Folly and Redemption

On a chilly January night, the Jacksonville Jaguars and Los Angeles Chargers took the field in North Florida.

It was a National Football League playoff showdown, featuring two compelling teams led by rising stars.

A great game was in store. Or was it?

The game got off to an inauspicious start. Jacksonville quarterback Trevor Lawrence threw an interception on the second play of the game.

The misfire put Los Angeles in prime position to score. The Chargers put a touchdown on the board less than a minute later.

This was hardly the start Jaguars fans were expecting. But they surely didn’t expect what was still to come.

On Jacksonville’s next possession, Lawrence threw another interception. The Chargers took advantage of the blunder, scoring again.

Lawrence went on to throw a third interception later in the first quarter, and fourth in the second quarter.

By the time halftime arrived, the Chargers led the Jaguars by a score of 27 to 7. Lawrence was directly responsible for 17 points of that 20-point deficit.

It looked like the Jacksonville’s season was about to end with a thud. But another plot twist was in the offing.

The Jaguars came onto the field with renewed purpose in the second half. And slowly but surely, Jacksonville started chipping away at the deficit.

Lawrence stopped turning the ball over, tossing touchdown passes instead on three straight drives. And the Jaguars defense held the Los Angeles offense to three points, bending but never breaking.

With just a few minutes left, Lawrence found the ball in his hands one more time. His team trailed by two points.

Lawrence confidently led the Jacksonville offense down the field, putting them in position to kick a field goal.

The kicker drilled the attempt through the uprights with no time left on the clock. The Jaguars, improbably, won the game by a score of 31 to 30.

Their season was still alive.

In the days after this playoff football game, two narratives percolated through the media.

One claimed that the Los Angeles Chargers had choked. On the precipice of a road playoff win, they got complacent. And in doing so, they fell apart.

It was a compelling argument. Teams rarely waste 20-point halftime advantages in the NFL playoffs. Doing so requires them to squander countless opportunities, to be the architects of their own demise.

The label is sure to stick.

Even so, the more prevalent narrative from this game was that of Trevor Lawrence’s redemption. Pundits marveled at how the Jaguars signal-caller faced down adversity and led his team to a scintillating victory.

It was the stuff of Hollywood legend, it would seem. Except that it wasn’t.

You see, Lawrence hadn’t overcome adversity. He’d simply cleaned up his own mess.

His bone-headed decisions and poor throws had put Jacksonville on the brink of playoff elimination. As the leader of the team, it was his obligation to atone for his poor play.

Lawrence ultimately did that. But his second half performance was hardly the stuff of redemption.

Redemption, you see, has a distinct definition. It’s the process of getting back up when you’ve been knocked down. Of rising to the mountaintop after coming up short.

There’s a certain amount of pain intertwined with this process. There’s the haunting ache from having done your best – of having gotten so close – and finding yourself with nothing to show for it.

That ache serves as fuel to make the previously impossible, possible. That fuel is a key element of redemption. And it demands a baseline of achievement to even find a place in the tank.

What Lawrence did in the first half of that playoff game hardly counts as a baseline of achievement. He’d dug his team a deep hole through impotence, and you could hardly say that he deserved a better outcome than the one emblazoned on the scoreboard.

This was folly epitomized.

And yet, Jacksonville escaped unscathed.

Perhaps Trevor Lawrence wasn’t the only one to exhibit folly.

Yes, from a bird’s eye view, any analysis of his gridiron adventures seems silly.

This was but a game after all. Even with the hundred-million-dollar player salaries and tens of millions of TV viewers, football remains far from existential.

Yet, far from the bright lights of football fields, we’ve taken similar liberties with our pens. We’ve rebranded folly as redemption. And the implications are stark.

For such a reframe kneecaps the principles of accountability and remorse. It dulls our empathy and feeds our ego at the least suitable of times.

