I’ll never forget the feeling as my internship coordinator sat over my shoulder and gave me instructions.
Type your name, then write “USA TODAY” after it. Don’t forget to make USA Today all caps.
That first byline was more than 12 years ago now – and it’s become a part of my identity in so many ways since. Growing up in rural America, in a small Illinois town of 500 people, writing for a national news outlet that reached millions of people always felt so unbelievably big time.
Today, I’m saying goodbye to the all-caps big time of the nation’s newspaper, stepping away from a field in journalism that I’ll always have a deep love for. It’s a career path that started two decades ago when I was 14 years old, when I created custom-made “Baller” magazines off a blotchy Microsoft printer, before pivoting into sports editing at Illinois State’s student newspaper and covering high school football games for $25 a game.
It’s not lost on me for a second how blessed I’ve been to live out a childhood dream, and the tattoos that both journalism and USA TODAY have left on my heart will stay with me forever.
Sitting courtside at the Final Four this past April, with Jay Bilas to my left and Grant Hill on my right, I had this feeling it’d be my last time covering March Madness. Taking everything in, I was struck with the same surreal feeling I had at my first Final Four in 2014 or first NBA draft in 2013 and countless times throughout this writing career. Then on my last trip to USAT’s headquarters in Tysons Corner, Virginia, I was hit with this sense of déjà vu from when I used to drive to the HQ in awe every day of my internship. Looking back at the glass fortress for one last time this past summer, I had this conversation with my inner child, just thinking, “damn, dude, we made it. We got to do this for a living.”
I’ll give a fraction of that credit to passionate hard work. But I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with all the people who lifted me up and truly believed in me along the way to change my life, from my direct editors Tim, Joe, Jimmy, Mike and Ashley to my big bosses Tom, Mary, Peter, David and Rox. There are countless colleagues I’ve reach out to this week who I felt beyond privileged to work alongside because they’re truly the best in the business. I always felt like the B squad to their A squad, so taking a permanent seat on the bench will only make me more of a fan to your guys’ epic journalism.
More than anything, though, USA TODAY has given me a feeling of family. And that’s how I’ll remember this chapter in my life best. The company and my colleagues over the years have given me an emotional nest, a sense of identity to grow as both a journalist and a man. USA TODAY afforded me with financial stability, gave me the opportunity to live in three cities (DC, LA and Chi) and promoted my welfare along the way.
That’s probably why goodbye feels awkward today. And thank you feels more accurate.
There’s a bittersweet tie-in to this career shift that comes next. I’ll be fully jumping into a career my father used to love in mental health therapy, while saying goodbye to the one where he was a top cheerleader for my success here. He died one month into my start with the sports department at USA TODAY (and I’ll never forget how supportive the company was for me during that time). Getting to emotionally lean on that USA TODAY byline, particularly when writing about college basketball, helped me gradually cope with his loss every single March Madness since 2012 – as well as many more life struggles and hurdles along the way. In a way, I felt his love shining down on me as I wrote about Cinderellas, the NCAA Tournament bubble and beloved bracket-busters. That tireless “passion” my editors credited me with deep down came from a son trying to negotiate his best friend not being here.
And yet, it’s the stories outside of college hoops that I was privileged to write over the years that are truly making me swim in gratefulness now. When I got into the field, I thought covering the NBA Finals, Olympics and Super Bowls would designate my success. Little did I know I’d find a calling reporting on the LGBTQ movement in sports, that I’d interview Michael Phelps for a package on mental health, enter maximum security prisons to talk to inmates about fantasy football, or have 1A front-page stories about topics that drift far outside the typical sports arenas.
All these outside-the-box human interest stories make sense now – pointing to my heart’s compass of making a difference, albeit on more of the macro level. I’ll never forget the meaning behind college basketball coach Chris Burns or pro baseball player Bryan Ruby coming out as gay in our stories — how readers would email us saying these stories were saving lives.
When I look back on this time in my life, I’ll be proud to tell my future kids one day of my small part in changing hearts and pushing against homophobia and transphobia. It’s that unyielding fight to tell the truth about their experiences that I’ll deeply miss about journalism – and channeling that advocacy for people hiding and hurting as a byproduct to doing truth-telling journalism. These are the stories I’m proud to talk to my Mom about and ones I wish my Dad could have read. But in a way, I know my parents’ influences played a part in me being drawn to a world bigger than the safe haven I found in sports.
Six years ago, I actually had a similar blog post saved and ready to post. I was poised to throw in the towel on journalism because things just weren’t the same without my No. 1 fan reading my stories anymore. But the company allowed me to take a five-week mission trip to Kenya, to battle through bouts of depression and come out on the other side, and then to get my master’s at Northwestern in psychology while becoming an ideal springboard to vault me to a true life purpose in helping people.
At USA TODAY I’ve done a variety of different jobs over 12 years, from posting stories in an overnight shift at 23 years old to writing news stories about school shootings and COVID at 33 years old. But I have a hard time thinking of USA TODAY as a job or the journalism I did there as a career. It makes more sense for me to reflect on USA TODAY as a home, and a damn good one that helped shape me into the man I am today. And much like our homes growing up, we move on from them, but we take a piece of them with us. That’s what I’ll do with this home.
I’m writing to tell you how grateful I am for what you’ve meant to my life over this last decade.
You see, 10 years ago today I lost my best friend, my father. He loved you, too. We were watching you in the hospital a few days before he died. He was rooting for Baylor, saying he liked how they played defense. When they won last year in your tournament, I couldn’t help but think of him and that moment.
Ever since then, I’ve been watching you in a different way as a journalist. After I lost Dad, I didn’t know how to cope, how to survive the storms life hits us with. That’s where you’ve continually offered me shelter.
Because it hurt to watch you without Dad, I was blessed to write about you. To highlight your bubble teams and bracket busters. To glorify your Cinderella stories and connect with our readers who love you — just like Dad and I used to. I’d fill out an “expert” bracket even though sometimes those picks hardly felt like it. I’d talk about you on the radio, television and on video. I’d get fulfilment from seeing my byline next to your madness and think about how proud Dad would be — passing papers around the room like he used to.
But one thing I’m reflecting on this March Madness is how I’m thawing out from what our friendship has been this whole time. It was almost like Dad left you as a shield for me to feel safe with. But when we wear armor to be brave that’s not the true version of ourselves.
The true version — deep down — I feel like has been running away, sprinting even, since March 30 of 2012. But I think it’s time to stop running. To sit still.
This March, I was watching you with one of Dad’s favorite announcers, Dick Vitale. I had this epiphany as I was talking basketball with the greatest commentator in college basketball history: It was the first time I was watching you — just watching, no writing or covering — since that March in the hospital 10 years ago. Granted, I was there for a story. And I had a sneak peak at what life without you would look like in 2020 when COVID canceled you. But this was different. It was as if I was realizing it’s okay to stop running.
I think I was running in the first place, shielding myself with stories about your epic games and personalities, because reality means life without him. No more hugs. No more fist pounds. No more check-in calls. No more loving texts. No more playing tennis or playing basketball. No more going out to eat with Mom. No more corny jokes. No more picking me up when I’ve fallen or holding me up when I’ve succeeded.
No more watching March Madness.
You see, I know you’re not a real person, March Madness. But I’m certain — so certain — Dad left me you to coat my pain these last 10 years.
Finally pulling the bandage off, thanks to a fellow cancer battler on the couch watching you, I can finally start to feel what’s been at play this whole time.
When people die, everyone has their own idea of what grieving looks like. It’s funny because with one part of me, I’ve been grieving and processing Dad’s death this whole decade and honoring him in a variety of ways — coaching grade school kids, healing others and most of all, writing about you — our mutual friend.
The other part of me has been frozen this whole time. And you’ve allowed me through coverage, with your long work days in the first two rounds and trips to the Final Four to see you, to stay frozen for just the right amount of time. You’ve allowed me to grieve, while simultaneously becoming the man I’m meant to be. The man I know my father would be proud of.
Thank you, March Madness. For helping me by being a fill-in best friend.
Growing up, when my Uncle Marty used to send Birthday cards, they were always the last ones I’d open. The ones from other relatives had money in them. His had prayer cards and spiritual art of saints.
He wasn’t always wearing his collar at our family Christmases and summer parties, so we knew him differently than many parishioners, I’m sure. He’d tell really bad jokes and the same exact story about my Uncle Jim hitting his head on the basketball rim fifty times. Around us kids growing up, he had this effervescence and joy to how he lived his life. Truth be told, I used to never buy it. I thought it was an act. No one could be this holy.
The reality is: having your uncle as a Catholic priest gave him an aura. Or a halo. It made him seem superhuman, hard to get close to. Especially when I felt unworthy of the God he knelt to throughout my early life.
About a year or so after my father and his brother Tom died, I got to know the man behind all the holiness. For every Sunday up until the one he had a stroke, we’d talk on the phone for about an hour—from wherever he was to wherever I was. He’d offer spiritual guidance. We’d talk about life, my goals, my dreams. Even my failing love life. Everything. My uncle never got the chance to be a father himself. But for the last seven-plus years he was undoubtedly my fill-in Dad.
