A Legacy Defined by the Number 2

Legacies are shaped within our own minds, and as Tom Brady announced his retirement this week, the number that keeps ringing around my head is the number 2.

For a long time, Brady was the number 2 in my mind, as I clung to my childhood nostalgia that kept Joe Montana, Joe cool, as the greatest quarterback in NFL history. Surely no quarterback could ever overtake the clutch 49er legend whom I had watched win four Super Bowls in my youth. Even as Brady won three straight championships and led his Patriots to an undefeated regular season, this new “Golden Boy” would never overtake the “golden domer” graduate who still ruled

Waiting For Truth

Pilate asked Jesus, “what is truth”

Then turned his back, standing aloof

And returned triumphantly to the crowd

To hear them gloriously shouting aloud

Perhaps it was a scoffing, mocking query

Or was this man momentarily wary?

Maybe, in fact, he didn’t want to hear

“Truth” directed at his ear

In giving in to the loud popular choice

Pilate ignored the quiet one true voice

Instead, he returned to the disruptive din

Just as we often return to our sin

I Dream a World

I dream a world that is not about left or right

But instead about uniting in common fight.

Where values are not shaped by network’s letters

But rather striving, pushing for something better

I dream a world where black and blue matter the same

One where we view life through another’s frame

Where a man can kneel or stand without disgrace

And we can offer perspectives a bit of grace

I dream a world where God is not used for political gain

But instead leads us to empathize another’s pain

Where we may not always see eye to eye

But can work together to understand the why

I dream a world where we can cut beyond the noise

And create hope for our young girls and boys

Where words, decorum, and tact are revered

And history’s lessons are prudently feared

I dream a world where leaders are not bought

But instead embody what we’ve been taught

Taught by King with his wise foresight

To realize darkness must be cast out by the Light

Rebuilding the Puzzle In a Time of Crisis

Tetris.

A game of sheer simplicity and supreme geometry where the pieces fit together in a perfect puzzle.

Logical configurations. A jigsaw blended tightly in smooth symmetry.

Kind of like childhood itself. A square foundation of safety and security. A straight line of family and friends. A T-shape of curiosity and learning blended in. Even the occasional odd-shaped piece would be straightened out quickly with a reassuring word or a parent’s hug.

There was a time I thought the world was this simple. Puzzle pieces that came together. A clear right. A clear wrong. A clear good. A clear evil. Leaders to believe in. A country to believe in.

Then 2020 hit, and the puzzle pieces suddenly no longer fit together. In fact, at times they disappeared altogether as the world I had always known no longer made sense.

Words like Covid, Pandemic, and quarantine became our new reality. Foundations like work, friends, and family were taken away. The square blocks no longer formed a firm base.

Then 8 minutes and 46 seconds shocked our country’s soul. “I can’t breathe” became a rallying cry for some while others complained that masks concealed their breath, and, somehow, their freedom. We were forced to consider whose lives matter.

As Covid numbers rose and shocking images of brutality continued to constantly race across our screen, The T-square pieces of freedom, liberty, and equality that once tucked so nicely into the fabric of our foundation now tipped and swerved off their intended course.

Suddenly, the shapes no longer came down the middle, but instead were ricocheting from the right and left with taunts, memes, conspiracy theories and outright lies that threatened to rip that fabric right out of its seam.  In fact, now I felt more like Luigi or Mario narrowly dodging knives, hammers, and flames while jumping over flowers that had suddenly turned into man-eating monsters.

Even foundational secure pieces that had always granted a sense of safety and familiarity like attending school and church were ripped away.

The puzzle was now chaos, seemingly nothing but those awkward z-shaped pieces that do nothing but disrupt the rhythm of building blocks, knocking them askew.

As November rolled around, I now fully found myself in an alternate universe, rolling around aimlessly like a marble stuck in a maze of madness as memes intensified and conspiracy theories flew around as nonchalantly as Mario using Star Power to barrel through enemies.

We no longer could tell what was reality or what was just absurd fiction.  Even at school, the faces of teens who had always radiated with curiosity and enthusiasm (or at least apathy and angst) were now covered, shrouded in masks, hiding the insecurities and nervousness that lie within. It became as if we were all thrown into a colossal game of Among US, frantically scurrying around unsure of the enemy, and accusing anyone we deemed “Sus” of being an Imposter.