Indeed, if we classify our errors as chances for redemption, we fail to recognize their impact. We neglect to consider who our misdeeds hurt, and in what ways.

That collateral damage gets sidelined, deferred, ignored.

We put the humility on the back burner. We decline to make proper amends.

And as we rise from the ashes of our blunders, we recast ourselves as victims. Victims who have overcome strife on the road to achievements.

This is what happens when we tie redemption to folly. And it’s sickening.

I don’t know how we’ve gotten to this depraved reality

Perhaps we’ve internalized too many fairy tales. Perhaps we’ve taken silver linings from too many Steven King novels.

Perhaps it’s something different entirely.

Regardless, we need to open our eyes.

For when we neglect what’s now in favor of what’s next, we exacerbate our missteps. We cause the fissures of our blunders to become faults and fjords. We carry an air of entitlement, rendering ourselves too big to fail.

We lose. And everyone in our orbit suffers.

It would be far better to take our folly at face value. To accept the consequences of our mistakes and marinate in our remorse. To make amends, hat in hand.

Such habits will help foster a sense of compassion within our soul. They’ll steer us away from recklessness. They’ll provide a more sustainable path forward.

And above all that, they’ll keep us from commandeering redemption for our own grandeur. The concept can return to its rightful pedestal until we can raise ourselves up to prove worthy of its mantle.

This is how it should be. And I hope this is the way it will be.

Folly and redemption are oil and water. Let’s stop trying to mix them together.

The Butterfly Effect of Caution

Watch out for the turkey.

I heard this warning one fall as Thanksgiving approached.

I was quite young at the time – maybe 9 or 10. And I was perplexed.

You see, I wasn’t the biggest consumer of turkey back then. I preferred chicken.

But I sure feasted on the Thanksgiving turkey my relatives prepared each year. It was exquisitely roasted, neither too dry in texture nor too gamey in flavor. And it was perfectly carved.

It was everything I wanted at the center of my holiday plate. Why would I need to watch out for it?

My parents explained to me that the caution had nothing to do my relatives’ turkey. It was more about what was contained within all turkeys. Namely, an amino acid called Tryptophan.

Excessive Tryptophan makes you sleepy, they said. It exacerbates the food coma feeling that often overcomes Thanksgiving dinner guests.

These words didn’t quite land with me. After all, I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. I’d often watch television or play games with my cousins after the Thanksgiving meal was over. Midnight would approach and my energy would be nowhere near gone.

Turkey couldn’t possibly be the problem. No matter what anyone said.

My youthful innocence is long gone now. And so are my days consuming the Thanksgiving cornerstone.

I swore off turkey entirely in early adulthood. I no longer had any tolerance for its taste, no matter how it was roasted.

But even though I’ve heeded the advice of the naysayers, I don’t quite agree with the principle of it.

Turkey isn’t something we need to be wary of.

Not too long ago, I came across an article about which fruits best improve health.

Now, I’m no flagbearer for the clean eating movement. But the title was intriguing enough that I clicked through. (But not so intriguing that I saved the link. Apologies.)

The article went fruit by fruit, explaining each’s unique benefits. Much of this wasn’t news to me; I understood that berries were high in antioxidants and oranges had plenty of Vitamin C.

But when it came to bananas, something stopped me in my tracks. The article mentioned that the fruits provide a beneficial boost of tryptophan.

No way, I thought. Not because I was skeptical of the science. But more because I couldn’t imagine readers seeing tryptophan as a benefit.

Heck, I sure couldn’t.

The lore of the Thanksgiving Turkey Coma has taken over our society. It’s as much a part of the holiday narrative as family and football. And it’s turned tryptophan into a boogeyman ingredient.

In fact, tryptophan is so reviled that it sits on ingredient blacklists, alongside monosodium glutamate (MSG) and saturated fat. It deters health-obsessed diners, rather than attracting them.

For that reason, I was sure the article’s sales pitch for bananas would fall flat.