But before this special bond was born, I had to believe in what he was preaching first. Lord knows I didn’t. I remember sitting with him at a restaurant and I told him I didn’t know how to believe in God. I said I never felt like I could trust a higher power. He told me that’s alright, God will see through my walls even if I’m praying blind. He said that the trust part comes afterwards. Sometimes we don’t take a leap of faith until life brings us to our knees.
At that point in my life, I was on my knees. Lost. Empty. My dad had been gone a while and I think it’s not until people stop checking in on you or feeling sorry for you that you allow yourself to feel the big hole that’s been lingering.
My father was my best friend. He was my God growing up, and to my detriment. Because when he left this Earth, I didn’t have a purpose.
But the thing about my Uncle Marty is he was so convicted in what he believed. And there’s something about truth when you hold it in your heart, you know it with every fiber of your being, and you exude that, where there’s a power to that. So, I remember sharing my hopelessness with my uncle in this conversation. I had been modeling myself after my dad since he passed away because he was given three months to live with his cancer and he lasted 18 months. He was this changed man, stopped being stubborn and was grateful for every single day. I really wanted to be that type of man, but found myself running out of fuel that he had.
I knew my Dad’s fueling came in part from meeting with his priest older brother before he passed, so that’s what led me to my uncle Marty, who looked at me that day, firm as ever, and said something I’ll never forget. My uncle said, “if you think your father was who he was before he died and did that all alone by himself, that’d be ignorant.” He was forceful. He was fierce. And it landed. Gone was the Uncle telling corny jokes or having too holy of an aura. I was now looking across the table from my spiritual ambassador.
Ever since then I’ve been on a spiritual journey back to my true King. You see, I was angry with God. My uncle knew it. But he was convinced, without a shiver of a doubt, that he’d bring us together. I didn’t trust God. But I trusted Uncle Marty. He gradually chipped down my walls, all while holding onto Truth.
My Uncle Marty’s protection worked like training wheels on a bicycle to help me feel safe connecting to Christ. But it was never about himself. It was unwaveringly about Him (point to cross).
When you’re teaching a boy to ride a bicycle, you have to first see him riding the bike on his own without the training wheels, with foresight into the future. So when I learned of my Uncle’s heartbreaking death, I didn’t think ‘how am I going to ride without these training wheels?’ No, I felt overwhelmed with emotion and confidence from him seeing me riding before I ever saw it myself. And now I won’t ever stop riding.
When I’d pray with my Uncle on Sundays, he’d do this thing where he’d listen to me and then rephrase what I’d say or summarize it, essentially playing the part as a liaison to up above. At first, when he did this in our prayers, I was sort of annoyed. I’d be like, dude, I just said that. But he wasn’t doing that because he was worried Christ wouldn’t hear me. He did it so I’d know it got to Him. That the message was sent. I had my personal protective deliverer to reach God through him.
So, my first Sunday praying without my Uncle Marty I thought it’d be really hard. But I found Christ through him. And a pastor at my church in Chicago reminded me that my uncle was a symbol representing JC. That heaven isn’t that far away and, and my uncle will be able to help me more than ever now.
As many of you know here today, my Uncle believed in the spiritual journey whole-heartedly and truly treated this life as his time to serve his King before he met him in heaven. So, there’s a part of me that is happy he’s now with Him, along with his brother, my father, and his parents, my grandparents.
But I’d be remised if I said my happiness for him in getting to his final destination didn’t hurt because of how much I’ll miss him.
He was so supportive and proud of me. He’d talk about this nephew sports journalist he had to everyone he knew. He’d support every life move I made. He’d be there for every peak. And every valley. He also wasn’t afraid to take stances. He’d lecture me about politics I don’t agree with. He’d caution me to save my money to invest. Most notably, he’d push me to get closer to my mother when everyone else would caution against it. He would always see things in the color Christ painted his heart with, not the black and white of society. And that’s inspired me to strive for color in my life now, too.
I used to joke that my Uncle and Carol and John should get a tour bus for their Lord Teach My How to Pray series because they were always traveling the country when I’d talk to him, in a different state each weekend, it seemed. Now I like to think of him on that tour bus, spray painted in radiant colors, with my Dad and their parents. All passengers with Christ driving.
So back to those Birthday cards. My last one I got from him was my favorite. Because it captured how well he knew my heart and the shackles around it. He wrote “I pray every day for you to start a family of your own one day. But be patient. God has a perfect plan. Everything will happen as it should.”
My Uncle Marty helped me see that I don’t need to wait for a love story to be the man God set me out to be. That I could see in color first with my King far before that chapter. That I didn’t need someone or something else to color my world yet.
On that same note, one profound memory I had with my Uncle was in my 20s when I was telling him how I didn’t see the point of being happy in this life if I couldn’t do it with someone to share it with. I told him, point blank and hopeless romantic as ever, life sucks without a “real” love story.
I paused, thinking I’d offended my Uncle who chose not to devote his life and not have a “soulmate.” Then he replied candidly, “that’s why I’ve committed myself to the greatest love story in history.”
He really loved Jesus. But only he knew just how reciprocal it was.
There are many professions where individuals heal hearts. But my uncle was a healer of souls. Here in New Orleans. In prisons with inmates. On his prayer series around the country. Everywhere he trusted there was color, especially when others couldn’t see.
He saw my color, inspiring to see my own. And my wounded soul was undoubtedly one of the ones he healed. Every move I make as a man is graced by the spiritual foundation he helped build within me. He’s gone from us. But his spirit and inspiration live on.
I used to feel like basketball was more than a game, almost like it was a person or a best friend. Growing up in a household where emotional tsunamis were common, the sport became a safe haven that allowed me to escape inner turmoil and be free in a separate identity from reality. It stayed that way in grade school and high school, feeding my soul in a cathartic way that saved me from falling into the pits of depression before I was ready.
When I pivoted from playing to writing about basketball in college, two passions were married and I thought I found a way through my career to stay close to the game that resuscitated my life in childhood.
Then Dad died.
I had an old friend compare their college playing career concluding to a breakup or divorce. When I stopped playing in high school, I never felt that. I just felt like my round-shaped best friend was morphing into a new version of support in my life. But when my Dad passed I felt that severing in full force. He was my No. 1 fan, the screaming guy who always cheered me on in the stands, the one to shovel the driveway and rebound both my makes and misses, the proud parent who’d cut out my newspaper articles to show them to his family and co-workers.
For a while after he left, I hated basketball. Absolutely hated it.
Then in 2017 I found a way to reconcile with the sport. I started coaching grade school basketball at Audubon Elementary School in my neighborhood of Roscoe Village in Chicago. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I was following my heart as a compass.
I was hired to coach both the 5th/6th and 7th/8th grade teams by an assistant principal who listened to my pitch on a cold call, and eventually I was managing about 20 kids for practices and games during the winter months. I can still remember the adrenaline from first time I blew my whistle in practice and the jitters before the tip of my first game as a head coach.
What transpired over a three-year span was rekindling of a passion and discovery of a calling in the same vein. I started to love basketball again — feeling like I got a long-lost friend back — while at the same time guiding kids with a natural muscle of leadership that had been waiting to blossom inside me.
I was never given an assistant coach but I always kept a seat open for my Dad on our bench (players knew not to sit in the empty chair next to Coach). He was there with me in spirit for the ultimate highs (upsetting the powerhouse team on the North side my second year) and the ultimate lows (losing a last-second game to a team we should’ve beat and blaming myself for game management).
More than anything, it was just the day-to-day interactions with the kids that filled my heart in a profound way. I’d have players lined up before and after practice trying to play me 1-on-1. The “Coach Gleeson watch this” and “Coach Gleeson can you help me with this” chirping still echoes in my head.
At the end of last season, my best player (who just so happened to finally beat me in a 1-on-1 battle to win Bulls tickets for the whole team) asked me which was my favorite team to coach in the last three years — a valid question considering my first year coaching I was blessed with a dominant 8th grade team that only lost one game (our best player could dunk) and then my third year the team reached the city playoffs championship game after winning the Division. The question didn’t prompt an answer so much as it prompted a sense of gratefulness.
I’m undoubtedly feeling that gratefulness now nearly a year later. Sometimes it takes something going away for us to grasp the true meaning it’s had in our lives. The emptiness I’ll be feeling this winter is less of a sadness that I won’t be able to coach in Year 4 because of coronavirus, as I’ll deeply miss coaching the 8th graders I started mentoring as small 5th graders in their final grade school season. It’s more of a reminder for the void that coaching filled in my heart over the last three years and just how much that sense of identity grew me as a man to be where I am today.
There’s an unbelievable sense of inner peace that comes from helping others — especially kids — and guiding them at where they’re at in their life journeys, no matter good or bad and all the emotions they experience in between. I’ve had kids cry and yell in defeat, fight then laugh, and embrace in triumph while coaching them. I’ve had a kid say the school should “fire the coach” when I benched him. I’ve had a kid suggest I had filled a hole left by his absent father after two years of coaching. It’s all been God’s work fueling them and fueling me simultaneously.