As 2020 wound to its close, I thought about some words I heard back near its beginning during an online church service: “Never Waste A Crisis.”

Our world, our country, our community, and each of our own selves endured a crisis in 2020, and we hoped the drop of a ball and the flip of a calendar would wipe the slate clean, providing us a brand new game where we could hit the reset button.

Yet the first week of 2021 has brought us unimaginable scenes: insurrection, bloodshed, and attacks upon our democracy, upon the bedrocks of our country: freedom, liberty, and tolerance.

The attack on our Nation’s Capitol, ironically, or perhaps coincidentally, occurred on January 6, the date that Christians celebrate the Epiphany when the Wise men followed the star on their way to pay homage to Jesus in Bethlehem.

And whether Christian or not, as one of those Bedrocks of our America has always been to tolerate and respect all religions, we could all do well to learn from their example.

Guided by a light, those wise men kept their eyes on their priorities, on the journey’s end, on the beliefs they held in their hearts.

And though our world seems shrouded in darkness, like them we must follow the light, and we must strive to continue our journey.

2020 and the first week of 2021 has shaken us to our core.

The geometric pattern that was our innocence has been disrupted, the puzzle has become jumbled, the game has indeed at times seemed hopeless.

And hopelessness is contagious, infectious.

Recently, I had a conversation with four girls in my class, ranging from freshmen to junior year of high school, and they were using words like “hopeless” and “despair,” even commenting that they wanted to leave America.

And it hit me. The real enemy wasn’t coming from the right or the left. It wasn’t coming from lockdowns or restrictions. The real enemy was coming from within. Giving in to the frustration. Succumbing to the negativity. Allowing hopelessness to win.

In Shawshank Redemption, Andy tells Redd in a letter: “Hope is a good thing, maybe even the best of things, and a good thing never dies.”

So, even as the pieces fall haphazardly from the sky at a breakneck pace, we must remember that there is another round where we can slow down, start building once again from the foundation.

But the great thing about video games, like life, is we always have the option to “play again.” To rise again tomorrow. To keep trudging forward even if the world around us and within us appears to be crumbling.

Tomorrow is another day, and 2021 is still another year. A day, a year with a blank canvas across which we get to blend shapes and colors together in a sometimes broken but ultimately beautiful puzzle.

19 Years Later, Remembering the Faces

19 years ago, Nicole, a freshman student ran into my room.

I can still see the fear in her face. I can still hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“The planes hit the building,” she screamed.

In the next harrowing minutes, I watched the television screen in horror, not knowing exactly what to say to this classroom full of young teenagers who had been entrusted to me. I remember the silence, interrupted only by some quiet tears, as we all watched the towers crumble, and our innocence along with it.

In the days, weeks, and months that followed, I felt a confusion unlike I had ever encountered as the safe, secure America I had taken for granted for my first 22 years had quickly been toppled.

Today, I saw two boys in the hall, walking in opposite directions, but I couldn’t see their full faces, not the way I can still clearly see Nicole’s two decades later. One boy’s face was covered with a vibrant American flag mask, the stars and stripes radiating a pride just like they did 20 years ago when they triumphed above the rubble. The other boy’s face was shrouded in a black mask with the words “Black Lives Matter” emblazoned upon it.

And my first thought, I am embarrassed to say, is that each boy was trying to make a political statement.

How sad is that. One mask with the symbol of our country’s values of liberty and freedom. Another with what should be an obvious statement that the lives of a certain race indeed should matter, and my first thought was politics and partisanship.

Immediately I realized that these students walking our halls, entering our classrooms, and logging on virtually are just as confused as those teens were 19 years ago.

Nicole and her peers grieved for those we lost, feared for our country’s future, and attempted to make sense of a suddenly broken world.

Those two boys in the hall today and all their peers both in our school and around the country have apprehension and trepidation beneath those masks. They’ve had their lives upended with schools shutting down. They’ve lost social contacts. Some have seen their parents lose their jobs. They’ve been forced to grapple with social justice issues. They’ve been forced to distinguish between peaceful protests and the destructive actions of a minority. Some, the sons and daughters of police officers, have been made to wonder why so many demonize their parents.

