Month: March 2024

On Prestige

He had a square face, a widow’s peak, and a strange surname.

And for a moment, Jack Gohlke had America’s heart.

Gohlke, you see, was a graduate student at Oakland University. But he was also a basketball player – one who specialized in long-range shooting.

And for one night in March, Gohlke couldn’t miss.

Oakland was facing the venerable Kentucky Wildcats – college basketball’s winningest program – in the NCAA (National Collegiate Athletic Association) Tournament. Kentucky had a name brand, elite athletes, and a high-octane offense. But they didn’t have an answer for Gohlke.

The twentysomething with a square face and widow’s peak connected on 10 three-pointers, leading Oakland to an upset victory. Some pundits quipped that a team full of future NBA (National Basketball Association) pros got beat by a future Regional Manager of Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

A day later, the nation was captivated again. The Yale Bulldogs stunned the Auburn Tigers in another NCAA Tournament matchup.

Auburn didn’t have the basketball bona fides of Kentucky. But NBA Hall-of-Famer Charles Barkley once sported their uniform, as did many other pro hoops stars. And the Tigers competed in the same athletic conference as the Wildcats, playing games under the bright lights of massive arenas.

They were no slouch. But just like Kentucky, their championship dreams were over in a flash. The surprise result only adding to the lore of the sporting event nicknamed March Madness.

Following the game, the Auburn coach lauded Yale’s team. He then harkened back to his early coaching days, when he led the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Panthers to Tournament victories over vaunted opponents.

I know what it’s like to be them, he exclaimed.

From my sofa, I chortled.

No, you don’t, I exclaimed out loud. None of us do.

College degree required.

These three words have long been hallmarks of job postings. And while that’s changed a bit in recent years, a degree can still hold plenty of sway.

I know this as well as anyone. I have two diplomas hanging on my wall — one for a bachelor’s degree, another for a master’s degree. I’ve seen the impact each has had on my career, and my life.

And yet, there’s an unspoken truth surrounding those framed pieces of embossed paper. The institutional name printed on the top matters more than my name printed in the middle.

Sure, the schools I attended do carry some cachet. Their names enhance discussions I have while networking or applying for jobs.

But other universities have bigger names. Names that can start these conversations on their own. Or even render them moot, entirely.

To underling this point, let’s take a closer look at those two schools that authored upset victories in March Madness.

Prior to those basketball games, you’d be excused if you thought Oakland University was in the East Bay of California. Many shared that misconception.

The few who knew where the school was actually located – namely, the suburbs of Detroit – were the ones who were more likely to value the name atop the diploma. Which is to say, the institution didn’t have much sway outside Michigan before Gohlke connected on some three-pointers.

Meanwhile, everyone knew where Yale was located. And even if they couldn’t describe what the city of New Haven, CT looked like, they understood what a Yale degree represented.

Yale, you see, is one of those names atop a diploma that renders a conversation moot. The institution’s reputation alone can opportunities for its alumni. Opportunities many of us can only dream of.

A glance at a list of prominent Yale alumni will feature award-winning authors, business tycoons, accomplished attorneys, political leaders, and much more. Five United States Presidents got a degree there. As I write this, one third of the U.S. Supreme Court and nearly a tenth of the U.S. Senate are former Yale scholars.

The one area where the prominent alumni list is slightly shorter is in athletics – particularly in football and college basketball. There are many reasons for that – including a paltry athletics budget and an institutional ban on athletic scholarships. But it leads to a scenario where Yale’s basketball team are the little guys, fighting off vaunted opponents like Auburn on the big stage.

The absurdity of all this is palpable. The gap between Yale University and Oakland University is as wide as the 2,200 miles between the cities where they shocked their vaunted opponents on the hardwood.

Yet, for a few days at the start of spring, we conflate them. We shroud ourselves in the underdog spirit. And we forget which direction up is.

Many years ago, some floormates and I held court in a cramped dorm room.

We were new to college and new to being neighbors. And we were going through the getting-to-know-you routine.

At some point, the conversation turned to what other schools we had applied to. Where else might we have been, if circumstances were different?