Yet I’m most proud of the principles and lessons taught through the sport that are indicative of life: Working together for a common goal, trusting in your teammates/friends, finding confidence and inner purpose when insecurity or apathy once seemed poised to take over. Most importantly: fighting and persevering with a mentor lighting the resilience pathway.
The past summer my grade school and high school basketball coach, George Limperis, died of cancer and it made me think about the impact he had on my life. I’d use his same drills in my practices but more than anything I thought about how he believed in me when no one else — including my own parents — could help me. I can tell that being a coach and teacher is a fraction of what it takes to be a parent, but it’s a blessed and privileged role nonetheless because it can serve as a vessel for strength (and healing) that sometimes can only be reached through that coach-player connection.
I had the experience of my Dad filling both parent and coach roles when he was my coach briefly for a travel team in 8th grade. One thing I remember from that experience was that he was always wanting me to play shooting guard and I instead wanted to play point guard. I wanted to control things, to help my teammates and let them do the scoring while I’d do the assisting as the captain and pilot of the team. He wanted me to release control and let my teammates help me and be more of a free spirit to score on the court. Of course, as my Mom can attest to from our joking family arguments growing up, my Dad was always right. Even though I got my way back then by playing point guard, he was right in this case. Though it didn’t take shape until long after my playing career ended, now all I do is shoot in pick-up games and the memory of me playing point guard — for others — feels long gone. It’s annoyingly evident that shooting and scoring was just waiting to come out in my game.
But I think the compromise I’ve made with my father comes now with coaching — a far more natural fit. In this identity I can help others and lead, while at the same time releasing control because I’m not out there playing myself.
This compromise feels like a metaphor for life in that having patience and passion can lead to fulfillment. Mastering that balance is the challenge.
During quarantine I watched this show Cobra Kai, a spinoff from the Karate Kid franchise. In it, one of the main characters, Daniel, reflects on his relationship with his since-passed mentor Mr. Miyagi (the wax on, wax off guy). Anyway, one of the takeaways from his fallen mentor is to put good into the world and good will come back to you. That good from the last three years of coaching has come back around as I’m missing it.
I don’t know if I’ll get to coach another season because life is unpredictable in that way and I don’t know what 2021 and 2022 will bring. But I do know in this very moment I’m feeling eternally grateful for coaching kids I’ll always remember and for having a three-year chapter of my life filled in such a meaningful way. 2020 was a trying year for a lot of us where a lot of things didn’t go the way we had hoped or wanted, but I know that as I turn the corner on this new year, I’m feeling the permanence that’s come from a form of identity I am indebted to.
A story I don’t often tell — because it’s dark, ugly and difficult to share — is a childhood of relentless trauma. Without getting into vivid detail, I compare it to a snow globe. Some of us were blessed with very little shaking growing up. Sadly, I wasn’t blessed that way. The snowglobe might be just a metaphor. Yet the shaking, the reverberation, and the suffering have been painfully and — at times — unbearably real. The way that translates into adulthood is likewise a story that is difficult and almost shameful to share. Saying, “I’m depressed” can often be stigmatized as “I’m weak.” Saying, “I have anxiety” can be stigmatized as “I don’t have it together.” But this isn’t some public posting trying to recalculate some of our hardwired thoughts about all that. I’ll spend the rest of my life in that fight. It’s to acknowledge that the suffering that I endured as a kid means my snow globe is still very much shaking. It probably always will be.
That’s where my four-year-old dog, Miles, comes in.
I wasn’t necessarily ready to adopt a dog when I was sent a photo of the cutest one on the planet last February. But the story I was told about Miles was that he was scared, lonely, and anxiety-ridden in a shelter. I thought about the snow globe. You’re damn right I knew what he was feeling. Sure, that’s how empathy works. And the deeper I think about it, I take in how some of life’s most spontaneous, definitive decisions are made with that type of empathy. That’s how Miles Thomas Gleeson became a part of my home.
Fast forward a year and Miles and I are best friends. I get it, I get it. “A dog is a man’s best friend” is a timeold story. But people, this 14-pound dog is a godsend worth writing about. So stop rolling your eyes about some sappy, cliché story — and breathe in the awesome tale of me and my puppy.
** Miles has crippling separation anxiety. Every time I leave, he cries and shivers. When I return, he has legitimate panic attacks that would be diagnosed in the DSM-5. And perfectly, it’s that part of Miles I love the most. We have anxiety because we care, because we love, because we cannot stand being without someone. And we panic when we’re overwhelmed with emotion. There’s nothing weak or wrong with that, but rather endearing. These are characteristics that I’ve grown to value and embrace as a 29-year-old. And Miles has an infectious way of helping me accept my own feelings that often mirror his.
** Miles is surprisingly athletic. He jumps almost 5 feet off the ground when I return home in his panic-laden excitement (you ain’t shit, Air Bud), he dances better than Justin Timberlake when he knows it’s dinner time. And he legit can jog up to 8 miles with me (at 8:30 pace) when it’s not too hot. Often on my runs with him, he’ll gallop ahead of me and the wind will blow his fur back — much to his enjoyment. He smiles like he’s never felt freer, but I also know that freedom is uniquely attached to a leash that I hold. It stirs up a piercing feeling of togetherness that unlocks my own freedom from sadness.
** I’ve integrated Miles into my Roscoe Village neighborhood — where other dogs are in abundance and he’s learned to become friends and tame it back on the territorial angst (my first week with Miles featured him trying to fight Pitbulls, cable guys and hipster streetwalkers). He’s become a favorite at the local grade school, where kids always pet him; it’s when his cuteness really shines. He also gets excited whenever he sees a baby carriage, a seemingly cute adage to his previous owners.
** Miles is a dope AF travel puppy with a perfectly chill demeanor for road trips. I drove him with me 20 hours on vacation to Yellowstone and Black Hills (shout out, dog-friendly Residence Inns). I took him even further all the way out to California on my old stomping grounds. When we travel, he either sits on my lap while I’m driving or relaxes in his doggy bed. I’ve never had a better travel companion (sorry pretend friends who I’m offending).
** One of my favorite experiences with Miles has been how he’s synced up with the important people in my life. He often stays with his Uncle Tony and Aunt Amy when I travel for work or visit Cali, jumping up with exuberance whenever he sees them. He also has become a favorite around my little brother, Micah, and his family. Acknowledging that Miles is always by my side, Micah tells me Miles is like my R2-D2 or BB-8 droid (Star Wars nerd reference yolo). Micah’s six-year-old brother, Trevor, and his teenage sister, Kaelyn, are particularly fond of Miles, too.
** On top of vacations to Cali and Wyoming, I often take Miles with me in regular-day activities. To select bars, coffee shops and restaurants (if they don’t allow his cuteness, they’re dead to me), to the bank, to therapy appointments, to my office during off hours. He even guest-starred at my Super Sweet 29th Birthday Party at my go-to dog dive bar.
Needless to say, a year has flown by. But from a fulfillment, emptiness-filling standpoint, it feels like Miles has always been a part of my life. I have a hard time imagining any other way.
And it does make me think back to childhood. My dog growing up, Maxi, died when I was 16. But from age 8 to his last days here on earth — those eight-plus years I had with him by my side —he temporarily stopped the snowglobe shaking. Or made the shaking subside, at least. Miles has that same healing effect now.
Miles’ best trait is that he’s intuitive to the aforementioned pain. When I get angry or suffer a post-traumatic episode, most humans who see that would react to what they see on the surface — and understandably be disturbed. Miles, though, feels beneath that surface rage and senses the pain that’s underneath it all. He immediately comforts me by putting his paw on my heart with a deeply concerned look on his face. The effect that has on me — when it often has felt like a monster’s inside erupting — is amazingly profound. It’s like God’s way of saying, “you won’t suffer this alone.”
When I was 25, as all the pain, rage, and sadness from tucked-down trauma began to surface, I had a hard time wrestling with the idea of being depressed. Because it went against a skill I had developed over the years — making it seem like, to others and even myself, that the snowglobe’s shaking didn’t hurt me. That I was strong enough to defeat any shaking on my own. That’s how I learned, how I was raised — to win some type of race. To beat it with anger or supposed strength. But life isn’t that black and white, as it is in sports. It took a while for me to see the other colors that really matter in this life…and to a true remedy to all the shaking: Faith.
Annie Lamott once said, “Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.”
Like Maxi growing up, Miles is the best friend flashlighting my heart through the remaining darkness, through all the remaining shaking.
Sometimes you just feel a calling somewhere. For more than a year I felt a pull to volunteer in Africa. The timing and money were always my reasons for not making the leap. This spring, though, the pull outweighed the excuses. I had never left the country before so there was quite a bit to get in order — passport, visa, vaccinations (8 of ‘em!) and the right volunteer organization. I settled with Agape Volunteers and booked a one-month teaching trip to Kenya for all of May.