They’ve been forced to return to a school setting unlike anything any of us adults ever had to endure.

And yet they look to us adults for answers, for reassurance, for safety.

And in many ways we have failed.

Sadly, I am reminded of a story a young female student shared the first week of school about how any adults would ignorantly, selfishly disregard the mandate to wear masks in the convenience store where she worked. The desperation, the disappointment in her voice echoed that of Nicole’s on that day “the world stopped turning.”

I am forced to view social media where we constantly see memes and headlines that mock, one- liners that alienate, and vitriolic comments that further the divides in our country.

19 years ago, Nicole ran into my room looking for reassurance that everything would be alright, and she received it. She and others received it in the heroic efforts of our first in responders. She received it in the way our country came together. She received it in the slow return to normalcy where people seemed to suddenly focus on what really matters.

Those two boys in the hall, that girl in my classroom, indeed all our school children are once again looking to us for reassurance. Let us answer with our actions and our words. We once again face a crossroad in our country’s history. And sure we can disagree, we can debate.

In fact, we should. This is what makes our country great.

But let’s do it with thoughtful dialogue, with empathy for the perspectives of others, with common decency.

As we commemorate the 19^th anniversary of the darkest day in our nation’s history, let us honor the nearly 3,000 fellow Americans we lost by remembering that the next generation is watching us closely.

Indeed let us remember that we all have Nicole’s in our lives who need guidance through confusing times.

The Day the Balls Stopped Bouncing

I love sports.

They provide me with an escape. They provide me exhilaration and joy that few other things in life bring. They have brought me.

Tonight, after day 3 of this crazy experiment of teaching virtual and face-to-face students, after meeting with students and emailing parents to see how the transition was going, after spending quality “dad” time with my own kids, I was looking forward to nothing more than the tension, the adrenaline rush, the drama of Flyers playoff hockey.

But, the puck never dropped.

Over 5 months ago, in early March, sports were first ripped away from all of us, halted by a confusing pandemic that none of us truly understood. All we knew was that our reality, including the escape of sports, was put on hold.

But eventually, even as the world around us seemed to be in constant upheaval, a little bit of normalcy returned, even if it was inside its own bubbles. Fast breaks, dunks, and three-pointers thrilled us on the hardwood. Strike outs, home runs, and plays at the plate enthralled us at the ball park. And slap shots, glove saves, and bone-crushing checks wowed us on the ice. We once again had our distractions.

Then, once again, it all came to a screeching halt. The balls stopped bouncing, the bats stopped swinging, the skates stopped gliding. Though this time feels different, it is no less confusing.

I think of the children whose lives I have been entrusted with this school year. I think of the faces that I can suddenly only half-see. And I wonder what confusion and pain lies under those masks.

I consider the handful of minority faces, many of whom have watched people who look like them murdered by police, the police they believe are meant to protect them. They watch these NBA stars, though gifted with millions of dollars, stopping to speak up for the voiceless, and maybe they will find their voice.

I consider the white faces, similar to 99 percent of those hockey players taking a stand, many of which live insulated in neighborhoods no different than mine, seemingly a world away from the turbulent protests we see nightly throughout our country. They see these protests, and maybe, under those masks, are starting to consider that their reality is not everyone’s reality.

I consider the faces sitting in my classroom whose true self has always been hidden under a mask, hiding secrets of abuse, of insecurity, of hopelessness. They see people standing up, speaking up, for the disenfranchised, and maybe they too can find hope.

As I think about these faces that I will once again have the honor of teaching tomorrow, I realize that maybe it was time for the sports to come to a halt, maybe it was a time for our escapes to be put on hold, maybe it was time to realize that though a loss in sudden death overtime may hurt, there are much bigger losses occurring every day.

And maybe, though we are covered in masks, maybe we can begin to truly see the hurt, pain, and confusion that others feel, and maybe we can have real discussions based on empathy and listening rather than wise cracks and memes.

 

Wizarding Advice for the Muggle World

“Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?” Harry asks Dumbledore near the end of the final book of the Harry Potter series.

“Of course it is happening in your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” replies the ever wise but ambiguous Dumbledore.

Journeying through the Harry Potter epic with my kids 15-20 years after I first boarded the Hogwarts express has been one of my most priceless joys during this most confusing, frustrating and confounding period of times. 

