Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Sticking With It

I looked stared into the mirror, horrified at what I saw.

My reflection was there, alright. But there wasn’t much to it.

I could see my entire ribcage, bones shrouded by skin. My arms appeared meek and wiry.

I looked severely malnourished. And although I knew I wasn’t – I devoured pizza and Pepsi just as much as the next teenager – I also realized I needed to make a change.

It was a struggle helping my parents lug groceries into the house. And it would be a struggle driving baseballs into the outfield for the Junior Varsity team if I didn’t bulk up.

So, I hit the gym.

That first time in my high school weight room was an adventure. My Physical Education teacher gave me a brief tour and a primer on etiquette. Then he let me be.

I bounced from machine to machine, and free weight after free weight. I knocked out reps like I was running out of time.

It all seemed too mundane, too easy. And the sight of my ribcage in the locker room mirror afterward confirmed this feeling.

I needed to turn things up, I told myself. Maybe I’d hit the weights twice as hard the next day.

This plan seemed futile the next morning, when I woke up sore all over. All those rapid-fire reps had taken their toll.

Still, I returned to the gym to lift. That day, and the next. And the one after that.

And by the time spring arrived, that ghastly appearance in the mirror was no more.

I had notable biceps, pecs, and even abs. And that muscle mass has remained with me ever since.

The vibes are off.

I never heard this phrase growing up. But I hear it plenty now.

It seems to be a code word for young adults. A cryptic excuse for opting out of a gathering or obligation.

People will bail on parties, dinner dates, and hobbies when the vibes are off. They’ll skip out on a workday just because they aren’t feeling up to it.

This is not a new phenomenon by any means. But it’s more prevalent than ever these days.

There are valid explanations for all this. A mental health reckoning has changed the ways we address concerns of the mind. And advances in technology have reduced the essentiality of in-person interactions.

We no longer fear losing our job if we get to work 10 minutes late. We no longer feel we’ll be shamed for missing out on a social activity.

The vibes are off excuse provides legitimate protection. And it’s changed the way we operate.

Now, this shift has not always been smooth for everyone. Many businesses have had to reckon with strange demand patterns, as consumers determine whether the vibes are good or not. Many employers have been left to guess as to who will be reporting to work for them on any given day.

And all of this has led to plenty of anger and resentment. Practitioners of the vibes are off approach have been labeled as lazy, selfish, or untrustworthy.

I get it. As a proud purveyor of The Lunch Pail Mentality, I am no fan of half-measures.

But I’m not here to hurl another tomato at those exhibiting behavior.

My concern is far more existential.

Let’s return to that morning in high school when I woke up sore.

I’d encountered aching muscles and joints before. I’d spent a season on the school’s cross-country team, and I’d been floored by the flu when I younger.

But this was different. I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.

Getting to the bathroom was an adventure. Getting dressed was another one. Everything hurt like it had never hurt before.

There was no way I could lift weights in this state. I was sure of it.

So, when I got to school, I told my Physical Education teacher as much. He laughed heartily.

Oh, you can still hit the weights, he said. Fight through that soreness. It’s the only way you build muscle.

The teacher explained that no one walked out of the gym looking like Johnny Bravo. Not after a single session, anyway.

It would take repeat trips to the weight room to see results. It would take day after day of breaking down muscle and rebuilding it in bulk.

I would need to embrace the pain and endure the monotony to achieve my goals. And it started right here.

I could have walked away at that moment. I could have determined the prize wasn’t worth the process.

But I kept sticking with it. And I ended up attaining my goals.

I wonder sometimes how others might handle that same situation these days. I fear they’d walk away.

You see, there’s a 100% chance that the vibes will be off during a workout journey. Rebuilding our body after we intentionally broke it is an inherently uncomfortable process. And discomfort is something we’re now well versed in avoiding.

But the opportunity cost of this opt out is massive. Not only do we miss out on some needed muscle, but we turn down the sensation of delayed gratification.

When we pull the plug, we learn little about enduring the struggle to reap the rewards. And we don’t get to discover how much sweeter those rewards taste after the strife.

We cut ourselves off from an entire class of attainment. We limit our world of accomplishments to the low-hanging fruit.

That is the crux of my concern with this opt-out movement. It’s less about what we deny others, and more about what we deny ourselves.

Namely, the chance to grow. The opportunity to expand our horizons and diversify our knowledge.

We don’t get there by turning our back on the gauntlet. Or by burying our head in the sand.

We get there by sticking with it. By committing to the journey as part of the destination.

We get there by embracing the grind, no matter what the vibes say.

This quest starts as an individualistic one. But if enough of us follow the path, it can change the fortunes of our society.

We’ll open ourselves to greater opportunities. We’ll attain more of our potential. And we’ll all be better for it.

So, let’s commit to sticking with it. In the weight room and in countless situations outside of it. And let’s follow through on that resolution.

Our future lies in the balance.

Reality and Delusion

It was quiet, peaceful, even picturesque.

Warm sunlight radiated through blue skies and puffy clouds above me. Green grass stretched across the rolling landscape in all directions. A breeze lightly rustled the branches of nearby trees.

I spent a moment taking it all in. Then I walked over to a small outbuilding.

This structure looked like a modest in-ground shed. One that might be used for curing meats, chiseling tools, or milling flour.

But a large plaque near the entrance explained that it was once used for a far different purpose.