What I experienced over those four weeks really cannot be put into words from a fulfillment standpoint. But this is my best attempt at doing so. From the diverse array of people I met, the fun-spirited kids I taught, and the jaw-dropping places I went, this trip was undoubtedly a chance-of-a-lifetime experience. I listed “imprints” in the headline of this post because, frankly, these were more than just moments or memories that fade. They’re tattooed on my heart forever.
Teaching at St. Fabian
These kids changed my life.
“You’ll be four years younger by the time you leave.”
The school’s principal, Cecilia, told me this before I started — suggesting the kids would inject a fountain-of-youth-esque energy with their grace. She was spot on. While some days were rigorous, the outpouring of love from the children provided a distinct fuel to my spirit. If I was tired or drained, their love and curiosity kept me going. There was never a day where I didn’t get a hug or a fist pound or a kid tugging me to hold their hand while playing soccer on the field.
I taught Math, Social Studies, English and Computer classes for pre-school-second grade. I’ll quickly admit that teaching was far from easy and I left St. Fabian knowing two things. 1.) It’s not my calling. I whole-heartedly loved the experience but I’d be lying if I said the four weeks weren’t mentally exhausting and demanding. 2.) My time at St. Fabian left me with massive respect for teachers who pour their hearts into helping kids grow in so many facets. I was so inspired by the Kenyan teachers who educated the kids with such diligence and persistence. And their strengths as teachers allowed me to fit into a role where I could thrive — either as their assistant or teaching the lessons on my own.
Perhaps the best part of the experience, aside from the kids melting my heart on a regular basis, was my friendship with Cecilia, a woman of deep faith who created the school from the ground up and doesn’t let little things deter her from driving a well-oiled machine. Schools in Kenya drastically lack the resources that many of us enjoyed growing up. But whatever St. Fabian lacked in school supplies or staff, it made up for it with true grace. The respect Cecilia and I developed for each other through religion and a passion to help people speaks volumes to how love is a language that doesn’t see two people from strikingly different cultures and lifestyles. It’s a language that pierces through as a mechanism of the heart. “God brought you to help us,” she said on several occasions. I felt like I was the one who was truly helped by the time I left.
Therapy at Mary Faith
“I get my justice by helping these children heal.”
Mary, the founder of the children’s shelter I volunteered at for my final week in Nairobi, spoke of what inspired her to start a rescue center for kids who have been sexually and physically abused. She told me she was a rape victim as a child and bluntly affirmed that the internal pain never goes away, at least mentally. Her peace comes through taking kids out of abusive homes and giving them a place to heal, most of the time by fighting the abusive parents in court. Mary and her fellow caretakers briefed me on some of the children’s backgrounds. I was introduced to one child who had burn marks up and down his body from his father’s abuse. The shelter, which also filters into its own school, gives these kids a much-needed place of solace. They all share similar wounds and grow together, free from the pain that still unquestionably haunts them.
Most of the victims at the shelter are female so my presence as a non-violent male was helpful, I was told. I ended up serving as a therapist/counsellor for two boys, Austin and Kevin, who had both been horrifically abused. At that age, what happened to them is not something they appeared to be able to process yet. There was a deadness factor of suppressed pain that became evident early on. On the surface, they’re both fun-loving kids who blend in with their classmates. But beneath it, their hearts and souls are completely traumatized. I could feel it. But I also recognized how the pain made their hearts that much bigger and loving. Whenever we’d hang out together, we’d play soccer, make funny videos, create Fresh Prince-like secret handshakes (see below), and most frequently draw pictures. We became the “Three Musketeers” together.
Typing we is a true privilege with these two, as they both made a deep impact on my heart. The memories of simply drawing pictures with them has restored peace to a broken part of myself that desperately needed healing. My only hope is that, in some small way, I was able to plant a seed of love to help them later in life when they’re able to confront the inner turmoil that will likely be numb until their 20s.
I can still hear the singing in my head from my final day at Mary Faith. All the kids from the shelter gathered together for a “Thank You” song that left me choked up. Then some of the caretakers shared a few words. “May the impact you made bring you the same 10 times over,” one of them said. “God will bring you back to us,” another said. I hope so.
Culture shock
“Muzungu!”
If I hadn’t gotten culture shock already when I got picked up from the airport in Nairobi, I certainly got it the next day when I rode in a Matatu to go grocery shopping. They’re these jam-packed vans that play obnoxiously loud music and shuffle as many bodies in as possible. They make the Red Line in Chicago look like Air Force One. During my stay I lived at a volunteer house in Waithaka, which wasn’t quite as nice as the city of Nairobi and also not as low-class as the slums. It was, however, dangerous enough to where we needed house body guards with poison arrows. At first, the living environment was daunting and hard to take in. But it soon became one of my favorite parts of my trip because I felt embedded in the community — a far cry from a tourist. The language barrier wasn’t difficult at all either since most Kenyans, while speaking Swahili as their first language, speak English as a second language fluently.
I quickly felt the reality of being a minority based on blatant staring on the streets. Kenyans would constantly shout out “Muzungo” (which means white person in Swahili) at white folks when they spotted one out of novelty or angst at the idea of class. In a group of other volunteers, it didn’t unsettle me too much. But when walking by myself to school or the shelter, the mocking and racial jabs certainly stirred up some anxiety. As a whole, though, I found everyone in Kenya to be very embracing. I’d highly recommend anyone who’s searching for purpose to visit a third world country at least once in their lifetime. From the density of people to the strikingly poorer lifestyle, it provides a perspective that can help you see the world — and people — through a much broader, humble lens. Also, it allowed me to take myself wayyy out of my comfort zone, which was something I definitely needed to grow as a person. Being away from normalcy — work, friends, family — for four weeks can really help provide clarity in your life as well.
Also, the random doses of American culture in Kenya quelled any homesickness because they were flat out hilarious. For starters, everyone (and I mean everyone out there) loves Bieber. His new album is legit, I get it. But color me perplexed at the number of African Beliebers I encountered. Next, Uber (yes, Uber) is a big thing in Kenya. So random. That made getting rides at night less scary and it was a great way of getting around as a Muzungu (they don’t know you’re white on the pick-up). If I wasn’t taking Uber or Matatus for transportation, I was riding motor bikes. They’re cheap, dangerous and epic all at the same time.
Fellow volunteers
“You sound like you’re from London.”
Heading into this trip, I suppose I calculated how the experience would change me based on interacting with kids and African folks. I didn’t process how my relationships with the other volunteers would become the best part of my time in Kenya. My newfound friends hailed from the UK, Australia, New Zealand, Malaysia, Ireland and many other countries. Never having traveled abroad before, simple conversations about differences in culture and what a jackass Donald Trump is made for an awesome experience. It was also quite entertaining to make fun of each other’s accents. Especially the night when I switched accents with a British friend for a night and sounded like complete rubbish 😉 For all of our differences, though, the camaraderie we established was significant, likely because we all shared similar drives for adventure and making a difference. The togetherness of the group and the 1-on-1 relationships I developed made me feel right at home and far from alone for the entire trip. Things were never boring, that’s for sure, whether it was rooftop barbeques, dance clubs, watching crap rom-coms or playing drunk Skippo. On my first night out, we went to a Karaoke bar and made complete fools of ourselves. The rest of the nights followed similar shenanigans. I guess I thought there’d be this tremendous individual growth I’d notice during my time in Kenya. I do notice that now that I’m a few weeks out of the trip, but during everything, the growth was blanketed by all the fun we had as volunteers together. I’ll surely miss all my friends who impacted me in such a profound way. While I’m not sure if I’ll see everyone again, I consider Ashleigh, Karyn, Blair, Becky, Steve, Vik, Natalia, Allison, Aleisha, Manou, Lacey (and plenty more I’m forgetting) friends for life.
Agape staff
“That’s badass.”
Another unexpected part that made my trip so worthwhile was the staffers from Agape, who were beyond helpful in making the trip go smoothly — whether it was planning and accompanying us for excursions or filtering placement at the school and shelter. More than that, it was gratifying to feel like I became good friends with great people from another country/culture. When you feel more at home in a third world country than you do actually at home, it says a lot about the impact of the organization and the people steering the ship. Shout out to Izzo for his humor and passion, Tony for his diligence, warmth through faith, rap skills + climbing assistance, Joe for his joking personality (and Dad bod), Tabby for her caring and outgoing nature + making fun of my “badass” American accent perfectly, Madfish for his exuberant dressing and legit street cred that allowed us to get further integrated into the community, Bonnie for his dance skills (I’m stealing that pegleg move), Marta for organizing everything and for her Spanish/Irish swag, and the rest of the crew for being so chill for my month in Kenya.
Safari
“One of the wonders of the world.”