But we might be the ones who are bananas.

Yes, further research proved to me that we have tryptophan all wrong.

These amino acids, it turns out, are essential in creating serotonin. That’s the neurotransmitter impacting our moods, our pain tolerance, and yes, our sleep cycles. Without tryptophan in our bloodstream, we’d be a frazzled, unstable mess.

Fortunately, most of us don’t have this issue. For even if we’ve sworn off turkey, plenty of other foods contain tryptophan. Foods like chicken, eggs, fish, peanuts, milk, cheese, and – yes – bananas.

No matter our diet, the purported boogeyman ingredient has come for us. And we’re better for it.

It’s time we got the message.

Up in the mountain valleys of Utah live millions of followers of the LDS Church. Or Mormons, as they’re colloquially known.

Mormons live by a strict honor code. Alcohol, tobacco, coffee, and tea are forbidden by the church. Swearing is not permitted. Chastity is demanded until marriage.

For many of those outside of the LDS movement, these requirements seem a bit mind-boggling. Myself included.

I don’t smoke, and I’ve been sober for years. But I can’t imagine going a week without a cup of coffee or a four-letter word.

Yet, I defy this code of conduct with unease. I occasionally find myself wondering if those following the LDS Honor Code have it all right, and I have it all wrong.

The answer is far from straightforward.

You see, many Mormons live prosperous lives without a caffeine jolt or the chance to cuss someone out. But many non-Mormons live equally prosperous lives with those elements woven in.

The key to prosperity, it seems, is not necessarily bequeathal. Instead, it’s moderation.

It’s possible to thrive while drinking a cup of joe a day, rather than four. It’s possible to be considered classy, even if a swear word passes our lips now and then (but no more often than that).

Moderation is an art, not a science. We can leave our own mark – much the way Picasso and Rembrandt left unique brushstrokes on the canvases they graced.

The problem is that many of us are more Pollack or Rauschenberg than Picasso. Our grasp on moderation is nonexistent. It’s all or nothing.

This is how the lore of the Thanksgiving Turkey Coma can take root. We’d rather cast out the amino acid that causes us to doze off than consider how we can enjoy it more responsibly. We’d rather abstain than restrain.

I call this the Butterfly Effect of Caution. And it’s a serious problem.

For it leads us to blow things out of proportion. To stop in our tracks needlessly. To take a machete to what demands a scalpel.

The truth is there’s often a fair deal of good in what we label as bad. There are benefits in the balance.

But our turn toward sensationalism can keep those treasures beyond our grasp. It can turn lizards into Godzilla, computers into Skynet, and tryptophan into the boogeyman.

Yes, The Butterfly Effect of Caution causes us to lose more than we stand to gain. But we still have the power to choose a new path. A more moderate path.

We can let loose now and then without sabotaging our air of professionalism. We can hit the gym without provoking a world of pain.

And we can take a few bites of turkey, rather than resigning ourselves to imminent slumber.

The choice is ours.

So, let’s set that butterfly free.

Scope of Effect

It was an ordinary candy shop.

A row of ice cream vats sat behind a pane of glass. A bevy of other sweets – saltwater taffy, gummy worms, cotton candy and the like – was arrayed neatly on shelves along the far wall.

Nothing pointed to this place being special. But looks can be deceiving.

For this candy shop was in the middle of a resort town. Day after day, the large sign over its front door beckoned to a new set of tourists.

Many of these tourists were hungry as the sign caught their eye. Others were in the mood for a sweet indulgence.

Either way, this shop was perfectly placed to seize the opportunity. And those tourists were more than willing to open their wallets to make it happen.

It was a symbiotic relationship. The perfect mix of supply and demand.

This was clear to me as I surveyed the ice cream options one day.

But then another thought crossed my mind. A more sinister one.

What if something disrupted the harmony? What would happen then?

This wasn’t an artisan candy shop, you see. That ice cream wasn’t hand-cranked in house. Neither were the shelf-stable confections.