As we concluded our family journey together and Harry questioned his final destiny, these words from the wise wizard and headmaster blazed through my mind with all the ferocity of Voldemort invading Harry’s thoughts, and images of the past five months passed through my eyes with all the clarity of staring into a pensieve. 

Perhaps what is in each of our heads is real. Perhaps each of us comes with our own perspective and experiences that shape how we view the world.

We can indeed worry that the virus is both a scary, deadly pandemic that should be taken seriously while also worrying about the lives that have been ruined over economic shutdowns.

We can indeed worry about the mental health of our children and the logistical nightmare of having them schooled virtually while also truly being concerned about the certain dangers of cramming hundreds, sometimes thousands of children and teachers into schools just for the sake of “normalcy.”

We can indeed believe that black lives matter, that each person, no matter the color of their skin deserves the same dignity and opportunity in our society, and that maybe some people have faced a different reality than our own while also not totally agreeing with all the tenets of Black Lives Matter, not condemning all police officers. 

We can indeed believe that the Confederate Flag, a symbol of a an oppressive past should not fly at sporting events while also questioning the vilification of people who lived in an era of different understandings than our own and the toppling of statues and facilities named after some of those same people from bygone eras. 

We can indeed applaud and stand behind protestors who call out injustice while also believing in our hearts that there is indeed good in the world.

We can indeed condemn both the rioters who have destroyed neighborhoods but also condemn the militaristic show of force upon our own citizens. 

We can indeed look skeptically at a media that has clear agendas and biases while also fearing a leader that lies, tweets more than a middle schooler, insults others sophomorically, and ignores cold, hard data. 

In the real world (the Muggle World), evil does not present itself as a black and white issue. There is no clear Lord Voldemort waving a wand to do destructive damage. The evils surrounding us appear more like the scenes with dementors flying around with their hazy, disorienting swirling darkness. This evil blinds us.  

And in today’s world, one might indeed ask: “Is that just on social media or is that real”? And perhaps Dumbledore might give a similar answer to us as that that he gave Harry in the book. In our social media world, everyone wants a quick meme, a biting headline or sharp-tongued video, a comment to clearly illustrate why they are right while reducing the other to an abstraction. 

One popular meme showed a bunch of girls on a soccer team kneeling while one girl stood with her hand over her heart, declaring that only one player among them was a patriot. And this one girls standing while others knelt is absolutely showing courage. But who are we to say that the others are not showing courage, that those other girls are somehow not patriots? Maybe some of those other girls are questioning a world where they see people brutally killed by police officers. Maybe some of the girls are confused, unsure, and searching for answers, and they chose to kneel to show solidarity with others they respect. Both of these can be true. Just as Drew Brees should not have been ripped apart for saying he personally wants to stand for the flag, those who choose to kneel should not be referred to as “sons of bitches” by those we look to for leadership. 

And the charts, articles, and videos shared declaring that one side of the spectrum is absolutely righteous and speaks the truth while the other side is completely corrupt and evil might work in the wizarding world, but it does not quite cut it in reality. While posting a link that fits with our mindset might bring us the instant gratification we seek, perhaps we could spend some more time understanding the mindsets of others. Maybe we could actually learn something from the wizarding world where Harry has to search the past to understand the present, has to examine his own mind and others’ minds to confront his confusion and misunderstandings, and takes about 4,000 pages to realize that the man he judges to be the embodiment of evil is actually a human, sometimes selfless, sometimes selfish, with a complex past who turns out to be “the bravest man [Harry’s] ever known.”

And the snarky, self-righteous comments made on social media that completely disregard and belittle the others’s opinion. The other night, a longtime friend made a totally innocuous, harmless, hopeful post about the return of baseball. Though he was feeling uplifted and clearly wanted to uplift others, the comment thread became a back and forth political squabble with one liners and jabs to prove their righteous, infallible opinions. I’ve seen longtime friends and childhood schoolmates make jabs at each other, I’ve seen long-time friends and family members post condescendingly about their Christian virtues while condemning others whose actions might also be argued to be, although politically opposed, just as Christian.

Throughout the Harry Potter series, division is created in multiple ways, and that division usually involves quick one-line comments that reduce the others’ reality: mudblood vs. pureblood; Slytherin vs. Gryffindor. Not much different than liberal vs. conservative; left vs. right. 