Going to Kenya and not taking a safari would be like going to KFC (they’re big in Africa) and not eating chicken. Simply put, there’s no way I could go to Africa and not do this. Needless to say, it didn’t disappoint and was a huge highlight of the trip. We traveled to Maasai Mara National Reserve, one of the most famous game reserves in the world, which was about four hours away from where we were staying in Waithaka. The first day, we got a chance to spend the evening with the Maasai tribe, which exposed us to a semi-authentic experience of a culture that doesn’t lean on technology and lives a drastically different lifestyle than most Africans, let alone Americans. We stayed at the Maasai Mara’s Manyatta Camp, which was basically a glorified tent resort. The delicious food and pimped out tents made for a much more luxurious stay than anticipated.
The next morning, we rose early for sunrise and spent practically the whole day tracking down animals. Our drivers, Tony and Izzo, were fantastic. While most tour guides would drive close enough to see animals with binoculars, Tony and Izzo drove right up the animals for us to see them in our resilient safari van, known as the “Red Rhino.” The pair also proved to be humorously informative. We got to see lions, elephants, giraffes, zebras, cheetahs, leopards, hyenas, crocodiles, hippos and practically every animal you’d hope to see. Going into it, I had only a zoo-type of experience to go off of when seeing live animals. Yet seeing the animals in their natural habitat was an absolute wonder. And the tracking of the animals was an adrenaline-filled adventure that’s really indescribable. The pictures just didn’t do it justice. Videos captured some of the wow factor.
That night, Tony and Izzo hung out with us volunteers and once again, the camaraderie amplified the experience. On our last day of the three-day trip, we rose early again to go see more animals before heading back to Nairobi. The drive home gave us time to fully digest a marvelous weekend, which just so happened to be my first weekend in Kenya. If it hadn’t already, Africa had my heart afterwards. Apparently, during migration season in July-October — when all the wildebeest cross the Mara River for the world’s largest movement of animals (2 million) — it’s known as one of the wonders of the world. While we didn’t get to witness that, the taste of my first safari and the stories of the migration make me want to schedule another trip super soon.
The slums
“The mind of man plans his day, but God directs his steps.”
This was by far the most eye-opening part of my whole trip. We scheduled a day to go to Kibera, better known as Africa’s largest urban slum. The 1.6 million people make up for more than one quarter of Nairobi’s population. It was like a page straight out of Slumdog Millionaire, one of my favorite movies. There was waste everywhere and the hygiene was absolutely dreadful, with only 20 proper toilets. And we did our best to avoid “flying toilets,” aka plastic bags with human waste that often fly around in the vicinity. Mad Fish (yes, that’s his name), the Agape worker who handles the outreach activities, took myself and a fellow volunteer for the day-long trip where we got a tour of the slums and bought food to feed a family in need. The family we helped consisted of a father who lost his wife and is providing for three kids with little means for work. While in their house, I started conversing with our tour guide, Marcus, a reformed gangster who turned his life around — choosing to give back; The father of the family we were feeding helped Marcus sway away from trouble. Marcus spoke to me about his favorite bible verse, Proverbs 16:9, which states “the mind of man plans his day, but God directs his steps.” I got chills, as he was basically theorizing how no matter what life’s struggles bring, there’s always a higher power flashlighting your moves. Sitting there, in a miniature house made of mud, and hearing how someone can find light in a cesspool of darkness gave me goosebumps then…and still does now. I think about the struggles I’ve had and how I’ve been reluctant to see a brighter picture. If my optimism and positive outlook on life had faded, Marcus’s words jolted me back into proper perspective.
Outreach activities
“The clouds of struggle don’t last. Sunlight is unavoidable.”
Each week, instead of going to our placement — which was teaching for me, the hospital or HIV clinic for others — we’d go on outreaches. They all proved to be fantastic, allowing us to avoid complacency in our weekly duties and also opening us up to various parts of Kenya.
► The baby orphanage in Nairobi was my first outreach and it was CUTENESS OVERLOAD. We walk into the room with all the kids and all the sudden 30+ adorable Kenyan babies start going up to you. They pull your hair and touch your skin because, naturally, it’s different than theirs. While we assisted the workers with household and lawn chores, as well as feeding the babies and changing diapers, it was the interaction with the kids that was the ultimate payoff. One of the boys, who was glued to me for the duration, loved getting thrown into the air like a rocket ship. I remembered my Dad used to do that with me when I was little and he’d yell, “Geronimo!” Every time I’d loft him into the air, he’d yell “tena” when he’d come down. That means “again, again” in Swahili. Heart. Melted.
► Our next outreach was cooking and feeding the Okoa Maisha homeless community in downtown Nairobi. The experience was humbling and eye-opening as most of the homeless folks were recovering drug addicts trying to re-integrate themselves in society. And some of them very candidly spoke of just how tall of a challenge that is. We heard stories of friends being shot by police, rather than arrested, because it’s an “easier report.” One of the younger kids started chatting with me and talked about studying in school to “make it.” When I told him I was a journalist, he was so impressed and said, “thank you for what you do.” Gotta admit, that’s a first.
► Easily the funniest outreach had to be us volunteers tasked with painting a local police station. So, apparently we got the wrong color paint. The difference between bright blue and dark blue on a police station is surprisingly important. Our finished product made a place that’s supposed to be respected look like frickin’ CandyLand. One of the officers was pissed, as he should have been, and he went into the meaning of each color. He seemed to over-emphasize the red being for “bloodshed” part. Anyway, the station got repainted so I can look back and laugh. But it was a volunteering-gone-wrong embarrassment of epic proportions that made for angry looks and contained laughter.
► We had two other excursions of sorts that weren’t technically outreaches. One was a city tour of Nairobi, in which we got to pet/kiss giraffes, feed monkeys and see baby elephants. Pictures are more than words here. The other was visiting IDP (Internal Development Program), which started after 2007 post selection violence in Kenya, providing housing and schooling for those affected. We got a tour that was extremely raw and gripping, as we were introduced to families of 9-10 living in small houses built by volunteers. Before the houses were built, it was tents or mud. Our tour guide really reached me when he spoke of the living conditions right after the violence, saying they had just water and very little food to live off of. He very casually said: “The clouds of struggle don’t last. Sunlight is unavoidable.” Holy shit that hit me hard. I won’t lie, I’ve encountered clouds of struggle, but nothing to the effect of what he described. And yet, I found common ground with his message. Whenever life is bad, for however long that lasts, sunlight is inevitable. The next life storm I encounter, I’ll surely recall his words.
My runs
“You can do it, brother.”
Staying in shape was a priority while out in Kenya and my runs became rather comical. I’d go out for a 4-5 mile jog, which usually is pretty easy for me in the states. Factor in a significantly higher elevation and I was gasping for air about a mile in. No wonder Kenyans dominate marathons and the Olympics. After a 6-mile workout, I felt about as tired as I have for full marathons. The best part of my runs were the kids that followed me. When they’d see a white person running, it became instinctual to run with him. The 7-10-year olds would yell “Muzungu” and start tagging along. If 2-3 kids followed me, more would join once they spotted us. By the end of my runs, I’d have 20+ kids following me. Because they were Kenyan, they wouldn’t tire. I would. One kid said to me, “you keep going, like a machine.” (Compliment). Another kid replied with, “that’s because he doesn’t go speed.” (shattered confidence). At the end of one of my runs, when I was noticeably tired, one kid encouraged me with, “you can do it, brother.” Something about that made me emotional. A Kenyan boy calling me brother gave me this feeling of belonging that can only come from a child. Most of my runs on those dirt roads instilled an inner peace that I take with me on my Lakeshore Drive runs now.
The food
“Fries are chips.”
…was marvelous and one of my favorite parts of the trip. I’ll start with Mandazi aka my crack bread for the month of May. It’s basically fried dough, a simple creation that costs five shillings (five cents) each. For any bread lover, this stuff rules. Chipote, another bread fixture that looks like a tortilla but tastes 100 times better, also became one of my favorites. At my school, we’d often have bugali, which is puffed up maize that you can eat with your hands and is usually paired with something else like cabbage. I was not a fan, but trying new food was one of the coolest parts of the trip. One lesson I learned, early on, was that french fries are “chips” in Africa and basically every country besides the U.S. it seems. Potato chips are “crisps.” That took some getting used to, but on that note, the “chips” that were sold at street shops in Waithaka were superb when it came to munchy food. The tricky part was bartering to get a low price. You literally have to barter for everything out there, which was another transition.
The best part, from an appetite standpoint, was having a house momma, Florence, who cooked for us every morning and evening. This exposed us to some fantastic African dishes on a regular basis. My favorite was this fish and potato creation that I even had to ask for the recipe on before leaving. Florence’s cooking and presence played a big factor in uniting everyone in the house, that’s for sure.
As far as beverages go, a liter of Coke was only 60 cents, which I capitalized on. The popular beer out there is called Tusker. It’s like a mix of PBR and Bud Light, if that makes sense (it doesn’t).
On a final food note, I’ll say that I had this diluted idea that I’d be only eating rice and beans for a month, in turn losing a ton of weight on my trip. On the contrary, it was far from that. I can’t complain at all in that regard.