Decades before I’d ambled up to it, this building had been a kiln. Not for pottery. But for people.

The Nazis had used this outbuilding as an extermination chamber during the Holocaust. They’d forced scores of victims inside, barred the door, and turned up the heat to uninhabitable levels. Long after the screaming and banging sounds within the chamber ceased, officers would move the bodies to a mass grave.

Then they’d round up another group and do it all over again.

The plaque explained all this with a horrifying matter-of-factness. And it was far from unique. Plaques outside nearby outbuildings explained how Nazis once poisoned victims with gas or strangled them from coat hooks there.

The splendor of the day vanished. The serenity of my surroundings started to haunt me.

I might have been born generations after the Buchenwald Concentration Camp was liberated. But as I stood within its gates, I felt that I hadn’t. The horrors of this place were tangible to me, in a way no history book could ever emulate.

There was no room for denial. There were no opportunities for delusion.

The reality was stark.

Never forget.

Those two words reverberated through our society in the weeks and months after September 11^th, 2001.

Those words served as a poignant reminder, but they hardly seemed necessary.

Who could forget the horrors of what had just happened? Life as we’d known it had changed instantly. And the signs of that shift – from beefed up airport security to the cloud of debris hovering over New York City – were still everywhere.

There was no chance we’d forget. I was sure of it.

Instead, we’d carry that experience forward with us. We’d recall what had been lost on that sunny September morning. We’d remain clear-eyed about what had been gained in the days after, when we rallied as one. And we’d ensure we wouldn’t face the same crucible again in the future.

This viewpoint remained steadfast for years. But it’s not unquestioned anymore.

As I write this, we’re at a point of inflection. Many of the young adults making their mark on society were born after the 9/11 attacks. Others were too young back then to remember anything about that era.

This ascendant generation doesn’t know a world without metal detectors and body scanners. It can’t comprehend a world without the Department of Homeland Security. Heck, it has no idea what a world without the Internet in their pockets looks like.

This would seem to be a blessing. An opportunity to thrive in the post 9/11 world without being marred by its trauma.

But instead, it’s turned into a curse.

Some adults, you see, have refused to take accounts of that fateful day at face value. Instead of seeing the ordeal as a grave tragedy our national defenses failed to thwart, they’ve become apologists for the attackers.

They’ve claimed that our government was to blame – not for failing to prevent the attack, but for failing to hear out the terrorists who planned it. They’ve even claimed that some geopolitical decisions – such as placating the terrorists’ manifesto demands about a Middle East peace plan – would have prevented the attacks entirely.

This narrative has spread like wildfire recently, thanks in great part to the diesel fuel of social media algorithms. It’s spurred discussion and spawned further questions.

But make no mistake. It’s not even remotely true. It’s a delusion.

The ultimate credo of the attackers was not to reshape geopolitics. Their goal was to bring an end to America.

No amount of dialogue would have placated these terrorists. They had declared themselves enemies in a zero-sum game. Nothing would have led them to abandon their perverted mission.

But some in this newer generation didn’t seem to care about the facts on the ground. This delusional notion of a diplomatic offramp seemed tidy enough, and they presented it as reality.

So, decades after I made a pledge to never forget, I’ve now found my own experience – my own existence – gaslit by those immune to the horrors I lived through.

It’s infuriating. It’s frustrating. And it’s leaving me with serious concerns about those set to take my place.

Still, I’m not giving up hope that things will get back on the right track.

When I was growing up, a song called The Sign reached the top of the Billboard charts.

One of the lyrics from that Ace of Base tune is still quoted widely.

Life is demanding without understanding.

I think about that line often when it analyzing my differences with the next generation.

Yes, I consider members of this generation to be delusional at times. But could the real problem be one of demanding without understanding?

Perhaps these young adults mean no malice with their Monday Morning Quarterbacking of a profound national tragedy. Perhaps they’re solely guilty of looking at a long-ago incident from a modern perspective.

And perhaps I should do a better job of understanding what’s behind their perspective. So, let’s take a walk in their shoes.

This is a generation that came of age in the shadow of broken promises. Institutions weren’t living up to their billing, and activists were taking them to task for that failure.

These events led to real changes in power dynamics and spheres of influence. And it led to a belief that aggressive diplomacy could solve all of society’s challenges.

So, yes, it’s only natural that the next generation would view the 9/11 attacks far differently than mine.

And yet, I can’t quite let them off the hook.

You see, peddling in delusion is dangerous. It can cause the lessons of yesterday to go unheeded. And it can tarnish the sanctity of tomorrow.

I might not have been around during the Holocaust. And I might not have known anyone who survived the horrors of that time. But even in my earliest years, I always knew better than to give the Nazis any semblance of legitimacy.

Why? Because I read, I watched, and I internalized.

I read the historical accounts of the Holocaust in my history textbooks. I listened to the stern tones of my teachers and my parents when they discussed those atrocities. And I internalized that what the Nazis did was both inexcusable and wrong.

Visiting the site of Buchenwald only solidified this understanding. It only strengthened my resolve to respect the historical record, ugly as it was. And to avoid leveraging my generational distance to ask What if? For that was a question that led nowhere productive.

In a strange way, this approach has helped protect the legacy of the Holocaust. The most tragic of cautionary tales must remain that way so that its treachery is not repeated. Those furthest removed from the atrocities have the most influence in keeping the mission alive.