 And it is in this divisiveness that evil thrives. A thoughtful society should have debate and disagreement, but when we constantly reduce those with opposing viewpoints and experiences as having no worth, we endanger our own humanity. In “The Goblet of Fire” (the fourth book in the Harry Potter series), Sirius Black reminds us, “if you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.” Though (and this again may depend on one’s perspective) we are thankfully equal in our society,  perhaps Sirius would instead remind us to look at how we treat those with whom we disagree rather than simply those who echo our back our own perspectives.

Just like Harry, Ron, and Hermione, we have all been walking through some dark times where the future is unknown and downright scary. As we venture forth, we can choose to walk in darkness, continually holding on to our only our own preconceived notions of right and wrong. Or we could listen again to Dumbledore as he reminds us that “happiness can be found in the darkest of times, if one remembers only to turn on the light.” Perhaps part of the light we must return to is the ability to engage in thoughtful conversations that is open to the possibility that we may not have all the answers and to stop belittling those with whom we disagree for, as Dumbledore once again instructs us that “we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided.” 

Passion 2020

We at times hold the alabaster’s oil,

Crouching down on reverent knees

As we realize He trod on this same soil.

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Yet in moments we scoff, mock and scorn

Indignant as if we know what is good

While maybe ’tis our vision that’s been torn.

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

At times we betray for silver’s lustrous shine

Seeking out false idols to comfort our greed

Only to choke later on the devil’s vine

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Still in moments we dip before His eye

Turning our kiss away from Heavens’ grace

Even as we question and shout ‘tis not I

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

At times we are rocked to our inner core

Warned our weakness will lead us to deny

We vow vehemently we shall stray no more

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

 

 

But in moments, these words we fail to heed

Until a loud crow calls us back again

Echoing the thorns and nails that made him bleed

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

We at times bask in the garden’s Angelic glow

Trekking loyally to remain, to keep watch

Trying to pray with fury while stuck below

 

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Yet we fail in moments, giving into sleep

Unable to stay Even the hour’s watch

Burdened with promises we failed to keep

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

At times we’ve been blatant in our mocking

Spitting with contempt in the face of the Truth

While spreading division, instead of Unlocking

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

While at other moments we’ve been the crowd

Shouting “Crucify” like blinded, shepherdless sheep

Read to jump and bow at those urgings loud

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

We at times stand triumphantly tall and strong

Fighting, declaring our thoughts for all to hear

Listening to our heart’s whispers about the wrong

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Yet in other moments we’ve washed our hands

And shrunk away from feeding the scattered flock

Content to live narrowly in our minds and lands

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

At times we bravely hoist up the heavy cross

And shoulder the burdens others must bear

Inspired by that starkly triumphant loss

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

But in other moments we walk quietly alone

Stumbling along Calvary’s deadly path

As we despair and sink under that final stone

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

We at times stare in awestruck wonder

Centurions brought falling upon our knees

Declaring truly with the roar of thunder

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Yet just moments before we jeer and we mock

Withholding our belief unless he comes down

As we lift ourselves vainly up above his flock

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

We at times despair in wallowing sorrow

Trapped in the agony of our own cross

Unable to see any hope for morrow

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Still in moments our tiny sliver of hope

Has us boldly cry out “remember me”

Knowing the Kingdom lies atop this slope

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

At times we’ve recalled those ancient words

That we should strive to do as he has done

Stooping at feet to humbly heal and serve

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

But in moments our pride has eagerly won

As we reject the washing He longs to give

The final yet lasting gift from the Son

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

At times like these, alone, confused and afraid

We’ve asked “why have you forsaken me”

Struggling to see the promise He has made

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

And in other moments we recklessly plead,

Asking that this cup be taken from me

Unable to realize He knows what we need

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Now in these times of sudden uncertainty

With the church stripped, barren and bare,

We look around for a final guarantee

 

Amidst all the ashes, scattering like dust

We rise, and then we fall yet still we know

Those members of the passion remain in us

 

Now in these moments, serene, quiet and still,

We recall the invite to Paradise

When we rise, unhidden, a light atop the hill

 

Remembering a “Doctober Classic” and Missing the Uniting Power of Sports

 

While cleaning and organizing the basement the other night, I came across a box that contained old Sports Illustrated issues and various newspapers that I had saved over the years. Right on top was a classic headline that I forgot I even had. I read the headlines:

“No Hit Halladay” and “Doctober Classic.”