Hell’s Gate
“Hakuna Matata!”
So this is where Lion King is based off of. No big deal or anything. We went to Pride Rock, where Simba was lifted by Rafiki. No one pushed each other off the mountain, though, ‘cause my friends aren’t conceited assholes like Scar. #RIPMufasa. Most definitely, the views were dope. First we biked our way to Pride Rock, which was aesthetically pleasing big time. Then we went on what would be one of the coolest hikes ever in the gorge. The waterfalls and scenery were incredibly beautiful. And we even got to climb a pretty steep cliff on our own. Afterwards, we unwinded by going to a spa, which was a gigantic pool of hot water. After hours of hiking and bike riding, it was ideal. Next we went to see hippos on a boat tour and ended up spotting the biggest bright green snake ever that I’m still getting nightmares about. Like many touristy things I did, it was in a big group of people and this was the biggest gang we had yet. The mix of personalities, from different volunteer houses, made all the action even more enjoyable.
Mt. Longonot
“Can you take our picture? Holding the sign?”
Ahem, you’re welcome for this Playboy pose, people. On my final day in Kenya, before my midnight flight of death home, I went out in style by hiking the 2,780-meter-peaking stratovolcano known as Mount Longonot in the Great Rift Valley. The hike was absolutely gorgeous and once again, the pictures just don’t do it justice. We went 3.1 km up to the crater rim and then went on a 7.2 km loop around the entire crater. It took us 4-5 hours, and we were led by Tony, easily my favorite Agape staffer, who helped us take some epiccreativecreepy sexy pictures.
Church+African faith
“I believe He moves at the sound of my voice.”
I got invited by Tony to go with him to his Church, Cornerstone Faith, one Sunday and it was a pretty vibrant experience. The music was off the chain. I loved it. Aside from being the awkward white guy in the crowd who didn’t know what to do with his hands (Ricky Bobby, anyone?) during the lively celebrating, I fit right in. The two things that are big for me when I go to church are good speakers and good singing. And, this church knocked it out of the park in that regard with a Jesse Jackson-flavored homily and some Boyz II Men-esque singing. The “I believe He moves at the sound of my voice” soul-singing still reverberates my heart. And afterwards, myself and a fellow volunteer got invited for tea and Mandazi. The warmth and embracing nature was very, very enriching.
I have to say, Christian faith was easily where I felt most impressed during my four weeks in Africa. While Kenyans might be behind in certain areas — i.e. all clothes are hand washed and lawns are wacked, not mowed — where they’re transparently ahead is with their dependence on God. It became clear that it’s because most people out there have to turn to him. And it’s fostered at a young age. When you need the lord, you have no choice but to surrender to Him. So while the surface picture might paint us Americans as a rich country, I’d deem Kenya far richer beneath the surface.
In conclusion…
Since I’ve returned to the states for a few weeks, I can already feel the internal changes this trip has given me. I’m much more patient now. Little things don’t bother me as much anymore. I’m not as sensitive to hurtful occurrences. But more than anything, I feel like there’s a hole in my heart that’s been permanently filled. About a year and a half after I lost my Dad, I hit rock bottom. The grace he had given me when he fought cancer before passing had disintegrated. Not only was my protector gone, but the key ingredient that made me myself was missing. I felt like a bird without wings. I was lost, and perhaps I hid that pain well from others.
Well I’m confident to say, however it happened, that I got it back during my time in Kenya.
I’d just like to start off by saying how incredibly honored I am to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. And I’d just like to thank John and everyone for all this because this feeling right now is pretty incredible.
I know that this is an award that’s based what on we’ve done in our career. And I’ve undoubtedly been blessed and fortunate to have had success in my time as a sports journalist — really getting a chance to truly live out a childhood dream. I wanted to be a sportswriter since I was 13. And I got my start at the Vidette, so in a way this is kind of coming full circle for me with where I’m at in my life right now.
I can sit up here and talk about how the Vidette is a great career starter. And I could go on and on about the amazing memories we had over on Locust Street.
But instead I’d like to talk about what this honor really means to me. It represents family. And it’s an opportunity for me to say thank you. When I think about what the Vidette has done for me, I think about all of my best friends who have impacted my life in such a profound way.
The last time I was on a podium like this was at my father’s funeral. Ironically, I’m looking at the same faces right now. … It was four years ago Wednesday that I lost my Dad to cancer. He was my best friend and it pains me that I can’t share this with him. He read every single Vidette story I ever wrote. And I know he’s still reading. And listening now.
A week before he passed, Tony flew out to D.C. to be there for me. I’ll never forget that. That’s when I knew we were brothers. One of my favorite sayings is “walking in the dark with a friend is better than walking alone in the light.” That’s what you guys have been for me. Of all the things the Vidette gave me, it was a family to fall back on when I needed you all the most. The people here in this room and the people back home (you know who you are) — you’ve all helped make me the man I am today.
It was a former photo editor who helped me heal in California and truly believe in myself — seeing strength in me when everyone else saw weakness. And inspiring me with an unyielding passion to make a difference in this world with her career.
It was another former photo editor, a Hall of Famer himself, who set a bar for history to be made—both in my career as a journalist as well as a part-time rap artist.
It was a former features editor, who I leaned on in D.C. when I was working 70-hour work weeks … to help me persevere and finally become full-time at USA TODAY. (His dog, Charlie, also helped quite a bit).
It was another pair of features editors who have impacted my life by starting families. Your weddings were some of the best memories of my life. And I’m so happy for you, Chris, with your baby girl.
It was a former front page news writer who helped me find myself. She led me to my faith and helped me truly trust God. And, whether she realizes it or not, led me to my true calling after my career in journalism.
It was a former news editor who helped me understand depression isn’t something to shy away from. It’s something to embrace, because even if others don’t always understand it, that adversity makes us stronger and we’ll be able to help others some day because of it.
It was a former sports editor who lifted me up with her humor — imitating supporters at Obama’s inauguration and pretending Jersey Mike’s was a California landmark.
And it was a former editor in chief, the best editor in chief the Vidette ever had in my opinion, who became like a sister to me in my darkest hours. Your leadership and impact at the Vidette is honestly why Alex and I are in the Hall of Fame. I’m saying that even though you never let me put Osiris or Kristi Cirone on the cover. But really, everyone’s success from the Vidette has your imprint on it, Amy. You’re the true Hall of Famer in my book.
Next, I have two mentors I’d like to especially thank.
Rick, you’re the reason I chose Illinois State. You’re the reason I worked at the Vidette. And your red pen was on every story I ever wrote for USA TODAY. My handsomeness on camera, though, you had nothing to do with that. But seriously, you’ve been a father figure in my life and I’m grateful for your belief in me and our continued friendship.
I’d also like to thank another mentor, Justin Bieber. Justin, while I know you couldn’t be here, I just want to tell you that your music and who you are as a person inspires me in life. The lyrics you sing, “You Should Go and Love Yourself” truly, truly speaks to me.
The funny about this award and the Vidette is that almost all of you have seen me for my outer layer. For my ego. But that was never true confidence. It was all a façade to protect myself. The truth is I was always afraid. I never felt good enough. But it started in that office (point). Tony, you thought you were feeding my confidence by telling me I wrote an award-winning story. No, you were creating it. All the stories I’ve written that impacted millions, that have even saved lives, it all started when you and I were sports editors.
And I have one last person to thank and she couldn’t make it tonight because she’s very sick back at home. The best way I can thank this person is by telling a story, one that I’ve never revealed the full details on before. You see, Rick tells the tale of how a last-minute trip to the Vidette helped me choose Illinois State over other colleges when I was a senior in high school. I told him that I didn’t enjoy the college day visit but before we left, I made a stop at the campus newspaper office. That visit, of course, changed my life.
Here’s the part I left out of the story: The reason I was feeling so blue and unhappy on my college visit was because I had received a rejection letter from Illinois State earlier that month. Even if I wanted to go here, I didn’t get in because my test scores weren’t high enough. That last trip to the Vidette, truthfully, made that rejection hurt that much more.
But I had someone come to the rescue. Usually, when I wasn’t good enough or when shit hit the fan, my Dad was the one to help me. This time it was my Mom who saved the day. She called Judy Peppers in the school of communication office, pleading to find a solution. She expressed how passionate I was about sportswriting and how any shove in the right direction would mean the world to an 18-year old with high hopes and dreams. A few weeks later, I got into Illinois State through the school of Comm. And, as they say, the rest is history. So all of this, all my never-ending friendships from the Vidette and all of my career accomplishments that put me up on this stage right now, none of it would be possible without that phone call. So, as much as I’d like to accept this award saying it was all my hard work, without question: This one’s for you, Mom.
This is going to be the best summer ever.” He said it so gleefully as we were driving to our favorite place to hang out together, Sky Zone.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because you’re here,” he said casually, causing me to choke up.
There are moments in this lifetime that touch us, heal us and push us forward. I’ve had a lot of those moments with Micah.