When it comes to 9/11, The Great Recession, and other crucibles of my era, the generation after mine has great power. They can accept the reality of what occurred, letting the humility of that knowledge guide them. Or they can fall prey to delusion and false narratives, forgetting the lessons of the past as they rewrite it.

There is still time to choose the right path. I hope they do.

The Right Track

We were in a pickle.

A debrief spouted out the dire news in slide after slide. Flagging sales. Frustrated customers. Poor product adoption.

A sense of exasperation filled the virtual meeting. I could sense steam rising from the foreheads of my colleagues, arrayed in small squares on my computer screen.

Everyone seemed perplexed as to why the status quo wasn’t working. But no one was willing to offer an alternative.

So, I did.

I recommended a new approach. One wholly focused on the most basic business concerns of our customers, and how our company – rather than its offerings – could help solve them.

There would be little mention of the details. We would hold product-specific specs in reserve until the customer requested them. We would deprioritize concerns about onboarding or data integrations when crafting our messaging.

Those were important issues, no doubt. But our company wouldn’t have the privilege of addressing them if the customers didn’t see the need for our services. And, in that regard, this broader messaging might cast a wider net.

Several people seemed uneasy with this suggestion. I could see them squirm a bit and glare at their webcams.

But no one outright told me no. So, I put my plan into action.

This didn’t quite work the way I hoped. And I found myself supporting a different business segment as a result.

It was a humbling experience. But I wasn’t disheartened.

For the essence of my original suggestions found new life with a new regime and a few refinements. And as I watched the relaunch from across the business, Version 2.0 started gaining momentum.

The business segment was no longer stuck in the mud. It was slowly, steadily making progress.

I might not have had the right answer. But I was on the right track.

I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.

This is perhaps the most famous quote from America’s most lauded inventor – Thomas Edison.

We can thank Edison for many modern staples, including video cameras, audio recording equipment, and – of course – the light bulb. But there were plenty of potential innovations that went bust in his lab as well.

Those duds might seem like footnotes. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

If Edison hasn’t experienced those failings, he likely wouldn’t have found such wild success. He would have gotten gun-shy, or proven unwilling to tinker and iterate.

Yes, even if he didn’t have the right answer, Edison was willing to explore the right track to find it. He didn’t let the twists and turns of that track distract him from the mission.

This spirit is sorely lacking today.

All too often, we aim to have the right answer before we open our mouths or lift our hands. We hesitate to make our move unless we have absolute certainty of success.

In a sense, this is understandable. No one wants to look foolish. And we strive not to be the person before the person behind the breakthrough, as I was.

But the right answer rarely grows on trees. Sometimes, it’s a Google search away. But most times it must be cultivated.

Committing to the right track gets us there, even if it doesn’t promise an immediate payoff. And the more we absolve ourselves of that dirty work, the fewer right answers we uncover.

Our knowledge base gets smaller. All while problems get bigger.

It’s a recipe for disaster.

We often say that Thomas Edison’s inventions changed the world.

They did. But not quite in the way we might think.

Take the light bulb. The filament encased in glass was a vast improvement over candles and gas lamps. It posed less of a fire hazard than those traditional lighting methods. And it could be turned on and off at will.

But it couldn’t become ubiquitous outside Edison’s lab without another innovation. Namely, a system to generate electricity and ferry it to the bulbs.

Edison turned his attention to building this system. And within a few years, his Direct Current (DC) utility system had been installed in multiple cities.

It was a crowning achievement for Edison. A paradigm shifting solution.

Or so he thought.

You see, DC wiring helped illuminate Edison’s perfect replacement for candles and gas lamps. But the DC system itself was far from perfect.

Its equipment was bulky and inefficient. And the required voltages proved devastatingly dangerous for anyone caught in the electric current.

A new solution – Alternative Current (AC) utilities – had none of these concerns. It was more adaptable than the DC system, and it didn’t require as high a voltage throughout the distribution chain.

The pioneers of the AC power distribution system in the United States were George Westinghouse and Nikola Tesla. Westinghouse was a rival to Edison, while Tesla was a former Edison employee.

Predictably, Edison fought relentlessly against the AC standard. The ensuing showdown for utility standard adoption because known as The War of the Currents. And it was riveting for a time.

But ultimately, AC power won out. It was more modern, more cost-efficient, and safer than DC power. It checked all the boxes to become the de-facto standard.

Edison was undoubtedly stung by this setback. He had sought to tie his legacy to his power generation exploits. But instead, he found it confined to the light bulb.

But Edison’s failure was not one of innovation. Rather, it was one of framing.

Edison was on the right track with the DC power system. It established the infrastructure that AC power could iterate upon.

But by declaring the right track to be the right answer, Edison closed the book prematurely. He limited his horizons, he capped his knowledge, and he abandoned his pursuit of the problem.

It was a costly mistake.

Which Edison do we want to be?

We all face this dilemma, no matter our level of innovativeness.

Do we want to be the tinkerer, the iterator who finds a yes through 10,000 nos? Or the authority who stands in front of yes like a stone wall.

That first option doesn’t sound too appealing. It requires patience and persistence, and it brings you face-to-face with rejection.

But make no mistake. The costs of the second option are far starker.

Yes, clinging to the right answer at all costs is a fool’s errand. One that can send us down the wrong path or keep us from pursuing the right one.