No, suppliers shipped these goods into town every week or two. The manager of the shop took delivery. Then the staff diligently stocked the shelves and filled the vats.

It was a team effort, but also a delicate chain to maneuver. For it would only take one loose link to send the whole thing haywire.

Maybe a storm elsewhere would delay delivery of the ice cream. Or an issue at a confectioner would pause production of the shelf-stable candy. Maybe a contagious illness would keep several staff members from their shifts, forcing the shop to close temporarily.

In a vacuum, these disruptions might seem minor. But for a business such as this, they could prove devastating.

Devastating in a way that few could rightly appreciate.

When I was a teenager, I got into a fender-bender on the way to school one day.

I was trying to change lanes in stop and go traffic on the highway, and I accidentally dinged another car in the process.

No one was hurt, but both vehicles sustained some damage. So, the other driver and I each pulled onto the shoulder and exchanged insurance information. Then we waited for the authorities to arrive.

It was cold that morning, and I was none too pleased about standing on the side of the road for close to an hour. I was also dreading the weeks I’d be without the car while it got repaired.

These were all notable concerns. But at the end of the day, they could be classified as first world problems.

First world problems refer to the trivial inconveniences we often contend with. Things like losing service on our smartphones at an inopportune time, or accidentally placing a lunch order at the wrong location of our favorite quick-serve restaurant.

These issues can make our days more of an ordeal. But they don’t pose an existential threat, as so many third-world concerns do.

We’re not generally at risk of getting devoured by a wild animal, sickened by non-potable water or robbed blind in our sleep. Our ability to maintain security, nourishment, and shelter remains strong as ever.

In many ways, the pure existence of first-world problems represents an indulgence. The fact that we can stress about things that ultimately matter so little shows how fortunate we really are.

Yes, the fender bender was problematic. But at least I had a car to begin with.

And sure, any number of risks could have sunk that candy shop I’d visited. But the death of a resort town business hardly represented the collapse of society.

Still, such thinking carries profound risk.

And that risk is not exactly tolerable.

There are many famous images from the 1930s in America. But perhaps the most poigniant is a photograph by Dorothea Lange.

The image — titled Migrant Mother — features a dark-haired woman staring slightly askance of the camera. A worried look covers her face, while her calloused right hand supports her chin. Faint lines appear on her forehead, framed by the backs of her children’s heads.

Migrant Mother speaks to the strife of the Great Depression, when poverty and despair ran rampant. Many Americans lost their livelihoods and their life savings. They ceded their modest homes for rickety shacks and spartan tents. They waited for hours in line for soup or bread.

The last vestiges of the frontier had been stamped out. America was in no way a third-world country. But it wasn’t thriving either.

The government took aim at this morass. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt worked with Congress to pass the New Deal – a set of reforms that included public works projects and a social safety net.

Not long after this, America soon got involved in World War II. The war effort turbocharged the economic engine, lifting our nation out of poverty once and for all.

And despite a few close calls, that engine hasn’t fully idled in all the decades since.

The journey from Migrant Mother to the present day tells the story of our nation. Of its resilience. Of its resolve. And of its penchant for rationalization.

You see, from the moment pen hit paper on the New Deal, the dominant concern in America gained top billing. The misfortunes of everyday Americans have continued through the years. But instead of being profiled in Dorothea Lange portraits, the afflicted have found their struggles marginalized.

You lost your job? Your house burned down? That’s too bad, but it’s no national tragedy. Pick your head up. There are plenty of opportunities to land on your feet.

So it goes with perceived first-world problems, time and again.

This train of thought is factually accurate. But when it’s presented this way, it can be quite harmful.

For while these misfortunes might be individualized, they still cut deep. Those who lose a job or a home must cauterize the wound while those around them continue to thrive.

The dissonance is real. And a message of pick your head up only furthers this isolation.