As I smiled at these magical words, I was instantly catapulted back in time to October, 2010. 

We had just started our family. Ryan had just turned 1, and we had just bought the house in which we would raise our family. I was over at our new house, which had no furniture or electronics yet, so there I was scrubbing the bathrooms down while listening to the sweet sounds of Phillies playoff baseball on the radio. 

For the fourth straight year, my Phils had won the NL East, and we were embarking once again on what I hoped would be another magical October run. On the mound versus the Cincinnati Reds for game one of the opening round playoff series was our ace: Roy “Doc” Halladay. 

As I slowly eradicated the grime from the upstairs sinks and showers, Hallday was cleaning house as he mowed down the Reds for three innings without giving up a hit.  

As I moved to scrubbing toilets, Halladay flushed the Reds in the fourth and fifth one again without allowing a hit. 

Finally, as I moved to wiping floors, “Doc” was mopping the Reds bats with masterful precision. Six innings, 18 batters, no hits. 

As the seventh inning began, it dawned on me that something special, some October magic, was happening. I realized that I wanted to watch this moment, but I had no television, so I zipped over to the closest place possible with televisions: my gym at Hempfield Rec. I jumped on the treadmill to put on some miles as Halladay drove the Reds bats into the dirt in the seventh and eighth innings. 

My heart rate escalated as the ninth inning began, and our ace had now registered 26 outs without surrendering a hit. I knew it was now possible. A playoff no hitter, a feat accomplished only one other time in Major League history. 

By this time all the weights were dropped and everyone in the gym was either huddled around a television or on a cardio machine watching this historic moment. 

A sea of Phillie red euphoria was erupting at Citizen’s Bank Park as Halladay unleashed his 104th pitch of the night, forcing a slow dribbler right in front of home plate. As Carlos Ruiz scooped up the ball and flung it to Ryan Howard for out number 27, the fans at Citizens Bank went nuts, and so did all of us at Hempfield Rec. High fives, hugs, screams of jubilation were shared. We had shared this historic moment together

Together. 

That’s what sports is all about. We share these moments together. So many of the great sports moments in my life are as much about who I was with and the joy we shared together. 

And more than anything else, it is that unity, that shared collective experience that we are all missing now amidst the Covid-19 epidemic and the social isolation that accompanies it. 

March Madness brackets.

The universal optimism of opening day. 

The dramatic grind of the NHL and NBA playoffs.

But more than simply watching these events would be the texts and conversations with my dad, brother, cousins, and friends, as we experience these dramatic events together.

Yet, while we miss the unity that sports brings, perhaps our society has never been so unified in a common goal. We are all sharing this isolation and a lack of shared experiences so that we can come out on the other side stronger, wiser, and perhaps, even more united than ever.

Mold Remediation Becomes Soul Remediation

My Coronavirus story began back in December when I noticed a small trickle of water winding its way through the concrete floor in our basement utility room. At first, I went about my workout (yes, with two kids at home, my workout room is relegated to the utility room). Pounding out set after set of ring dips, pull-ups, and push-ups, I ignored whatever inconvenience the world might be throwing at me with this sign of water. However, as I wrapped up my workout that day, I had to snap back to reality and search out why water was winding its way around the floor below. 

Curious, I poked my head around, behind the water heater, under the stationary tub, and around the cold cracked floor. Unable to detect anything I grabbed a flashlight, but, shining the light all around the crevices of the room, I could not find the source of this water. Okay, the floor is concrete, I figured, no real damage, and I walked away, oblivious to the danger that may have existed down below. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I had forgotten about these signs of water as I went about the chaos of teaching, raising two boys with my wife, and navigating the prelude to the holiday season. The next time I descended into the basement, however, I noticed the trickle had invaded further into my workout space. The concrete below the stationary tub was now a darkened damp gray. Perplexed, I once again searched around and concluded that it must be the hot water heater. I walked upstairs, mentioned to Michelle that we needed to add another expenditure to our seemingly never-ending list of projects and improvements that comes with being homeowners. Already on our radar was resurfacing the cabinets, replacing the floor in our upstairs bathrooms, and putting in a new shower in the basement bathroom. There had also been this nagging musty, sweet maple-y smell that often permeated through the house, but although it was annoying we had grown used to it, and added two more items to the to-do list: maybe have the ducts cleaned and deep clean our carpets to have everything smelling fresh. 

