Songs in the Key of Life

I don't remember music being an important part of my early childhood. My earliest memory of music was sitting on the floor of my parents' home listening to the Jackson's (not the Jackson 5) record "Victory" on my dad's Reel to Reel. As a child of the 80's however, MTV was such an integral part of the culture that popular music was unavoidable. With the "Thriller" and "Beat It" videos on heavy rotation every suburban white kid wanted to be Michael Jackson. Then as we grew into teenagers rushing home from school to watch Carson Daly and TRL and catch videos and appearances from NSYNC, Korn, Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears and Eminem. 

The summer before freshman year in college my friend, Mike Mason, bought "London Calling" by the Clash. The title track was the first track on the album. And when the song starts it starts with a drum beat that's reminiscent of soldiers marching into battle. The album itself is a blend of punk, ska, reggae, pop, doo-wop and R&B. 25 years later, "London Calling" by the Clash is still my favorite album. It's a masterpiece. The Clash opened me up to a world of music that wasn't available on MTV...grittier rock, punk, grunge and R&B music. The Clash led me to examine bands like the Strokes, Alice in Chains, the Rolling Stones, Al Green and many, many more. 

Erica's always had a deep connection with a lot of soul and R&B music. Her father introduced her to Motown, Atlantic and Stax artists from an early age. Yes, she liked a lot of the popular rock groups of the day (NKOTB was her first concert) but was always more attracted to the soulful stylings of 60's and 70's urban contemporary music. 

When we started dating music was a big part of our relationship. We discussed artists we liked, introduced each other to new genres and purchased CD's that we thought the other might enjoy. She bought me a White Stripes CD and I bought her the Supreme's Greatest Hits. On our first Valentines Day together, we purchased each other the exact same CD - Hall & Oates Greatest Hits (pictured below). 

On our wedding day our first dance was to "Let's Stay Together" by Al Green, which was performed by a soul group out of Chattanooga named, Love, Peace & Happiness. 

Music was always a large part of Kyle's life, too. Kyle loved all genres - he'd gravitate towards rock and country when he was with me and R&B, pop and even some Broadway when with Erica. Kyle, in particular, loved the Hamilton soundtrack, which cleverly blends history with R&B. It too is a masterpiece of pop culture. Around the age of 8 or 9 I introduced him to Gangster Rap and my rule for listening was very simple: You can listen, but if I get a call from school saying you're repeating what you hear in those songs, you're going to be in trouble. As Kyle grew older, he'd listen to some of the new mumble-core, Emo rap popularized by artists such as Lil' Baby and others. He'd play a track in my car and my response would always be the same, "Now, which drug addict is this?" It's the typical sardonic response from a middle-aged man to his child when they don't connect on musical tastes. 

We had our artists that we mutually enjoyed listening to in my car: The Strokes, Oasis, Foo Fighters (his first concert), Red Hot Chili Peppers and most recently, Pearl Jam. I've never been a huge Pearl Jam fan. The music is good, but I've always struggled to understand lead singer, Eddie Vedder. Eddie sings like he's been paralyzed on the left side of his face. Pearl Jam is a prolific band that outlasted many of their contemporaries - Nirvana, Soundgarden, etc. - which is commendable, but I've never understood the appeal. Their latest album however, Dark Matter, released in early 2024 was really, really good. I listened to it front to back many times during my drives across the state for business and found myself coming back to one track in particular. 

As a Spotify member at the end of each year, they compile your Top 100 songs of the last 12 months It's a feature they offer called Spotify: Wrapped. It typically comes out December 1st and is a minute-by-minute breakdown of your listening habits. My top song on Wrapped for the last four years has been "Interstate Love Song" by Stone Temple Pilots, which I firmly believe is the second greatest grunge song next to "Smells Like Teen Spirit, but I digress. 

After Kyle died, I didn't open Spotify or listen to music for two weeks. Every note of every song was a painful reminder of him and the music he loved. However, one of the few bright spots was knowing that the Wrapped playlist would soon drop, and I could pour over what songs, artists and podcasts dominated my listening habits. It would be a welcome distraction. However, for some reason the Wrapped list didn't arrive on December 1 and was delayed until December 4th. 

During this time a friend of mine, trying to cheer me up, texted asking if I'd like to go see a concert next year. I mentioned that Kyle and I had planned on flying to Chicago to see Oasis at Soldier Field, but that would now be too painful. He then recommended Pearl Jam. As I mentioned, I've never been a Pearl Jam fan, but I've heard they put on a great live show. I ignored the second part of his text and went about something else. Two days later I open up my phone and what's the first thing that appears on my Facebook feed: Pearl Jam has added 2 US shows in Raleigh, NC - May 11th and May 13th. May 11th, for the uninitiated, is Kyle's birthday. 

Then on December 4th, Wrapped finally loaded onto my Spotify app. As I watched over the story they produced waiting for my eventual top list I got to see my top podcasts of the year - sports, politics - my favorite artists - Oasis, Taylor Swift (Thanks, Leah!) and eventually my top songs. And my number #1 listened to song of 2024... 