It invalidates the pain the afflicted is feeling, and it implores them to suffer in silence. None of which is healthy.

The occasional blowback from this type of behavior tends to make headlines. We’re aghast when an ex-employee opens fire at their old workplace. We’re despondent when someone robs a bank to claw back some of what was taken from them.

These newly minted criminals can do better than to violate the moral code. But so can we.

We can do more to consider the scope of effect that an individualized tragedy can have. We can do more to support the afflicted. To hear them, to see them, and to assure them they’re not alone.

We can be kind. We can be empathetic. We can follow the golden rule.

We can, and we must.

For such behavior makes our nation a better place. It allows our society to keep moving forward without leaving the fallen in the dust. It helps fulfill our promise while forestalling our demise.

And that’s an ideal worth working toward.

So yes, I truly hope that resort town candy shop continues to thrive. But should misfortune befall it – or any of us – I hope that we can help soften the blow.

First-world problems are real-world problems. Let’s treat them accordingly.

The Sensory Connection

My father opened the canister of coffee beans and dumped several into the electric grinder. Then he turned to me.

Big noise coming, he warned. He wasn’t kidding.

With a crescendo of sound, the machine vaporized the beans into coarse grounds. As it did, a savory aroma filled the air.

My father gathered the grounds into a filter. Then he put the whole thing into a coffeemaker and hit Brew.

A dark liquid soon filled the carafe, with steam wafting off the top of it.

My father poured himself a cup and let it cool. The aroma took over the kitchen.

I want a sip, I exclaimed. My father obliged.

With great anticipation, I put the cup to my lips. But what washed over my tongue was not what I expected.

It was sour, bitter even.

I put the cup down in disgust.

Some days later, my family was out and about.

I was started to get hungry when I spotted the glow of the Golden Arches. A McDonalds location was nearby.

I want a burger and some fries, I cried out. Can we stop?

My parents looked at each other and sighed. They know there was but one answer.

Moments later, we were inside the McDonalds. The odor of burger grease filled the air as we placed our order.

It was an unconscionable scent for our noses to endure. But it proved to be just a momentary distraction.

Our burgers and fries soon arrived. And we devoured that food like a pack of wild animals.

Each bite beckoned for another in quick succession. We couldn’t slow down.

Sure, the greasy odor was still there. But the food was savory enough that we didn’t care.

Our taste buds had won out decisively.

As I write this, it’s been years since I had a McDonalds burger. And it’s been hours since I had a cup of coffee.

Yes, my behavior has inverted. Chalk one up to getting older.

But my questions surrounding these delicacies have not.

Indeed, every time I take a sip of my bitter brew, I wonder why I continue to commit myself to such unpleasantries.

And every time I catch a whiff of that greasy McDonalds odor, I wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to eat there.

The answers, of course, are as sensible as they are nuanced.

Coffee offers me the caffeine boost I need to get going each morning. Since I cut back on sugary drinks years ago, it’s one of the few beverages left that can offer me energy and alertness. Plus, it still does smell amazing.

And McDonalds food always tasted heavenly to me as a child. I didn’t need an olfactory cue to get my Pavlovian responses going. The smell, in fact, was irrelevant.

Yes, one sense has long been sufficient for me to enjoy coffee and – at one point – McDonalds. Smell and taste needn’t be in concert for either.

Still, this is more the exception than the rule.

Smell and taste are often inextricably linked. What seems soothing to our nostrils is often palatable to our tongue – and vice versa.

Some of this has to do with these body parts sharing an airway. But it also just makes intuitive sense. It seems right.

So, when the chain is broken, we’re devastated.

Consider the early days of the COVID pandemic. Some of those unlucky enough to be afflicted with the virus back then lost their sense of smell. Once the shock of this development gave way to despair, many found themselves with a deep sense of longing.

I didn’t experience such hardship, but the accounts I read of those who did were harrowing.