One of my floormates exclaimed that he’d been accepted to Auburn University. But he cautioned that you only need to be able to sign your name to get in there.

It was a joke, I thought. But I wasn’t completely sure.

After all, I had applied to a university with a somewhat similar arrangement. Maintain a certain high school Grade Point Average or get a certain score on a standardized test — and you’re in automatically.

I cleared both bars with ease. Only to spurn that institution for the one I now sat in.

To this day, I have no idea if the admissions qualifications for Auburn University were ever as simple as signing one’s name on a piece of paper. But the truth only matters so much.

Indeed, this perception of Auburn University as a cupcake school is what’s so damning. It limits the horizons of those who graduate from that institution.

Their four years might have been spent doing far more than drinking beer and tossing rolls of toilet paper into oak trees. They might have spent much of that time in the library or the research lab, molding themselves into young professionals.

But to attain the future they were striving for, they’d need to fight uphill. Auburn’s reputation – unfair as it might be – was sure to cast a long shadow over these graduates. A shadow that didn’t exist at – say, Yale.

This is why I was so troubled by the dueling underdog stories of the Oakland University and Yale University basketball teams. It wasn’t just that Yale held a level of prestige that Oakland never would attain. It was also that this narrative took away the one thing that institutions between the two on the prestige scale could claim.

If getting a job on Wall Street or Capitol Hill was so much tougher for an Auburn alum or a Kentucky alum than a Yale alum, couldn’t they enjoy athletic glory? Or at least not get mocked as the toppled giant when they fall short?

Was that too much? Apparently so.

Make no mistake. Yale University is no David with a slingshot. It’s Thanos with all the Infinity Stones.

It is inevitable. And it’s time we recognize it as such.

Back in that cramped dorm room, I recounted my own would have journey.

Yes, I qualified for that one school by meeting two of its standards. And I had clearly gotten accepted to the university I now attended.

But I’d applied to plenty of others. All with nationally recognized sports programs. And all with campuses on our nation’s southern tier.

I was entering college as a student, not a student-athlete. But I still wanted to attend an institution with a host of school spirit. And somewhere without snow.

In March Madness terms, I was aiming more for an Auburn than a Yale. (In reality, I applied to neither of those schools.)

It was only later that I learned the cost of this choice. It was only later that I understood the value of prestige. And how the collegiate culture I sought would leave it out of reach.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. But that experience helped me grow into the man I am today.

I don’t rely on prestige to open doors in my life. That option is off-limits to me.

I must work four times as hard as those twice as fortunate. I must be magnitudes better just to get my shot at achievement.

I’ve made my peace with this arrangement. For it reflects the way the world is organized. And that setup is beyond my control.

So, let’s not feign ignorance.

Yes, we can celebrate when a square-faced sharpshooter outshines a gaggle of future NBA pros. Yes, we can bask in the glory when the alma mater of presidents earns a rare NCAA Tournament victory.

But that’s no excuse for getting carried away.

We must stop acting as if power dynamics have shifted on the wings of two nights in March. We mustn’t pontificate about prestige flowing in new directions.

That hasn’t happened. And if past is pretense, it won’t happen.

It’s high time we govern ourselves accordingly.

Face the Music

There’s no cheering in the press box.

I heard these words plenty in college.

As both a broadcast journalism major and a sports fan, I’d seized just about any opportunity to nab a press credential – either for a class project or for the campus TV station I volunteered at.

My press pass got me a dinner buffet and a prime seat for the action. The only cost was the edict against cheering in the press box.

So, when I scored a credential to a Florida Marlins game – courtesy of a colleague at my internship – I followed the rules. The Marlins starting pitcher hurled a complete game masterpiece that night. But even as the crowd roared below me, I stayed cool as a cucumber.

There’s no cheering in the press box.

After the final out was recorded, my colleague turned to me.

Alright, it’s time to head down to the clubhouse for quotes. You ready?

I was certainly not ready.

I was not on an assignment that evening. I was simply tagging along to shadow my colleague. I was wearing a button down, jeans, and cowboy boots – hardly the look of a serious beat writer. And instead of a laptop, I’d brought a spiral notebook and pen with me.