Growing up as an only child, life without siblings was lonely. All of my life I wanted a brother. God graced me with one in August of 2014, in the form of an 8-year-old boy who, like me, was living life without a father.
A great friend once told me, “although we never seem to understand God right at the start, things eventually work out the way they should and you wonder how you could have ever questioned Him in the first place.” So here I am a little over a year later after signing a contract for Walk With Sally, a Big Brothers Big Sisters-esque organization that provides mentors to kids who have someone in their family affected by cancer. And I have to say, I’m shaking my head in awe at the man upstairs.
Micah’s dad died from cancer in June of 2014, shortly before Father’s Day. When I’d hang out with Micah, about once a week or so, he wouldn’t talk much about his dad. But I could tell he missed him. I could feel he missed him. Because I feel the same way. It’s a hole that seems like it can’t be replaced.
When I first met Micah, my heart was in pieces. I felt empty inside. When you’re alone and hurting, it’s easy to think about what you did have and what you don’t have. It’s easy to declare a rainy day dark and doomed. It’s easy to give up. But that’s why God sent me Micah. He didn’t want someone to give me strength, like my dad used to do on a regular basis. No, he wanted me to become strong for someone else.
On another occasion at Sky Zone, I found myself angry with God.
“Where’s your Dad?” a little boy asked him on the trampoline.
“I don’t have one,” he replied. He said it rather comfortably. But it broke me. I lost my dad when I was 23. Micah is only nine years old now. Life just isn’t fair in that regard.
“Then who’s that?” the little boy asked again, pointing to me.
“That my big brother,” Micah replied, confidently. That’s when I truly realized how important I was in Micah’s life.
My collage for Micah.
Micah and I have an intense bond that undoubtedly comes from both our dads bringing us together up in heaven. Before we were “matched,” we both originally had a different assigned mentor and mentee. They had paired me up with a kid who loved sports. And Micah with someone more brainy. That fell through, go figure. And because of the short distance from our homes in Orange County among other reasons, we were matched. The first time I went over to Micah’s house, he was incredibly shy and I remember thinking how challenging this would be. Yet by the second time we hung out, at a Lakers game, he wouldn’t stop talking. By the third time we hung out, it felt like we were best friends. Something just clicked.
We’ve done just about everything together. We’ve gone to Disneyland, Legoland, Chuck E Cheese’s, the aquarium, the OC Fair. We’ve played Laser Tag, paddle boarded, go-karted, bowled, mini golfed, gone to the movies. We’ve gone to loads of sports games (Lakers, Angels, Galaxy and Ducks). And went out to eat at In-N-Out Burger A LOT.
And somehow, we always have amazing things happen to us. My favorite was when we got tickets to a Harlem Globetrotters game in LA. I had explained to Micah what “nosebleed” seats were at Lakers games and that’s where we were sitting again for this game. At halftime, a lady came up with her daughter and said her husband got hung up with work and that they had two extra front row tickets. And let me tell you, the difference was significant between front row and nosebleed at a Globetrotters game, where interaction and amusement is what it’s all about. When stuff like that would happen, I’d tell Micah it was a blessing from God and our dads watching over us.
At a Ducks game, we had nosebleed tickets once again and, sure enough, some guy came up to us and asked if we wanted to trade tickets because his son couldn’t make the game. Ours cost $20 apiece. His cost $260 apiece and were glass seats (so we could see all the fighting). Afterwards, Micah floored me with his reaction to the ticket exchange. “I think our dads are friends up in heaven and forgot to tell us. They keep hooking us up.” I still get chills thinking about that.
The biggest and best way Micah and I have bonded comes with Star Wars. Before I met Micah, I was a closet SW fan. Now I’m as die-hard as it gets. We each love Star Wars for different reasons. He likes the infrastructure of all the unique ships and venues — building them with his legos. I like the characters and their stories. As a whole, we both loved everything about SW, though. And trips in the car always turned into quick trivia games that Micah would destroy me in. We went to the Star Wars Convention in Anaheim, and it was the coolest Nerd Fest in the world. Of course, we watched all seven movies together, including the premiere of The Force Awakens. As Disney ramps up their SW movies, I made a promise to Micah that we’d see every new movie in theaters together. And there will be a bundle of ’em.
One of the many incredible benefits of being a big brother to Micah is that it provided me with a second family out in California. With few close friends out in Cali and all of my family back in Chicago, I was blessed to have Micah’s family embrace me with open arms. Joanne is undoubtedly one of the strongest, most put-together mothers I know and spending time talking to her before and after hanging out with Micah was always a godsend. And Micah’s sister Kaelyn, two years older than him, was always so nice whenever I’d visit. The best part? 4-year old Trevor, who wasn’t old enough to have a mentor with WWS, but definitely loved showing me his toys and fighting for my attention with Micah during house visits.
I realized rather quickly just how strong the Kudo family was. That’s because Joanne and the kids always had help from friends, aunts and uncles and most of the time, from unbelievable grandparents. The family bond and love is so powerful. With Micah’s family, I had a place to go for Thanksgiving and July 4. And I got to join the family on several occasions for a violen recital, school awards and a school play.
Because of the close-knit family dynamic, my role with Micah has always been extremely obvious and easy. It’s been far from straining and given me a chance to fully enjoy my time with him, while healing my own wounds in the process. I’m always seen as the Big Brother, in the true sense of the word. I’m the Big Brother to cheer obnoxiously loud at a Pinewood Derby Boy Scouts race or at his soccer game, the Big Brother to dominate him and all his little friends in the first game of Laser Tag during his 9th Birthday party (I was basically doing back flips). And, I was the Big Brother to hold him on my shoulders so he could see the fireworks better at Disneyland.
Every now and again, when I’d visit, Micah would give me little gifts. Mostly, it was candy. Sometimes, they were drawings. The funniest gift came in the form of a Birthday card. Shortly before I went skydiving for my 26th Birthday, he wrote me a cute little note with a person falling out of a plane that said: “Hope you don’t die.” Anxiety removed, I didn’t.
Recently, I ironically and weirdly found myself watching The Lion King. There’s a scene where Simba is talking to Mufasa (that’s the dad lion for losers who haven’t seen it). The exchange goes:
Simba: Dad we’ll always be together, right?
Mufasa: Simba let me tell you something my father told me. Look at the stars. The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars.
Simba: Really?
Mufasa: Yes. So whenever you feel alone, just remember that those kings will always be there to guide you. And so will I.
That movie scene helped me realize just how much our kings are watching over both of us. We’re far from alone.
I’ll close with easily the most profound memory I’ve had with Micah. It came on Halloween of last year. We were at a block party and there was a haunted house for “big kids” only. Micah was hesitant about going in, but I told him I’d go in front of him in case anything scary popped up. I told him I’d protect him. We went through the not-that-scary house where folks who love Halloween too much tried to jump out and spook us. Noticeably frightened, Micah held my hand the whole time. When we got out of the house, he wanted to do it again. The happiness he had, bragging to his sister and friends, about going through, made my night.
And when I think of my last year or so with Micah, this memory seems to encapsulate our relationship and the serious bond we had. Sometimes, going into the unknown on your own can be scary. And I know all too well how scary going into this cruel world without your father can be. I feel blessed and honored, beyond what words can describe, that God picked me to help Micah grow without his Dad. I never filled that void in his heart whatsoever, but I know in some small way I helped protect him from fully feeling the pain that no 8/9-year old boy should ever have to experience. And that’s something I’ll always be grateful for until the day I die.
You sign a one-year commitment with your mentee for Walk With Sally. But this is just the first chapter, the way I see it. No matter what age, how far apart we live from each other, or what we’re doing in our lives moving forward, we’ll always be brothers. We’ll watch every Star Wars movie together. Until they stop making them. It’s a promise.
Both our dads might be gone. No doubt that will always hurt. But since we’ve lost them, we’ve gained each other. That hole doesn’t feel so empty now.
***
Walk With Sally is a non-profit based in Los Angeles, CA and is committed to providing healing and comfort to children debilitated by the emotional experience of living with or losing a parent or sibling to cancer. This healing is facilitated through free of charge mentoring support programs and services that provide an emotionally safe environment for children to share their difficult experience with someone who has suffered the same.
The biggest way he spoiled me came with summer basketball camps. I have rich memories of going to camp after camp during the summer growing up, stirring up happiness and fueling my self-esteem. Back then, I didn’t know exactly what “camp” was giving me. I thought it was just basketball skills. In retrospect, it was so much more.
Last week, I returned to camp as a counselor. This wasn’t a camp designed specifically for basketball players like the ones I went to growing up or the ones I worked for in college. This camp, Seany Foundation’s Reach For the Sky, was for kids who have/had siblings suffering from or affected by cancer. Many of the kids at the camp were attention-starved, neglected and alone. In other words, they were the opposite of spoiled.
Camp was these kids’ safe haven, their place to be themselves and come out of their shell, their place to let loose and have fun, their place for peace, to feel important.
Going into the week, I didn’t know what to expect. I had plenty of experience working camps and working with kids. This was way different.