So, let’s change course.

Let’s open our minds. Let’s tap into our reservoirs of courage. And let’s commit to getting on the right track.

We won’t regret it.

Notorious

Come on! Aim for the edges.

My grandfather gave the order from across the ping pong table. I paused for a moment, unsure of myself.

This was my paternal grandfather – my dad’s dad. I had spent less time with him in my youth than I had my other grandfather – my mother’s father, who I’ve written about extensively. As such, I couldn’t quite get a read on him.

My grandfather held a sizable lead in this ping pong match. So, what was behind his command?

Was he trying to coach me up? To let me back into the game? To mess with my head and finish me off?

The first explanation seemed the simplest – and the least sinister. So, I let the words Aim for the edges wash over me.

I took a deep breath. I readied my paddle. And I served the ball across the table with confidence.

My grandfather volleyed the ball back to me, and I angled my paddle toward the far edge of the table.

One well-placed swing sent the ball screaming toward the white stripe at the table’s edge. The ball hit that stripe flush, just beyond the net. Then it careened further and further away from the table.

It was a perfect shot. The best one I’d ever hit.

But my grandfather refused to let it go uncontested. He lunged to his right, trying to salvage the point.

This was ill-advised.

Not only did my grandfather fail to reach the ball, but he also failed to keep his balance. He fell like a Ponderosa Pine, landing with full force on his right shoulder.

That landing spot was triple padded. Carpet on top of rubber on top of foam. Such are the luxuries of setting up a ping pong table in a condominium’s aerobics room.

But it didn’t matter.

The sheer force of impact broke my grandfather’s shoulder in two places.

The game was over. And so was life as I knew it.

My grandfather recovered from his injury in a matter of months.

But for years, family gatherings got a bit testy.

So, you’re the one who broke your grandfather…over a game of ping pong, my relatives would exclaim to me. Why would you do that?

The critique seemed a bit tongue-in-cheek. But I quickly learned that these relatives were not joking.

I couldn’t find an explanation that would ease the tension. No one wanted to hear that the injury was an accident, that I won that point, or that my grandfather told me to hit the ball where I did.

Despite my best intentions, I felt like Persona Non Grata. I was notorious.

Eventually, my family moved on. I stopped getting grief and started to attend these gatherings uninhibited.

But this whole experience cast a long shadow.

I still don’t think I’ve played ping pong since my grandfather’s injury decades ago. And I’m wary about engaging in any athletic actitivies with my relatives.

What if I get hurt, or get someone else hurt? I’ll never hear the end of it.

An unfortunate sequence of events has literally shifted family dynamics.

And this experience is far from unique.

There’s a famous Internet image of a young girl staring, nonplussed, away from the camera.

The image has been dubbed Side Eyeing Chloe, after the then-toddler it profiles. And it’s been repurposed for countless memes and GIFs.

The backstory behind this image is relatively ordinary. Chloe’s parents surprise her by saying that the family is heading to Disneyland. But instead of letting out a gleeful shriek, Chloe stares off to the side, her mouth slightly agape.

No one quite knows what young Chloe was actually thinking at the time. Was she confused? Concerned? Secretly elated?

It doesn’t really matter. The Internet saw the side-eyed glance and filled in the blanks.

Now, toddler Chloe’s face is one Google search away. She’s notorious. And real-life Chloe – now a teenager – is trapped in that notoriety.

I’ve never met Chloe. But I feel for her.

It’s no fun to have your narrative co-opted. To be typecast for one image, one depiction, one outcome you set into motion.

It can lead you to abandon an activity you’re just starting to master. It can strain relationships with those you share a last name with. It can drag you through the dirt out of the blue.

Notorious is no way to be.

Not long ago, I traveled with my father and my paternal grandparents to a small town in Missouri.

My father was born in this town, while my grandfather was in medical school. But the family moved away shortly thereafter.

The medical school’s homecoming was going on while we were in town, and the school hosted a 5K race as part of the festivities. Despite not knowing the town or the terrain, I signed up.

The race was old school, with the director firing a starting gun and noting finishing times on a stopwatch. The course proved to be a challenge, with a vast section of it traversing thick woods on the edge of town.

I was up against it. But in the end, I was the first to break the tape. I received a large plaque for my efforts – a plaque that sits front and center on my mantle today.

Winning that race was certainly a thrill. But the first emotion I felt after crossing the finish line was relief.

I’d just won a race down the street from both my father’s first home and the medical school my grandfather had attended.

In a strange way, my grandfather had given me this opportunity to excel athletically. And I’d honored that opportunity by bringing the family name to the winner’s podium.

Maybe the ping pong debacle wouldn’t hang over me for eternity. Perhaps I’d be notorious in family circles for something positive.

I hope my experience is not an anomaly. I hope others made notorious get a chance at redemption.

Yet, that hope carries a burden to become reality. A burden with two sides.

It’s on the notorious to seize the opportunity at a fresh start. But it’s also on all of us to offer them an open mind and a second chance.

Chloe deserves to be more than Side Eyeing Chloe, just like I deserved to be more than The guy who broke his grandfather’s shoulder playing ping pong.

Let’s stop willfully tying a snippet from the past to the infinite future. Let’s give each other the grace we deserve instead.

Notorious no more. That’s something worth getting behind.

The Shadow of Legacy

It came from Sears.