Still, I only had a split second to answer my colleague. So, I nodded and hustled out of the press box, forgetting my my pen and notebook in the rush.

We made our way to a hallway under the main concourse. The dim corridor was filled with support staff and security.

As we reached a nondescript door, we turned. The door opened and we strode through the Marlins clubhouse to the manager’s office in the back.

The office was small – designed for two or three people. But at least a dozen were in there, flanking the Marlins manager. Most had the same credential around their neck as I did. But they also had a digital recorder or notepad in their hands – and I did not.

I stood close to my colleague and tried my best to blend in. I listened intently to the manager’s responses to reporters’ questions, laughing earnestly with the crowd when the skipper threw in some dry humor. It felt collegial and comfortable. My worries about my missing notebook faded away.

But as soon as the questions stopped, I heard a new one from a redheaded man standing nearby.

Who’s that? Is that an intern?

I saw the man’s badge, which read Florida Marlins PR Manager. And I realized he was talking about me.

My colleague explained that I was shadowing her for the game. But the redheaded man wasn’t having it.

No interns in the clubhouse, he exclaimed sharply to me.

Guilt washed over my face.

OK, I’m leaving, I replied.

I strode briskly toward the door to the manager’s office, feeling the condescending stare of a dozen journalists on the back of my shoulders. I exited into the locker room, making a beeline for the front door.

I had was most of the way across the room when I heard the PR manager’s voice behind me again, harsher than before.

No interns in the clubhouse.

Suddenly, two dozen major league ballplayers were staring at me from their lockers as I finished my brisk walk to the door. I felt humiliated.

Why the second warning, I mused silently, as I waited for my colleague in the dim hallway. I was doing what the PR manager asked. Couldn’t he see that?

The night was ruined. And it was about to get even worse.

On my drive home, I got a speeding ticket. The officer threatened to charge me for having an out-of-state license while maintaining Florida residency. Ultimately, he just gave me a hefty fine.

I was 18 days from graduation, preparing for a bright future in the real world. But this disastrous Monday night was threatening to undo me.

A couple days later, I was back at the local TV station where I interned at. My boss asked to speak with me.

He had heard from the Marlins PR manager about my gaffe, and he was none too pleased.

Personally, I think his reaction was over the top, my boss exclaimed. But it doesn’t matter what I think. You made a mistake, and you brought shame to this news station. That’s something we can’t have.

I hung my head.

Here’s what you’re going to do, he continued. You’re going to write him a letter, and you’re going to sign it. You’re going to apologize completely for what you did, and you’re going to ask him for forgiveness. Hopefully, he’ll accept the written apology – and we’ll put this whole incident behind us.

I was miffed. I’d made a seemingly minor mistake, and I’d already gotten the Scarlet Letter treatment for it. Now, I had to apologize for my own humiliation?

But I wrote the letter with a contrite tone and I sent it off. Then I went home to pay the speeding ticket and spend hours completing an online defensive driving course.

I probably could have gotten away with the basics. I could have written a boilerplate apology and paid the speeding fine. No real contrition. No defensive driving course.

After all, Florida would be in my rearview mirror a month later. There was no need to go the extra mile as I vacated the premises.

But my boss’ words weighed on me. No matter the circumstances, I’d erred. I needed to face the music, fully and completely.

Accepting the consequences of my actions would be my penance. It wouldn’t provide a joyous end to the story for me. It wouldn’t get my fine rescinded, and it wouldn’t lead to another invite to the Florida Marlins press box. Ever.

But it was the right thing to do. So, that’s what I did.

A few years after my apology letter hit the mailbox, I got a message that jolted me.

My former boss from my internship at that local TV station had died.

I stared into space, stunned.

I’d only spent a few months interning under this man on the station’s Internet news desk. But I’d owed so much to him.

I’d learned about the importance of web stories for local TV stations. After all, not everyone could catch the 6 PM news in its entirety. But if the stories were posted online, they could learn about what was covered on their own time.

I’d learned how to source news material. I’d learned how to confirm information from behind the news desk. And I’d learned how to crank out high quality web articles in mere minutes.