Flowers, cologne, leather – these soothing aromas were all relegated to a fading memory. Some food now tasted strange. And even if it didn’t, the lack of a scent took the joy out of eating them.

Many lived in this version of hell for months before regaining their sense of smell. Others still haven’t recovered it.

Either way, the affliction continues to cast a long shadow. What was one simple is now complex. What was once joyous is now fraught.

Smell and taste might not seem as essential as the other senses. But they’re plenty important.

And they’re generally better together.

If you spend a little too much time on social media these days, you’ll likely see a strange term bandied about. An abbreviation called ASMR.

ASMR describes the tingles you feel down your spine when you’re exposed to a certain trigger. Many of these are sound based, such as the crunch of boots on fresh snow. But visual identification also plays a critical role in the ASMR process.

Seeing what it is you’re hearing can help you place it. Suddenly your memory recalls how that same trigger felt in the past. And that sets the tingles in motion down your spine.

(OK, maybe it’s not exactly this way. I’m not a scientist, after all. But I’d wager this explanation is not all that removed from reality.)

I’m no aficionado of ASMR. I don’t tend to spend my mornings watching videos of wrapping paper getting crumpled.

But as an extreme introvert, I understand its importance.

You see, our senses are our superpowers. But those powers can overrun us.

Sometimes, this can lead us try to something seemingly repulsive – like coffee or a McDonalds burger. Other times, it can cause us to endure prolonged bombardment – such as the loud noise and bright lights of a rock concert.

Regardless, a rogue sense is rarely beneficial without moderation. Concerts, coffee, and McDonalds can each wreck you if enjoyed too frequently.

The key to avoiding this fate – to harnessing our superpowers – is to tap into something radically different. Something that ASMR provides.

That something is the sensory connection.

Yes, when we experience our senses in tandem – one building off another in a subtle way – we can attain a sense of profound bliss.

We connect with our environment rather than recoiling from it. We open ourselves to both novelty and reflection. We give our soul license to roam free.

It’s no wonder that many of the most wholesome things in life – renowned literature, haute cuisine, strolls through nature – evoke the sensory connection. The vehicles for these indulgences might be our eyes, or our tongues, or our feet – but they’re hardly running the show. It’s a team effort.

We best not forget this. Or else we miss a golden opportunity to get the most out of life.

Single sense thrills have their place in our world. But they don’t belong in the center of it.

Let’s open ourselves to something greater Let’s tap into the sensory connection.

Efficiency Mode

I was in line at the car wash when the issues started.

First, the Check Engine light turned on. Then the airbag deployment indicator illuminated.

The electronic display near my center console started flickering on and off. And my power windows stopped working.

It was as if my car was having a seizure.

I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. My alternator was failing, and my car’s electrical system was on its last legs.

My car still worked, but my options were severely limited. If the engine were to idle for a few minutes longer, I’d be done for.

I didn’t have the money for a tow truck. And I didn’t know who to call for assistance.

There was but one option. I had to get this hunk of sheet metal to the mechanic while I still could.

The first task was to peel out of the car wash line. Fortunately, I was far enough from the cashier that I could cut away without incident.

But that only started the adventure.

The mechanic was four miles across town, with a maze of city streets in between. I’d need to find a route that didn’t have too many turns. And I had to go just the right speed to glide through every green light without effort. For if I stopped – or braked and accelerated too much – the car might have died on me.

Fortunately, I knew this part of town like the back of my hand. So, the optimal route came to mind instantly.

There’d be one left turn at the next intersection, followed by a two-mile straightway, a right turn, a one-mile straightaway, two more right turns, and a half-mile jaunt down a highway access road.

So, four turns and two long straightaways. With five traffic lights mixed in for good measure.

It wouldn’t be the easiest sequence for a dying car to traverse. But it was a Sunday afternoon, and the roads were half empty. If I made it through that initial left turn, the rest would be attainable.