A standard basketball hoop, anchored by a large plastic base.

My father assembled the rim, backboard, and metal support. Then he filled the cavity of the base with water from a garden hose. He screwed the cap atop the base shut and turned to my sister and me.

Alright kids. Have at it.

We took turns dribbling a basketball on the back patio. Then we took aim at the hoop.

This pattern repeated itself for years. My sister and I would head outside to battle it out, one on one, on the patio.

But this activity wasn’t relegated to our suburban home.

In nearby New York City, there were millions of basketball hoops. They could be found in parks, in courtyards and on rooftop terraces.

Most city dwellers didn’t have a backyard, like we did. They couldn’t long toss a baseball at home or hone their golf swing.

But they could hoop right in their neighborhood. And sometimes, when I was in the big city, I’d join them.

Basketball was a New York thing. The city claimed the sport as its own, and I saw no reason to dispute those claims.

But then a funny thing happened.

I was watching the NCAA men’s basketball tournament one year, and the University of Connecticut’s squad made the championship game.

As Connecticut closed in on a national title, pundits exclaimed how unusual this all was. Where was Kentucky, or Kansas, or North Carolina?

I was confused.

Basketball was a city game. It was New York City’s game. Why would some country folk in Kansas or Kentucky or North Carolina lay claim to it?

Heck, even Connecticut wasn’t exactly the big city. But it was a close enough drive away.

What was going on?

I had much to learn.

Some time later, I took out a book from the school library about Dr. James Naismith.

Naismith, I learned, was a Canada native who made his way to the United States in the late 19^th century. While working at the YMCA in Springfield, Massachusetts, Naismith invented a game for the patrons there.

Naismith mounted a wooden peach basket to the end wall of the gym. Then, he had the patrons toss a soccer ball into the elevated basket.

A competition soon followed, governed by 13 specific rules Naismith authored. Basketball was born.

I was stunned. Everything I thought I knew about the sport was wrong.

Basketball hadn’t come from New York City. It had been imported from New England – its pretentious neighbor to the northeast.

If anything, the University of Connecticut had a better claim to hoops hegemony than New York did. Naismith invented the game a mere 30 miles from the university’s campus.

But there were more shoes to drop.

Naismith, as it turns out, didn’t stay in Massachusetts all that long after inventing basketball. By the turn of the century, he’d headed west to Lawrence, Kansas.

Naismith joined the faculty at the University of Kansas, and he organized a basketball team there. The sport was still new, spreading across the country through the YMCA network. So, the early Kansas teams mostly took on squads from nearby YMCAs. After 9 years of this, Naismith stepped away to take on other duties at the school.

One of the players on those Kansas teams – Phog Allen – would return coach the squad several years later, leading it to decades of success. Two of Allen’s players – Adolph Rupp and Dean Smith – would go on to coach the University of Kentucky and the University of North Carolina, respectively. Their guidance helped put those programs on the map, solidifying them among the sport’s “Blue Bloods.”

Those pundits’ mentions of Kansas, Kentucky, and North Carolina after Connecticut reached the promised land? They were no accident, no coincidence.

Yes, basketball’s roots are planted in the fields of rural America, rather than the blacktop of the big city.

And it all had to do with the particulars of a Canadian’s resume.

I might have grown up playing basketball in the suburbs of New York City. But I didn’t plant my roots there.

I ultimately moved to Texas. And I’ve spent my entire adult life under Lone Star skies.

Many in my orbit struggled to come to terms with this at first. Sure, I’d moved for a job. But it wasn’t one in the oil industry, on a cattle ranch, or at NASA. There were plenty of other places I could have gone for the exact same vocation.

I understood this apprehension. After all, I once considered Kansas a basketball afterthought. But I refused to acquiesce to it.

Gradually, the apoplectic comments dwindled. Or maybe I stopped paying attention to them.

Then, the COVID pandemic hit. And the conversation changed.

Now, my perspective didn’t shift during this time. I didn’t leave Texas at all for 17 months during the international health crisis. And I didn’t even entertain the thought of living anywhere else.

But the story was far different for others all over the country. Plenty of people saw the pandemic disruption as an opportunity to relocate. And relocate they did.

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this development. Sure, it was great to see millions planting new roots without facing a deluge of apprehension. But just how deeply were they planting those roots?

You see, over the years, I’ve come to appreciate what Dr. James Naismith did. By having a transient career, he not only spawned the game of basketball, but he helped grow it in multiple locales.

This was no small feat. There was no technology to spread news across the nation in a flash back then. And tradition ruled the roost.

Naismith had to evangelize the game in the communities where he was stationed. He had to use the scattershot geography of his resume to build grassroots connections.

He had to leave the shadow of legacy on the places he called home.

This is why basketball’s hall of fame in Springfield and Kansas’ home court in Lawrence carry Naismith’s name. It’s why Kansas’ arena is named for his contemporary – Phog Allen. It’s why Kentucky and North Carolina’s arenas sport the names of Allen’s contemporaries – Rupp and Smith.

The shadow of legacy brings gravitas to geography. Even if such geography is bestowed that legacy by happenstance.

But when a software developer writes code in Boise and uploads it to their employer’s servers in Silicon Valley, does that golden rule still apply?

I doubt it. And I mourn for our collective loss.

When I first moved to Texas, my resume matched my home address.