All of this had helped me in my first job – I job I was still in when I got this terrible message. I was far away from Florida, serving as an executive producer for a TV station in West Texas. But I was still able to raise the profile of the both the station’s newscasts and its website.

Now, my former boss had left this earth. And in seven weeks’ time, I’d be leaving the news media.

All that this great man had taught me was sure to fade as I switched industries. I knew it in my bones.

And I was flat out wrong.

You see, on my journey through life’s adventures in subsequent years, I’ve made some wrong turns. Nothing serious or irrevocable. But some things that just didn’t work out.

These decisions, however well-intentioned, have carried bitter consequences. Consequences sure to leave a lasting mark on my psyche and my memory.

Even so, it’s none too difficult to sidestep them. To convince myself that I don’t deserve them, that circumstance and misfortune are to blame. To distract, to deflect, to disassociate.

These strategies are hardly novel. The art of dodging repercussions is in vogue throughout society these days. From the powerful down to the populace, we’re well versed at how not to face the music.

But I can’t ride this wave. I couldn’t abdicate accountability.

My former boss taught me better. And even though he’s gone, his words live on.

So, I judge myself on outcomes, not intentions. I try and do the right thing. But when it goes wrong, I make it right. Even if it means putting myself through hell.

I face the music.

Living with the consequences of my choices has made me more pragmatic. It’s made me more well-rounded. And it’s made me better.

These are advantages we can all enjoy. Why don’t we?

It’s time to tear down the curtain of delusion. It’s time to stop running out the clock. It’s time to cease this circumvention of consequences.

For our own good, and for the good of those around us, we must face the music.

Let’s get to it.

Having It All

I sat at my desk, struggling to stay awake.

It was just past lunchtime. The early morning adrenaline had worn off. The food I’d consumed had yet to digest.

My eyelids felt heavy, and I was tempted to let them fall. But I couldn’t.

For I was on the clock. There was work to be done and meetings to attend. A snooze wasn’t in the cards.

I thought back – way back – to my days in Pre-K. Right around this time of day, the teachers would set up mats on the ground. I’d lie on a mat until a wave of drowsiness came over me. Then I’d descend into a peaceful slumber.

I really had it all back then, I thought.

But that statement was nothing more than a delusion.

In the late 1980s, audiences went wild for a movie called Big.

In the film, a 12-year-old named Josh ambles up to a fortune teller machine at an amusement park. Josh makes a solitary wish. He asks the machine if he could be big.

Josh wakes up the next day appearing like an adult, even though he is still a boy. This disconnect leads to a series of adventures tailor-made for Hollywood.

Many people consider Big to be an iconic movie. And I am one of them.

Although though I first encountered the film years after its release, I still found it resonant. Particularly the scene with the fortune teller machine.

You see, I remembered a similar moment in my own childhood. Only mine didn’t appear at an amusement park. It came during naptime.

Yes, each day, as I lay down on a mat in my Pre-K classroom, I had but one thought.

I can’t wait until I don’t have to do this anymore.

I was through with being patronized.

I wanted to ride in the passenger seat of the car. I wanted to be able to drink a beer. I wanted to be able to sit on the back patio, talking with houseguests late into the evening.

These were all things I saw my parents do. But I they were off limits to me.

I was stuck in the car seat buckled into the back row. I was stuck drinking Coca-Cola – if my parents let me have a soda at all. I was stuck with that 8 PM bedtime.

And I was separated from my parents for most hours of the day. Sequestered in a Pre-K classroom, with a mandatory afternoon nap.

I knew deep down that this arrangement wasn’t eternal. Someday, it would all be different.

But I was sick of waiting for someday to come. So, each afternoon, I spent naptime longing for my future.

Yes, my wish was the same as Josh’s in Big. But the results were far less instantaneous.

My mind was still deep in my past when my head bumped softly against the desk. Despite my best efforts, the urge to nap was winning.

I felt a stiffness in my neck and a strain in my lower back. I couldn’t even rest these days without risking injury.

My desire to pile into Doc Brown’s DeLorean was never stronger. I wanted to go back in time and shake my 4-year-old self into submission.

You fool! Stop complaining! Some of us would dream of being you!