I turned out of the car wash entrance and made my way to that first intersection, gradually applying pressure to the gas pedal. The left turn arrow was illuminated ahead of me. But I was still hundreds of yards away.

Seconds felt like hours as the traffic light drew closer. Don’t change yet, I begged silently. Don’t change!

The light stayed green.

I barreled through the turn, pressing the gas pedal one more time as I hit the long straightaway.

The next three traffic lights were now my nemesis. I had to clear them in sequence without maneuvering my car too much.

It turned out I’d built enough speed to make that happen. Two miles rolled by without red lights, and I roared through a right turn onto the shorter straightaway.

I was about halfway through that straightaway when the electrical display went dark. As I cruised through the final green light at 40 miles an hour, I saw the speedometer needle go from 40 to 0 and back to 40, before cutting out entirely.

I was still going 40 miles an hour but in a mostly dead car. I had a mile to go and two turns to manage. And I could only steer and decelerate.

I could have given up then. But I’d come so far. I was determined to make it.

I guided the car to the end of the road, my foot hovering over the brake pedal. With the power steering now failing, I turned the wheel with force, making it through the successive right turns without incident. And I let the car glide down the access road until the mechanic shop came into view.

Then I turned into the parking lot and hit the brakes one last time.

I had made it.

Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

This bit of wisdom comes from the pugilistic philosopher Mike Tyson.

The boxer infamous for biting his opponent’s ear and for getting a face tattoo might not seem like the best source of life wisdom. But Tyson is right.

We like to think we have a foolproof plan. We thrive under the illusion of control.

But inevitably, our best plans will get waylaid. And our reaction to that unexpected disruption will ultimately define us.

I wasn’t planning on my alternator going out while I waited for a car wash. The power failure hit me like a sucker punch to the jaw.

But I rallied.

I made a contingency plan on the spot. And I executed it nearly flawlessly.

As I reminisce about all this, one question above comes to mind above all others. How was I able to react so smoothly in a flash?

Some of it was experience. I’d just replaced my alternator months earlier, so I knew the warning signs of a power failure.

But much of it was innate. The quick, decisive actions I took were the product of something I like to call Efficiency Mode.

Efficiency Mode exists within all of us. It’s what steers us to the nearest restroom when our stomach starts acting up in public. It’s what shepherds us to safety when the skies darken and thunder booms around us.

Efficiency Mode brings out our best. It narrows our focus narrows and hones our decisiveness. It slows down time and enhances our ability to deliver optimal results.

But there’s a catch.

Efficiency Mode only exists in crisis. It only emerges when our plans have been waylaid. It only thrives when we’ve been punched in the mouth.

This leaves us with a conundrum. How do we handle the non-crisis times?

Do we carry on through life as usual, embracing the mantle of control while capturing only a fraction of our potential?

Or do we long for a rogue wave to knock us down, taking our efficiency into high gear?

The choice is ours.

The TV show Justified features plenty of colorful characters.

But few are as memorable as Bob Sweeney.

Sweeney is the fictional constable of Harlan, Kentucky. An awkward yet pleasant fellow, he’s played by the comedian Patton Oswalt.

Although his job is paperwork-heavy, Sweeney craves the thrill of big-time law enforcement actions. So, he always brings his “go bag” so that he’s “ready to jump” if the action gets heavy.

Many of us who have experienced that rush feel like Bob. We yearn for that next opportunity to use our “Go Bag,” because we know we’ll be bringing our best.

But the times between those times matter just as much.

If we can’t maintain excellence through the monotonous moments — when we can only top out at 80 percent of our potential — our crisis maneuvers will prove irrelevant. We’ll lose more in the balance than we gain in a pinch.

Yes, we need the plan and the ability to deviate from it. We need to throw confident haymakers and to rise from the mat when we take one on the chin.

When we master both, we will truly be in position to make an impact. But it takes a duality of commitment.

I’ve bought in. Will you?

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 11th, 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 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.