I was producing evening newscasts for a massive swath of West Texas, covering the daily events of Oil Country. On Friday nights, I was calling small town Dairy Queens to see if the employees knew the score of the local high school football game. I’d then report those scores on the air.

It really didn’t get more Texas than that.

Over the years, this professional connection to my state has dimmed. As a marketer in the technology space, I’ve long worked to reach national – even international – audiences. And my employer was acquired by a company based roughly a thousand miles from Texas some years ago.

Still, I take the shadow of legacy seriously.

I’ve joined groups in my city many of my personal and professional hobbies. I’ve seized many opportunities to volunteer in the area. I’ve supported across the State of Texas – in good times and bad. And I’ve supported both local sports teams and entertainers with steadfast vigor.

I might not end up as a household name in Texas, with buildings carrying my moniker. But this place is more than a line on my resume. It’s a part of me.

Texas is my home. And I want to give as much to it as it has to me.

It’s my sincere hope that those who’ve relocated in recent years consider a similar approach.

Yes, it’s easier than ever to swap out home addresses without facing a crucible. But if we cede the chance to build connection, we miss a giant opportunity.

So, let’s rebuild that connection. Let’s rediscover the shadow of legacy. Let’s nurture it and allow it to take root.

We’ll all be better for it.

Fresh and Clean

You’re bound to regret that choice.

I heard this comment over and over.

I’d just purchased a new SUV with a black paint job. In Texas. In the summer.

Many people thought I was in for a heaping of buyer’s remorse. A white paint job would have been a better choice, they said.

This argument made some sense. White colored items tend to deflect heat, while black colored items do the opposite. And Texas, you might have heard, features plenty of heat for much of the year.

Add it all up, and the black SUV was essentially a furnace. Buying it was a bad decision. Case closed.

But I was unconvinced. For I knew what a hassle a white paint job would prove to be.

You see, Texas doesn’t have blue skies year-round. There are plenty of days where the atmosphere is saturated with dust, pollen, or raindrops.

Those elements gather on anything in their path – including vehicles with white paint jobs. So, if I had such a vehicle, it would often look dirty. I’d need to head to the car wash time and again to get the grime off.

That wasn’t how I wanted to spend my time – or my money. So, I went with the black SUV. And I waved off any intimations of remorse.

A few years later, I was shopping for some new shoes.

I found a pair of Nike Air Force 1’s at the store. They fit well, had a leathery exterior, and were all black.

This last detail was critical. I could wear these shoes with jeans and any shirt without looking out of place. I could even wear them to work on Casual Fridays.

I bought the Nikes.

Soon, my friends started giving me uneasy looks.

You know that drug dealers wear black AF1’s right? they exclaimed. You should’ve gotten the white ones.

I did not, in fact, know this. I must have missed the note on the store display.

But even if I did get that memo, it wouldn’t have led me to buy the white pair.

Just like a white vehicle, white shoes are dirt magnets. And they’re even harder to clean.

So, I held firm. I kept wearing my black AF1’s and driving my black SUV. And I ignored the whispers around me.

I believed I was following common sense, even if I did absorb some extra heat for my decisions.

But as I looked around, I realized just how unusual those decisions were. It seemed like every other person I passed on the street sported white Air Force 1’s. And every other vehicle I saw on the roads had a white paint job.

That had me scratching my head.

Vehicles and tennis shoes are just two fronts in a movement. A movement I don’t understand.

Namely the white finish movement.

It’s seemingly everywhere.

Our walk-in closets are full of white dress shirts. Countertops, walls, and porcelain appliances tend to sport a white sheen. Office lobbies and shopping malls feature ornate white tile.

We’re drawn to this bright look. We relish the freshness it provides. And we fill our world with it.

But there’s a catch.

We have no patience for any blemishes on our shiny canvas. We can’t stand it when that crisp, white finish looks anything but. When a tomato stain appears on our button-down shirt. When a skid mark tarnishes the marble floors.

To stave off the unconscionable, we kick into overdrive. We devote as much effort as we can to preserving that shine.

We send our shirts off to the cleaners, time and again. We scrub our floors and finishes until our hands are chapped, and then scrub some more. We take hours out of our day, money out of our wallets, and water out of circulation – all to maintain appearances.

It’s all absurdly wasteful. And more than a bit nonsensical.

Recently, I saw an unusual commercial.

The ad features a black box in the middle of a West Texas road.

After several elaborate motions, the box transforms into…a toilet. More specifically, a smart toilet manufactured by Kohler.

Now, I’m not in the market for a toilet. And I was less than enthused to see one unveiled on a road I once drove on.

Still, one detail of the ad did resonate with me. The color of the toilet.

A black toilet would seem to make a lot of sense. After all, it’s an appliance that collects our messiest bodily functions and disposes of them. A crisp, clean look runs counter to a toilet’s actual function.

And yet, I’ve rarely encountered a porcelain throne that did not have a white finish. Which means a great many people have spent a great amount of time preserving that shiny look, over and over.

Now, this is not to say that such actions are pointless. I certainly understand the importance of cleaning toilets.

But the prime purpose of such actions should be to keep the toilet sanitary, not to keep the white finish looking crisp. Maybe if the porcelain was black, it would reinforce that point.

The same principle can apply to bathtubs and sinks with a white finish. Or to white-colored kitchen countertops and tile floors. It could even apply to white shirts, shoes, or SUVs.