But that would be disingenuous.

Truth be told, some of what the younger me yearned for was worth the wait. Finding my way to the passenger seat of the car was enthralling during my pre-teen and early adolescent years. Staying up late and drinking beer were exhilarating during my first years on my own in the real world. (Although I kicked both habits not long after that.)

And adulthood, for all its flaws, has proven to be a worthwhile destination. I cherish the freedom and control I now possess. It’s everything a young boy dreamed of, and more.

So why was I now yearning to go backward with the same fervor that my earlier self yearned to go forward? Did I miss the turn for utopia somewhere between then and now? Or was that destination never even on the map?

The second explanation seems more likely.

I never really had it all. Not in the way I imagined.

How could I?

I’ve been in flux for all my decades on this earth. My body has evolved. My mind has expanded. My priorities have shifted.

The world has also shifted over time. Trends have come and gone. Opportunities have opened and closed. Possibilities have appeared and vanished.

To have it all, I’d need to hit a moving target – all while I was myself in motion. That would be a tough feat to manage, let alone sustain.

I need to give myself some more grace for missing the mark. More than that, I should be grateful for such an outcome.

So must we all.

In 2005, Tom Brady sat down for an interview on 60 Minutes.

Brady had a lot going for him at the time. He was in his late 20s, he was dating a Hollywood actress, and he had already won three Super Bowl championships as the New England Patriots quarterback.

Some would say that Tom Brady had it all. But he wasn’t saying that.

When the interviewer asked which championship ring was his favorite, Brady calmly stated The next one.

Yes, despite all his accomplishments, Tom Brady was on a mission. A mission to get more out of himself and his team. A mission to expand his excellence.

The results of that mission are now legendary. Brady played 18 more seasons after that interview. He broke the National Football League’s all-time passing yards record. He won the league’s Most Valuable Player award three times. And he appeared in seven more Super Bowls, winning four of them.

If Brady had stopped and smelled the roses, would he have become the greatest American football player of all time? Maybe. But I doubt it.

That continual quest for the missing piece was what made Tom Brady Tom Brady. It gave him the motivation and discipline to doggedly pursue excellence – even as he started to line up against defenders half his age.

Brady refused to let time or circumstance define him. He was the one taking control of the narrative.

It’s a lesson we’d all be wise to follow.

For while might not spend our days evading 250-pound linebackers, we will undoubtedly contend with the disruptive forces of life. What it gives us and what it takes from us along our journey.

If we try to solely corral what’s been given to us, we’re condemned to disappointment. We’re bound to be bitter about the sins of our past, the barrenness of our present, or the hopelessness of tomorrow. Maybe even all three.

But if we stop searching for utopia – if we let go of the illusion of having it all – we just might make the most of the duality in our midst. We just might roll with the punches and bring continual improvement to our lives – no matter the circumstances.

This is a path worth following. This is a destination worth pursuing. It’s on us to take the first step.

We never had it all. And thank God for that.

On Complacency

The comment rankled me.

It came at a marketing meetup. I was in the audience, watching intently as a representative from Microsoft held court on stage.

Voice assistants were the emerging frontier in tech at the time. Features with names like Siri and Alexa would listen to verbal prompts on your smartphone or smart speaker and volley back answers.

Microsoft’s Cortana was in that arena too. But many consumers didn’t bother to notice.

Now the representative was turning to marketers to hype up the service, in hopes that we would evangelize it to the masses. And he was using another tech service – the Uber rideshare app – to make his point.

Think about the process of hailing an Uber, the Microsoft rep said. You open the app, look for available drivers and request a ride.

Now, what if Cortana could recognize this pattern in your schedule and hail the ride for you? Wouldn’t that be cool?

All around me, audience members gasped in amazement. But I stared daggers at a spot just behind the representative’s left shoulder.

Was tapping a button on our smartphones that much of a chore? Had we really become that complacent?

When I was 8 years old, I knew how to do several things.

I could read. I could write. I could divide 60 by 4.

But I couldn’t look people in the eye when I was talking to them. And I couldn’t offer them a firm handshake.

My third-grade teacher wasn’t having any of this. She worked tirelessly with me until I got those fundamentals down.

