimes Jerry didn’t need a story. Sometimes a single line was enough. His children and grandchildren grew up fluent in the language of Jerry Grant — a collection of sayings, challenges, and declarations that were equal parts philosophy, motivation, and pure personality. We never quit. We were blessed with strong backs. When the mood struck him, he’d add — and weak minds — delivered with just enough of a grin to let you know he was proud of you either way. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. We don’t half-ass a job — we finish it. We will never be outworked. And when someone was stalling, dragging their feet, waiting for the perfect moment: Wait broke the wagon — let’s go.

He was equally capable of cutting straight to the bone with the kind of blunt wisdom only a coach and counselor could deliver: Those hours you’re out running, lifting, and practicing while everyone else is sitting on their butts — that will be the difference maker. And for anyone tempted to take a shortcut: If it was easy, everyone in town would be doing it. He had a way of making excellence feel not like a burden, but like the only sensible option.

He could also make you laugh right in the middle of a lesson. The dog that shits fast don’t shit long, he’d say — and somehow you always knew exactly what he meant and exactly when it applied to your life. And then there was the family favorite, deployed with perfect comic timing whenever someone complained about their circumstances or counted their blessings out loud: You’re lucky — two words that somehow managed to be both a punchline and a reminder, depending on the day.

When the story was done and the lesson had settled, Jerry would leave you with the same send-off he’d given a thousand times before — three words that somehow never got old: “Keep the faith.” It was a phrase, yes. But in Jerry’s hands it was also a promise — that he was in your corner, that the road ahead was worth walking, and that you were not walking it alone.

Faith was not a casual word for Jerry Grant. It was the foundation of everything. A devout Christian, he lived his beliefs openly and without apology, and he never missed an opportunity to share the Word with those around him. In his later years, Jerry could often be found with his Bible open and a book nearby — most likely something by his beloved Max Lucado, the author whose writing spoke directly to the heart of the faith Jerry had carried his whole life. He used to say, with a grin that told you he meant every word, that he was “studying for his final exam.” Those who knew him well knew he’d been preparing his whole life — and that he walked into that exam ready.

If there was one thing Jerry Grant never left unsaid, it was love. He was extravagant with it — unguarded, unashamed, and utterly consistent. He told his children he loved them and how proud he was of them at every opportunity, and he meant it every single time. He told anyone who would listen, too. Strangers learned quickly that Jerry’s children were extraordinary. Friends heard it regularly. It was never boastful — it was simply the overflow of a man whose heart was too full to contain. He made sure that everyone in his family knew, without question or doubt, exactly where they stood with him. In a world where love is too often assumed and rarely spoken, Jerry said it out loud, said it often, and said it like he meant it — because he did. That gift, that gorgeous and deliberate habit of expressed love, is perhaps the most enduring thing he passed on to his children. They carry it forward now, and they always will.

He was preceded in death by his wife of more than 50 years, Claire “Geni” Eugenia Grant. He was also preceded in death by his grandson, Grant Richard Crelly, who left this world far too soon and was carried in Jerry’s heart every day since.

He is survived by his three children and their families: his son Greg Grant and wife Hope; his daughter Angelique Crelly and husband Todd; and his son Tony Grant and wife Angela. His pride in each of them was never a footnote — it was the headline, repeated often, and with feeling.

He is also survived by five grandchildren who were among the great joys of his life: Kaitlyn, Alivia, and Gavin Crelly, and Alyssa and Ava Grant. In them, the stories continue.

He is further survived by his sister, Joan Hornak, who resides with her husband Jim in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. The bond between Jerry and Joan was one of those quiet, enduring things — the kind that outlasts distance and years without effort.

To know Jerry Grant was to be coached by him, even if you never stepped on a field. He was the neighbor who noticed, the friend who showed up, the voice in the back of your head reminding you to keep going. He did not merely occupy space in the lives of those around him — he improved them.

He leaves behind not just a family, but a community shaped by his decades of tireless dedication; not just memories, but lessons that will echo in classrooms, dugouts, and living rooms long after the telling is done. Somewhere out there, the moonlight is still on the trees at the Eighty. The first robin of spring is still worth watching for. And the lilies, as they always do, will push up through the cold ground again — because Jerry Grant taught the people he loved to notice, and they always will.

“Keep the faith, partner. We’ve got it from here.”

In Lieu of Flowers

In lieu of flowers, the family invites those who knew and loved Jerry to help carry his work forward. In his memory, the Grant family is establishing a lasting legacy through a new Bay County scholarship fund — dedicated to continuing Jerry’s lifelong mission of helping young people in the community discover and achieve their full potential. It is the most fitting tribute imaginable for a man who gave 47 years of his life to that very cause.

To donate to the Jerry Grant Memorial Scholarship Fund, please visit:

https://bayfoundation.fcsuite.com/erp/donate/create/fund?funit_id=3805

A memorial service and celebration of life will be announced at a later date.