Then Christmas came, days were spent away from home and then we hosted our annual neighborhood New year’s Eve bash complete with balloon drop at 9 p.m. Yet this year Ryan and Andrew would not stand for going to bed as soon as their friends left. Nope, this year, they insisted on staying up, and all four of us, Michelle and I included with our drooping heads and sleepy eyes, watched the ball drop at midnight. It would be the first sign that this would be a unique year full of new experiences. 

 

Flash forward to January 20, Martin Luther King Day, a day of respite from work, and a day to serve others. I ventured down the basement to serve my family by beginning the demolition of the drywall in our basement bathroom so the new shower could be put in. Now I am not what you would call a handyman, but hey, I could destroy things! So I went at it with my sledgehammer and pry bar, and began knocking down and ripping out drywall piece by piece. I was getting into a rhythm now, feeling good, feeling a sense of accomplishment. And then suddenly, I was stopped dead in my tracks. 

 

Behind the wall I had just attacked, water was spurting everywhere from a tiny plastic tube. As I glanced around at what seconds before had been hidden behind the wall, I was shocked: the wooden studs were rotted through, the pink insulation had turned a grisly black, and a stream of water seeped along the path right towards, you guessed it, the utility room. I stood amidst the chaos of debris, sheetrock dust and cracked porcelain tiles, and shaking my head in disgust, let out a few four letter expletives that somehow did not even capture my anger and frustration. My mind flashed back to that day in December when I had first noticed the water meandering along the concrete, and as with most things, this sigh of a problem actually lay hidden with a root cause that would prove much more sinister. 

Within days, a whirlwind of people swept through our basement: insurance claims adjusters, contractors, air quality testers, and… dun, dun, dun… mold remediation companies ( a term I had never used or even heard before). But there we were in the middle of January with a diagnosis of mold throughout our basement, on the drywall, in the ductwork, and throughout. 

 

Our basement quickly transformed into something out of a science fiction movie with plastic seals covering up all entrances, a loud humming machine running 24 hours a day, workers in space suits from head to toe. In all, our basement was quarantined ( a word that would soon become part of our everyday vocabulary) for over two weeks, and we did not have heat in our house at all for 13 days, including some frigid January nights. Space heaters lined our living quarters to provide some sense of warmth and Michelle learned an important lesson when she plugged two space heaters into the same room, blowing a fuse. I had to get special permission to enter my own basement, and had to do my best Spider Man impression scaling our wall over mountains of objects sealed off with plastic just to reach and flip a breaker. Not having heat over on those cold winter nights was a humbling experience knowing that we take this simple comfort for granted. 

 

Finally, however, the mold remediation was complete, and we were able to enter our basement. Hooray! The kids would get some normalcy back. Wrong! 

 

When I entered our basement, many more walls had been destroyed than had originally been thought necessary. I stared around our now unfinished basement with shock. I clenched up, overwhelmed at the amount of work and money that it would take to rebuild our basement. 

 

Meanwhile, in the news, mention of a mysterious coronavirus began to flash across headlines and airwaves. It started popping up more and more, but then it became real on March 11 when the NBA suspended its season. More and more sports leagues made similar announcements in the following days, and then on the afternoon of March 13, came the announcement that all Pennsylvania schools would be shut down. 

 

With this new unchartered territory, I decided to throw myself head on into this basement. Friday night, I hauled home 30 sheets of drywall, ready to take on this daunting project. First, as with any project or challenge in life, we needed a foundation. Thankfully, I had my dad and my buddy Angel there to help with their engineering and construction experience and expertise. By Saturday evening, we had the wall framed with studs ready to start the drywall the next day. After thanking them with Chinese food and cold beers, our house cleared out, we got the kids settled to bed, and we and the rest of America prepared to face our new normal. 

 

Except I did not go up to bed. Instead, I ventured down to the basement. My white whale awaited, and I was about to embark on a journey that would make Ahab smile or, perhaps, cringe. 