Serving as a counselor for teens, going by the camp name “Pippen,” I had easily the best week of my life. The guys in my cabin were all going through normal teenager stuff—anxiety of talking to girls, negative peer pressure, uncertainty with their futures. Being able to help them and provide guidance, in any way, was incredibly gratifying. During the week at the beautiful Cedar Glen campus in Julian, the camp was set up for constant fun whether it be swimming, hiking, rock climbing, a ropes course, basketball, paintball, arts and crafts, or team building exercises. It was also set up for constant bonding between the campers. There was a continuity I noticed that carried over from previous summers as my kids all felt comfortable around themselves. Most of them had grown up together. There was no name-calling (unless it was joking), no bullying, no altercations. They weren’t just friends, they were family. Just being a part of that camaraderie, as a counselor, was so graceful.
There were plenty of highlights. From an ego-driven camper attempting to eat a whole apple pie in four minutes (and barely failing)… to a “Food Wheel” Fear Factor-esque eating competition that rivaled the atmosphere of sporting events I cover and saw a tiny girl take down two juggernauts…to an all-camp dance that trumped any junior high soc hop or high school prom I ever went to.
By the end of the week, I didn’t want to leave. I too had found a second family with campers and fellow counselors. One of the counselors, when speaking to the kids who were graduating, shared some words that truly struck me. He said that every person we meet and every person we touch in this life has a profound impact on our lives and a little bit of them gets carried on through us. And with that, the thought of not meeting or being touched by all of these kids and staffers is hard to contemplate.
At the end of the camp, after we watched the campers go away on the buses, we de-briefed in the most emotional way possible. All the campers had written small notes about how cancer affected their family and what camp meant to them. With 50 or so staff members, we went around the room reading them one by one. Some said they wished they had cancer instead of their brother or sister so they could protect them. Some said they felt invisible because there was always a spotlight for the cancer victim with them lost in darkness. Some said that they were struggling with their desire to live but they relied on camp to lift them up. Some said camp was their favorite week of the year because it was the only time they could be themselves and not get bullied. Some said that they were confused about their identity and pretty much everything…but camp gave them temporary peace.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. You spend a whole week working a camp and somehow forget the underlying theme. These kids are struggling beneath the surface. These kids are sad. These kids are alone. This camp, this week was their sanctuary and it recharged their batteries to go back to the real world where they don’t get attention or they’re picked on at school. It’s staggering to think how one week impacted their lives on such a deep level and unbearable to ponder what their lives would be without camp. Unsurprisingly, I found myself relating to these kids in such a resounding way. But why? I had a strikingly different childhood, one dazzled with attention. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. When you lose a parent, especially one where you’re the apple of his eye, it’s impossible not to feel alone. It’s impossible not to crave attention or cling to others for stabilization. That’s been my life for three-plus years now. Just trying to make it through like them. Suddenly, the “family” atmosphere makes perfect sense. It’s like a secret society of campers and counselors alike sharing the same pain. At camp, “alone” isn’t possible. It’s a mere myth.
The perfect memento was given to campers and counselors at the end of camp. It was a little card that read, “Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” – A.A. Milne
With a new belt of confidence and inner strength, that’s a promise I’ll keep.
When I finally had a chance to unwind after camp, ironically, it was Father’s Day.
And I didn’t miss him.
Because he was with me last week, and he’s always with me. Sometimes it takes an emotional boost from a jam-packed week to actually feel that comfort. Similar to the campers, six days gave me necessary grace. Before my Dad died, when he was going through radiation and chemotherapy, he used to say: “When I get up in the morning, I get up to live.” I haven’t truly been able to do that since he’s been gone. I was getting up to survive instead. Not anymore.
Three years ago today you left us. Not in spirit of course, but you left this world to step into another one.
Even though I know you’re still with me, guiding me, I miss you uncontrollably. When I can’t sleep at night or get through a day, I think of the way you fought your Cancer. You treated it like a tennis opponent, doing everything in your power to destroy it in the heat of battle. But you also treated it like a great friend when the match wasn’t in play, letting it humble you and give you grace.
I try to fight my sadness the same way, Dad. I fight through the darkness aggressively to find light. But I also embrace the darkness now because of the man it’s shaping me into.
After you died, initially I tried to take the grace you instilled in me during those last 18 months and let it drive me in my relationships and in life. For a while it worked. Then your void became so poignant that depression outweighed any form of happiness. I realize now, after a very painful year of actually feeling instead of coping, where that endless grace you shared with me was coming from: Your faith in God.
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” This prayer embodies you, Dad. I’ll carry it with me throughout life so I can be strong like you were. Strong for Mom. Strong for my friends. Strong for strangers. Strong for Micah. Strong for my wife. Strong for my kids.
I also want you to know how much I love you. I told you this before you left, but I want you to know how boundless it is. Instead of mourning, to celebrate the 23 years I had with you and the everlasting impact you’ll forever have on me as I continue to grow into a person I’m proud to be, here are my 10 favorite memories with you.
Brookfield Zoo. While I don’t remember it profoundly because I was too young, it’s the best memory I have of us when I was young because it always sparked so much anticipation. The two parts I recall the most: orange dreamsicles and spotting the peacocks.
Wisconsin Dells. Our family vacations were always a taste of heaven and the best of them came at the Dells with water slides, cool hotels and eating out. I loved how you precicely planned the trips out and centered them around others’ happiness. And I’ll never forget when you told Zach and I to stop cursing and then dropped an F-bomb at the end of a ride where the lifeguard scolded you.
Mom’s surprise party. While I didn’t get to see the type of husband you were before I was born, I caught glimpses of the deep love you had for Mom on these special occassions. This one was my favorite and not just because Mom was so easy to surprise. You planned things perfectly and arranged for all of her friends and family to be there. Her happiness was all that mattered. Nothing else.
Your seminars. I know I used to make fun of you for wearing sweaters and being the typical therapist/psychologist. But my respect and admiration grows for you as a social worker the older I get. You passionately cared about helping people who others couldn’t see. But you saw them, regardless of how mentally ill they were. When you’d prepare for your speeches with mom and I, and your passion showed, that was so powerful. It’s one thing to be passionate about something, but you were passionate for a cause to make a difference not just on a big issue, but on one individual person. I pray to have that type of love and dedication for a career some day like you did.
Our marathon. I say “ours” because while I ran 26.2, the last six you ran with me when you had Cancer (and going through chemo) speaks volumes to your determination to keep a promise. I remember our conversation that day was so pointless. It’s not anymore. Whenever I run now, I feel you there by my side. It’s my sanctuary where I can find you when I’m lost and every finish line I cross, I know you’re right there with me.
My track meets. No matter how cold or rainy it was, you were always there on the home stretch of my 2-mile races with a stop watch and pen and paper to scribble down my splits. Whenever I’m going through a trial in life, I imagine you tracking things down and encouraging me, yelling at the top of your lungs louder than any parent.
Basketball. This sport was a thread that brought us together like no other. You weren’t just a fan in the stands. You were a mentor, a coach, a partner to shovel snow in the driveway. You were someone to play horse with me when all of my friends were busy. You were someone to drive (and pay for) my basketball camps that rejuvenated my spirit. You were someone to write me positive notes when I wasn’t getting any playing time. You were someone who inspired me to break down barriers in basketball, and then later in life. You were Free-Throw Tom, and I’ll never stop wearing your sweatband on my right ankle for the rest of my life. You were legendary.
March Madness. I find it ironic that your health took a turn for the worse in the heat of March Madness. This was our favorite time of the year as a family, filling out brackets and somehow always losing to Mom despite being far more knowledgeable. Sitting in the hospital watching games with you will stick with me forever, not because of the specific memory, but because there was no better time for you to leave us. As I’ve been a part of covering the madness — on camera, in the newspaper/website and at the Final Four — you were always, always with me. Btw, you got last place in our final family pool. Mom won, again.
When I failed/succeeded. My favorite memories of you are the ones that aren’t defined by a certain moment and there are too many to count. Whenever I fell down, you picked me up by understanding my pain. Then you inspired me to turn the tide. And whenever I succeeded, you admiration glowed so brightly that everyone knew how proud and happy you were for me. Both of these qualities are irreplaceable, but whenever I fail or succeed now, while I don’t have you as my safety net or cheerleader, your spirit lifts me. And your void humbles me (I guess I kind of needed it) to help me realize not everyone sees me like you. But you saw me. And that’s something that can never, ever die.
Your last few days. The MLK quote still is on my heart. “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” As the end neared, your fight and your love only strengthened. I still tremble when I think of this. How? You kept being grateful for every ounce of life you had. No matter how depressed or down I get, I will always have this image.
Before you left, you told me with confidence, “I’ll always be with you.” I suppose I believed this on the surface right away. I just didn’t know how cruel this world can be without you, Dad. I strive to see the good in others but I won’t lie in saying I’ve felt so unbareably lost at times. But as you reminded me when we were working on our book, “seeing isn’t believing.” I believe now, Dad. And I’ll never stop.