None of those items are expressly designed to be sullied, the way a toilet is. But we waste too much effort cleaning them, just to maintain an aesthetic. Perhaps with a different hue, we’d follow a healthier pattern for this task.

Maybe, just maybe, we’d break free of the madness.

It turns out a black finish alone didn’t keep my SUV clean.

Dried raindrops would leave gray marks all over. Dirt and pollen would stick to the clear coat for days on end.

I’ve made my fair share of trips to the car wash over the years. And I’ve given my Air Force 1’s a once over now and then.

Still, these activities are proportional to actual need. They’re meant to keep these items clean, not belie the fact that they were lived in.

And that’s precisely the point.

It’s time to stop condemning ourselves to a prison of our own making. It’s time to quit walking on eggshells in defense of an aesthetic.

We need something more feasible, more adaptable, and more efficient.

Color choices alone won’t get us there. But they’re a start.

Let us begin.

Hidden Battles

He was a grocer. A blue-collar American. The first man in my family to carry my last name.

I never met him. And neither did my father.

A heart attack felled my great grandfather before he could even see his 50^th birthday. The tragic event cast a shadow over my family. One that was still hard to ignore when I entered the picture three decades later.

The other side of my family tree was no less somber. My mother adored her paternal grandfather. But by the time she was in grade school, he was gone. A heart attack claimed him too.

Heart disease is a sobering reality in my family. The leading cause of death in America has wreaked havoc on my family tree.

Even those who’ve managed to fend off the reaper ended up sporting pronounced war wounds. My mother’s father survived two heart attacks, a triple bypass, and a stroke in his nine decades on this planet.

I remember the third and fourth legs of that odyssey. I vividly recall the toll it took on him. The toll it took on all of us.

I observed it. I absorbed it. And I buried it.

Until now.

Everyone’s fighting a battle you know nothing about.

I’ve seen this phrase more and more recently. It’s a hallmark of the era we live in.

Those eight words are meant to serve as a powerful reminder. A reminder not to judge others for what they show us through their actions. And a reminder to not be so secretive ourselves.

I’ve long struggled to heed this advice.

I do my best not to cast stones at others. But I’m often hesitant to show my own cards. Even when doing so might help clarify my actions.

This dichotomy came into sharp focus some years back. I’d recently entered the world of competitive running, ramping a modest exercise routine into a full-fledged recreational hobby.

My commitment to the sport was notable – and intense. And soon everyone around me was asking one question: Why?

Why was I doing this? What kept me going?

I’d often provide stock responses to these inquiries.

I do it because I’m good at running!

I do it because I love running!

I do it because no other experience matches it!

All those statements were technically true. But none of them represented my why.

They weren’t the reason why I showed up in an empty parking lot at 5:30 in the morning. They weren’t the reason I cranked out the miles until my legs and lungs hurt. They weren’t the reason I spent hundreds of dollars on gear and entered every race I could.

No, the reason – the real reason – I did all these things was my family history.

I was haunted by the legacy of heart disease in my lineage. I was determined to stay in shape and avert an early demise. And when it came to this objective, no other cardio workout quite compared to running.

So, I ran with vigor and determination. I made friends in the running community. I won medals in distance races.

I gained the upper hand in my hidden battle with heart disease.

And then I got injured. Four times over.

And a new set of hidden battles began.

There’s a famous video on the internet of a baby giraffe learning to walk.

The calf first struggles to stand up, then to steady itself, then to move on its own four feet.

Running for the first time after a hiatus is somewhat like this. You’re tentative and skittish at first, but eventually you get the hang of it.

But those first steps back are only half of the experience. The other half occurs the next morning, when you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.

It’s hard to explain the level of soreness that accompanies that first time back running. Muscles you didn’t know existed now radiate with pain. You find yourself shuffling about, hunched like an elderly person with sciatica.

It hurts to do just about anything, and it takes days for your body to loosen up.

I know this sensation all too well. After all, I’ve experienced it four times in less than two years.

Yes, this full body soreness has become a constant for me. A painful milestone I keep passing in a bevy of injuries and recoveries, of setbacks and comebacks.

This strange purgatory is foreign to many competitive runners. Some have stayed healthy throughout their journey. Others ran through an injury without taking a break. Their bodies have been spared the trauma that comes with starting all over again.

Even those who are forced to reboot will likely only go through this ritual once or twice. Rapid injury recurrence is somewhat rare in this sport. And those facing such affliction often step away for good.

So, I’m one in a million. Which makes me one of one.

I put myself through hell time and again, just to get back in motion. And others couldn’t possibly comprehend the struggle as well as I.

This has become my hidden battle. One that I’ve worked hard to keep under wraps.

But what good has that done me? Surely none.

Suffering in silence is still suffering. It brings me no closer to closure, and it pushes others away from understanding.

So, I’m changing course. I’m coming clean. I’m putting my cards on the table.

I’ve had my ups with running. And I’ve had my downs.

I’ve enjoyed the thrill of running free and easy. Of setting personal bests and standing on podiums. It’s scintillating.

But I’ve also felt the pain of running. Of acute injury, of drawn-out rehab, and of head-to-toe soreness that comes with every reboot. It’s miserable.

The peaks and valleys don’t always sync up. A return to glory as no more guaranteed than a fall from grace. Yet, I stick with it anyway.

For the alternative is not palatable.