The lessons stuck.

I’m still mindful of where my eyes are when I’m speaking. And I take pride in a firm handshake.

For many 8-year-olds these days, eye contact and handshakes are the least of their social deficiencies. And it’s not necessarily because they’re battling developmental disorders, as I was at that age.

It has more to do with iPads, YouTube, and virtual reality games.

Many parents give their children access to these devices and services at an early age. They’re meant to entertain, to placate, and to keep parity with the kids’ peers – who likely have the same electronics in their hands.

This trend – accelerated by the effects of a global pandemic – has become a scapegoat in the decline in social skills among our youth. Some critics believe that solving this crisis simply requires shutting off screens.

But I believe the problem is much deeper.

You see, it’s the thought behind the screens that’s most insidious. It’s the concept of complacency as a childhood development strategy that has done us so wrong.

I get why this has happened. The world is more complicated and frightening than ever. Parents feel inclined to protect their kids from the unpleasantness of it all.

Those electronic devices serve as immersive extensions of the humble pacifier. They combat uncertainty by keeping children anchored in place.

Still, this shift is not without stark costs.

How will these kids learn to engage with the world around them? How will they learn to go after what they want? How will they find the courage to take some calculated risks along the way?

They won’t, and they don’t. We’ve made sure of it.

Complacency is a bad seed. And we reap what we sow.

The vision that Microsoft employee shared was the tip of the iceberg.

These days, predictive analytics and artificial intelligence have eclipsed voice assistants.

Much of our lives are managed in the background by computers. We don’t even need to say a word.

Take delivery, for instance. Once the purview of local pizzerias and Chinese restaurants with bicycle fleets, delivery services now cross cuisines and vehicle types. Some even extend to supermarkets and big box retailers.

These services are built on our complacency. They capitalize on the vision of consumers lounging in pajamas all day, and they charge us a premium for the privilege of convenience. Tack on fees and tips for couriers, and we often pay double what we would if we went to the store or restaurant ourselves.

The entire premise of all this is absurd. We’re paying a premium to stay in, and we’re paying that premium as much as we possibly can. The delivery services’ attempts to hook us into subscriptions don’t help matters. Neither do delivery-only offers from restaurants.

Complacency is entrenched in our society, even as its costs accelerate. And I struggle to understand why.

Isn’t this a nation built on hard work and determination? Isn’t improvement part of our ethos?

Not anymore, apparently.

Doing less is in vogue. And we’re worse for it.

Back when I was 8-years-old — and learning the art of a firm handshake in school — I’d spend one weekend with my grandparents each month.

They lived across town. Close enough to make this arrangement tenable, but far enough that I packed an overnight bag.

The mornings would generally start the same. I’d dart around the house, full of energy. And I’d find my grandfather sitting in his favorite chair with a pencil in his hand and the New York Times on his lap.

He was poring over the crossword puzzle.

Now and then, I’d try to help him with the puzzle clues. But I only had so many words in my vocabulary. So, I’d often resort to my favorite one: Why?

Why are you always doing this, grandpa? And why can’t you complete it sometimes?

My grandfather told me both questions had the same answer. He was hoping to stay mentally sharp by repeating this exercise, even if he couldn’t fill in every answer every day.

That lesson has stuck with me for decades. I might not pore over crossword puzzles — or Sudoku or Wordle, for that matter. But I’ve made staying sharp a habit.

This quest has taken disparate forms. Engaging in physical activity. Mastering the art of cooking. Writing this column each week.

But the ethos is constant – to build on yesterday. To get more out of myself. To unlock better.

The fire burns deep within me. And the spark of it all was my grandfather’s crossword puzzle.

Sometimes I wonder if I would have found that epiphany growing up in this era. With the way the deck is stacked, I’m tempted to say no.

And yet, the tenets of desire are still out there. We can still strive for improvement, if we’re willing to wade through the sea of complacency to get there.

It’s a difficult mission, no doubt. A path that we’re not exactly inclined to follow.

But follow it we must. For our betterment. For our future.

So, let’s put complacency in the rear-view mirror. The journey forward starts now.