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 19th 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 50th 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.

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.

Follow the Leader

It starts with a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Forrest Gump wakes up one summer morning to an empty house. His love – Jenny – has departed in the dawn’s early light while he lay sleeping.

Alone and heartbroken, Gump laces up a pair of Nike running shoes. The same pair of Nikes that Jenny had gotten him for his birthday. And he goes for a jog in them.

The experience is invigorating to Gump, and he doesn’t want it to end. So, he keeps going until he reaches the ocean. Then he turns around and runs until he finds “another ocean.”

This pattern repeats itself for several years. But as it does, something changes.

Others join the fold. Not to race Gump, but to run in formation with him.

Some seek advice. Others are content with the sound of their feet hitting the pavement. But all follow, wherever Gump goes.

The entourage views him as a leader. Gump begrudgingly accepts this role – even though he ultimately strikes a match to it with seven words.

I’m pretty tired. Think I’ll go home now.

The movement fizzles out when Gump stops running. But the lessons of the experience live on.

When I was growing up, I would head with my father to the barbershop on Saturday mornings once a month.

We’d sit in adjoining chairs while two barbers – both native Italians with thick accents – gave each of us a haircut to our stylistic specifications. All the while, we’d talk.

We’d discuss the ballgame. We’d marvel at the new traffic light at the parking lot entrance. We’d gab about other events in our lives.

Discussions of leadership bring me back to the barbershop. It seems that everyone has their own style. And they’re none too shy about sharing their opinions with the world.

There have been books, documentaries, and debates about the practice of leadership. There have popular theories, handy checklists, and trendy buzzwords bandied about. There have been attempts to tie leadership to management, and efforts to cleave the two concepts apart.

But I wonder if we’re all making this too complicated. Perhaps the key to leadership is in the hands of Forrest Gump.

Of course, Gump is not an actual person. He’s a low-IQ character in an acclaimed movie from decades ago. That makes him all too easy to dismiss in this discussion.

But let’s consider Gump’s journey again. He goes for a run, and others follow along. While Gump doesn’t seek out this group, he provides them direction nonetheless. All by continuing to do what he’d already been doing.

Maybe that’s all that’s required to be a leader. No superhero cape. No upskilling. No bluster.

We just need to be worthy of following. And we need to do something that inspires others to follow us.

It’s harder than it sounds. Especially if we try.

You are here to become a leader.

I listened incredulously as my college orientation got underway.

The school I’d devoted the next four years of my life to was acclaimed for many things. Football. Partying. Sun tans. But leadership was not traditionally one of them.

The university president was on a quest to change all that. And it started with this speech to freshly arrived students.

The president knew what she was talking about. After all, she’d come to campus after a stint in a White House cabinet.

She understood the power of effective leadership. And she was committed to bringing it to the next generation.

But I was not buying what this campus leader was selling.

You see, I fancied myself many things as I sat in the arena that day. But aspiring leader was not one of them.

I’d just spent high school in the shadows, content to let others drive the agenda in the classroom, in the lunchroom, and on the baseball field. I fancied myself more a follower than a leader, and I had no qualms with that.

I didn’t think I was cool enough to be a leader. I didn’t consider myself charismatic enough to be a leader. I didn’t believe I was talented enough to be a leader.

And even if I had regarded myself that way, I didn’t want to be a leader. Following seemed so much safer.

But the university president’s words proved prescient. For as I progressed through my studies – and eventually into the workforce – I started growing into the role demanded of me.

This was by no means intentional. I honestly didn’t try to change my approach much this whole time.

But staying true to myself started to yield me a following. One that started small but soon grew to the point where it couldn’t be ignored.

That revelation brought some gravity. I still wasn’t quite sure what made me worthy of following. But the why didn’t matter. I felt responsible for my followers. I would not, could not let them down.

I might not have been seeking out leadership. But it found me, much like it found Forrest Gump on the silver screen.

And I was ready to heed the call.

Childhood is often considered the age of innocence.

The youngest among us race around playgrounds, scarf down candy, and dream big dreams. All with a refreshing dose of enthusiasm.

But our earliest days are not immune to pressure. Quite the opposite.

We might feel the wrath of an overbearing parent, the strain of a sibling rivalry, or the crush of cultural demands from the land of our ancestors.

I encountered none of those forces growing up. The pressure I contended with was purely circumstantial.

I’m the first member of my generation. My sister and cousins are all younger than me. And from an early age, I understood what that meant.

Sure, I’d get the first crack at everything. But all eyes would be on me.

A misstep would risk setting an entire generation down the wrong path. It could shatter familial trust, relegating my existence to a cautionary tale.

My mission was to avoid that fate. And I took it seriously.

That’s one of the reasons I played it so safe in my youth. It helps explain why I yearned to be a follower – albeit one who followed the clean-cut crowd.

But looking back now, it’s hard to see anything but a missed opportunity.

You see, I’d been conscripted into the role of leader by pure circumstance. I had a sibling and a bevy of cousins who literally followed in my footsteps. Yet, I failed to make the most of the opportunity right under my nose for years.

Fortunately, my reluctance hasn’t had lingering effects. My sister and cousins are all grown up now, and all of us have found success.

Still, I feel an urge to do better with my second chance. To face the burden of leadership more directly. To prove to my followers that their choice was worthwhile.

This doesn’t require me to change much in terms of my fundamentals. But it does demand that I live my values with consistency.

When things are going well, I must not let it embolden my approach. And when times are tough, I must not run and hide.

Others are watching what I do and what I say. I must not fail them.

I know the path, and I’m ready to travel it with grace and humility. My hope is that I don’t undertake this journey alone.

For the truth is, leadership is not a talent or an accolade. It’s a responsibility. A responsibility those blessed with a following are bestowed with.

How we account for that responsibility matters. It matters more than our title, or any 10-step plan found in literature.

Simply put, it defines us.

So, let’s stop seeking out leadership bona fides. Let’s allow the quest to come to us.

And when it does, let’s handle that burden with care.