I refuse to walk away from the fight. To bury my head in the sand. To willingly succumb to the ailments that have dogged my lineage.

I’m determined to stay active. To give myself a chance for more chapters to be written.

That’s worth the battle. Whether its fought in the shadows or the light.

The Rationality Trap

The email got straight to the point.

Unfortunately, we have made the difficult decision to close your nearest TGI Fridays location.

The email went on to list the location that would be shuttered. I was then encouraged to visit another TGI Fridays in the future.

That wouldn’t be happening.

This was the third Fridays location to close near me. Each of them had been within range of the brand’s headquarters – also a short drive from my home. And now, they were shuttered.

If I were to follow the prompt from the email, I’d need to travel 40 miles round trip to go to Fridays. And few meals were worth that.

I shared the news with my sister. We had grown up on Fridays, enjoying many family meals there after the Red Robin location we had frequented closed its doors. We loved the brand, the food, even the flair on the restaurant walls that was lampooned in the movie Office Space.

We were both despondent. But I was cleareyed.

I’d seen all the pivots the Fridays brand had made. The restaurant had tried to upscale its image, and it had recently added sushi to the menu. Yet, its restaurants remained mostly vacant – even as rival chain Chili’s was bustling.

I explained all this to my sister, sprinkling in some tidbits from a Wall Street Journal article I’d read. That feature detailed the steps Chili’s had taken to return to success – including streamlining its menu, making its restaurant kitchens more efficient, and consolidating its discount offerings into a single $10.99 value meal.

Fridays had done none of these things, at least not overtly. There seemed to be no plan to make the financials add up in the notoriously challenging restaurant industry. The brand was dying on the vine instead.

My sister said she understood. But she chided me for taking the rational view and parting so easily with restaurant nostalgia.

It was an innocuous comment. But it touched on something substantial.

The Reasonable Person Standard.

If you’ve ever been impaneled for jury selection, you’re likely familiar with this concept. The Reasonable Person Standard is the lens through which the jury views the accused’s alleged actions. It’s a critical part of the judgement equation.

Jurors must not only assess if the defendant did what they’re accused of. They must also determine if a reasonable person would have done the same in an identical situation.

In some cases, the answer to this is obvious. A reasonable person would not murder anyone, for instance. Such action is not only against the law. It’s also one of the Thou Shalt Nots in the Ten Commandments of the Bible.

But in other scenarios, the Reasonable Person Standard is far more difficult to discern. Jurors must put themselves in the accused’s shoes – all while considering the norms of society. A society that’s decidedly irrational.

This reality can make deliberations fraught. It’s nearly impossible to fit the chaos of the human mind into a tidy box. Yet, that’s something juries across America are tasked with each week.

And they’re not alone.

Step out of the courthouse and head to the office tower down the street. High up there in the boardroom or a corner office, you’ll likely find the Reasonable Person Standard at play.

Why? Because business relies on returns. Returns on investments, returns to scale, and returns of revenue.

The steadier those returns are, the more sustainable a company is. It’s hard to get outside financing, to improve operations, or to even make payroll if there’s turbulence with the money coming in.

So, businesses strive to make their products and services regularly desirable, so that a reasonable person will buy from them again and again.

This is the theory behind the revamp of Chili’s – the menu makeover, the streamlined kitchens, and the $10.99 value meal. More generally, it’s the fulcrum of the famous 4 P’s of marketing – Product, Price, Place, and Promotion. And zooming out even further, it’s the backbone of the federal economic projections that drive monetary policy.

The evidence is everywhere. Our society relies on the premise of reasonable people acting rationally.

But that narrative is nothing more than fantasy.

In the early days of the global COVID pandemic, one activity saw its popularity skyrocket.

Namely, viewings of the movie Contagion.

The film had been released nearly a decade before COVID emerged. Yet, as the world shut down, many people started streaming the movie in their homes.

Many of those viewers were stunned by what they saw, for varying reasons.

Some couldn’t imagine a world as deadly and dystopian as the one portrayed in Contagion. (Remember, these were still the early days of the pandemic.) Others were horrified about how similar the portrayal already was to reality.

No one had any idea how much worse things would get. The mask showdowns, the verbal attacks on public health officials, the incessant shaming of others – those ugly scenes would soon become our reality.

We did our best to write off that behavior in the moment. To blame an unhinged few for

for setting a horrendous example.

But more of us were acting horrendously than not at the time – myself included.

Stress and uncertainty had ripped away our carefully crafted veneer. Rationality had left the equation. The Reasonable Person was nowhere to be found.

This was the environment that our institutions contended with as the pandemic receded. Courts deluged with cases after a spike in crime. Corporations riding the roller coaster of consumer demand. Once-thriving restaurant chains now struggling to hang on.

All because a black swan event laid bare an illusion they relied on.

Those institutions are still struggling to get the upper hand, all these years later. They’re still mired in The Rationality Trap, their systems dependent on a debunked principle.

And while some have persevered better than others, such victories have proved fleeting. Our institutions remain mired in quicksand, hanging onto the edges of solid ground for dear life.

So yes, my sister was right. When it comes to restaurants – or any other institutional staple – nostalgia matters. Connection matters. The suspension of assumptions matters.

Let’s hope that we are able to heed the call. That we can free ourselves from the clutches of The Rationality Trap.

Before it’s too late.

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.

Author: Dylan Brooks