Step number 1 was to haul down to the basement a massive, cumbersome contraption known as a drywall lift. Once I figured out to put this lift together, which included snapping some pins that seemed shut with the power of the jaws of life, I had to move it with its triangle of legs on wheels and its long arms like tentacles spanning all over the basement. Finagling this unwieldy machine through the narrow bathroom door would prove to be the first major challenge of this voyage. 

Next up, I began measuring and making the first awkward cuts of the piece of drywall that would hopefully soon become the new ceiling of our basement bathroom. Soon enough, I would learn the first of many  valuable lesson: not to make cuts too precise or the drywall is too tight. You have to leave room for flexibility, both in drywall and in life. The hours rolled by, and by the time I headed up to bed, it was 3 A.M. (an hour I hadn’t seen since college).

Yet, I was up at 7 a.m. the next morning and back at it in the basement. Hour after hour, day after day, the basement became my obsession. Over the 9 ensuing days, I spent over 100 hours in my basement, oblivious from the outside world. 27 sheets of drywall cut, hung, taped, mudded. But that doesn’t tell the story. There have been countless moments of frustration, curses muttered under my breath. I’m not sure if it was a healthy obsession, but it was definitely an obsession, and it did end up at least getting walls built in a previously barren basement. 

       

Cuts a little too short. Cuts a little too long. Futilely trying to anchor screws into metal studs, watching the screw spin haphazardly off of the slick, unstable surface. Countless hours watching Youtube videos and then trying to master (or at least fumble my way through) new skills. 

As I attempted to screw in the final piece of drywall, I screamed in anger as the screw spun its way off of yet another slippery, unstable metal stud. I finally admitted defeat. I had put in all the hours I could. The next day, I would have to resume “work” from home and help Ryan and Andrew with their elementary “home school.” I turned over the reins to a local contractor friend and had him finish the last few hours of work to get the walls and ceilings finalized and prepped for painting

 

In one sense, I was grateful for the time. When else would I have 10 straight days to rebuild my basement? Although these hours would prove extremely frustrating, they have also taught me a lot of lessons: Setting goals. Embracing failure. Humbly accepting the wisdom of others. 

 

And while my own social isolation in my basement forced me to adjust and accept a new normal, we have all been forced to adjust to a new normal. As I write this, I am helping my second and fourth grade sons with their schoolwork, and Schoology(the program we are supposed to use)  has crashed!!! Ahhhh…haha, what more can we do but laugh. As we fumble our way through this online school fiasco, we are all venturing into an unknown future, a new normal. 

 

We are all being forced to encounter in this new normal. And I think as I ask some of my students to complete writing assignments that this will seem as daunting for them as those empty walls were to me. 

 

At night, I have allowed myself to actually unwind and read, staying up much later than I would if I had to be up at 5:30 to head to work. So, after countless hours slaving away in the basement and dealing with the anxiety of the Coronavirus pandemic, you might think I would treat myself to some light reading. Haha, of course not. I have been reading Angela’s Ashes, Frank McCourt’s heartbreaking memoir. Ironically, I’ve already read the sequels, ‘Tis and Teacher Man, so I figured I had better read the original. Plus, it had always eaten at me that my dad said he had to stop reading this book because it reminded him too much of his own childhood. As I’ve fought through the pages, choking up at the poverty, the addiction, the inhumane living conditions that make my few weeks without heat and wall-less basement look like luxury living, I can’t help but feel like I am learning something about my dad, about my past, about myself. And although we are all reeling from these uncertain times, I realize I have health, shelter, plenty of food, a steady income, which is much more than many people, including some of my students have while they are stuck at home. Thus, out of the dust of the drywall in my basement and the ashes of this tragic tale, I have gained  a bit of wisdom to take forward through this strange time in life. 

 

 A friend of mine recently mentioned that it has been kind of nice to slow down and take a step back from the normal rat race of life, and I think this is one positive that could come out of all of this. Although our country is in a crisis, we have all been granted the opportunity to react to this crisis in a positive way. How can we use this time to grow, to better ourselves, to expand our own humanity, so that when we come out of this crisis on the other side, we are ready to build a better world (hopefully with a few less setbacks than I have encountered while building my basement :).