"Wreckage" by Pearl Jam. 

To reiterate a previous point, I struggle to understand Eddie Vedder, but with Spotify you can read the lyrics as you listen to each track. And although I've listened to "Wreckage" dozens of times over the last year, I've never heard its message. I read the lyrics as I exercised yesterday at our gym. And let me tell you, you haven't truly lived until you've cried in public holding a dumbbell in your left hand. I sat downstairs last night after my family went to bed and poured over the lyrics and melody of the song. It perfectly encapsulates what we're experiencing as a family right now. My assumption is that Eddie wrote the lyrics describing a lost love, but they're really applicable to the devastation of any heartbreak.

Wreckage

Song by

Pearl Jam

Visited by thought, another darkened day
How you're like the sun, hiding somewhere beyond the rain
I'm needing for the light, stormy is the grey
Rivers overflowing, drowning all our yesterdays

Visited by thoughts on another darkened week
How even every winner hits a losing streak
The mistakes we all make and perfectly repeat
Chains are made by DNA refusing
Refusing to release

Combing through the wreckage, pouring through the sand
Surrounded by the remnants, what we could and couldn't have
Raking through the ashes, falling through my hands
Charcoal on the faces in the burned up photographs

Oh, visited by thought and this I got to say
If you're feeling the leaving, I can't make you stay
I've only ever wanted for it not to be this way
But you're now like the water
And the water will find its way

Combing through the wreckage
Holding out, holding on
Combing through the wreckage
Combing through the wreckage

Oh, visited by thoughts and not just in the night
That I no longer give a fuck who is wrong and who's right
This game of winner takes all and all means nothing left
Spoils go the victor and the other left for dead
Uh-uh

Combing through the wreckage
Holding out, holding on
Combing through the wreckage

Combing through the wreckage
Holding out, holding on
Holding out
Holding in
Holding on

(Combing through the wreckage)
Combing through the wreckage
(Combing through the wreckage)
Combing through the wreckage
(Combing through the wreckage)
Holding on (combing through the wreckage)
Holding on, oh (combing through the wreckage)
Holding on (combing through the wreckage)

Falling through the wreckage
(Combing through the wreckage)
Falling through the wreckage
(Combing through the wreckage)
Crawling through the wreckage
(Combing through the wreckage)
Combing through the wreckage
(Combing through the wreckage)

Songwriters: Stone Gossard, Eddie Vedder, Matthew Cameron, Michael Mccready, Jeffrey Ament, Andrew Watt. For non-commercial use only.

I encourage you, if you haven't already, to listen to "Wreckage" sometime today and read the lyrics as you listen to the music. I mentioned to someone that the grieving process is like being hit with a tsunami. One minute you're staring at something beautiful and without any warning you are submersed and drowning in despair, which, I think may be the point of the song. "Combing through the wreckage" is a reference to pulling yourself out of despair and looking for safe passage, trying to hold onto anything to survive. 

My apologies to the Clash. Twenty-five years was a good run, and we have a lot of good memories. But I believe "London Calling" had been unseated by "Wreckage" as my favorite song. 

And you at home can debate the lyrics all you like, but not here. I know what it means to me. Now I'm off to buy concert tickets for next Spring. 

A Boy and His Vols

Merry Christmas week everyone. Yes, we are still very much celebrating Christmas here in spite of Kyle's passing. Our tree is up. Our lights are hung. And there are plenty of presents for Leah to open on Christmas morning. We have to celebrate Christmas because it's what Leah expects. A 7-year-old can't possibly grasp the enormity our grief yet, so we have to continue to make her life feel as normal as possible. 

I don't really have a particular Kyle Christmas story to share that registers as significant. There was the time Kyle ran to Santa at the mall when he was 1-1/2, but that was Kyle...never met a stranger and certainly wasn't intimidated by one. Or the time he came downstairs around 11PM on Christmas Eve and I had to try and hide the Mickey Mouse Go Kart I was building him. Or the Christmas Eve we let him and Leah sleepover in Leah's room, and they woke up for Santa at 3:30AM... that was fun. 

Kyle stopped believing in Santa last year. He and Leah were getting Santa pictures and someone in line spoiled the surprise for him. He took it in stride and promised not to ruin the magic for his sister. He was really excited to help continue the Santa tradition for Leah this year. 

This week my thoughts about Kyle have revolved around the College Football Playoff and the Tennessee Volunteers. Kyle loved Tennessee sports more than anyone. He obsessed over highlights, stats and players like no one I've ever met. He wore something Tennessee related every day and would live and die with every pitch, snap and bucket. 

Saturday night Tennessee played in the inaugural College Football Playoff against Ohio State, and it did not fare well for Kyle's beloved Vols. Tennessee was outclassed on the way to a 42-17 rout that most I know turned off in the 3rd quarter (me included). Life is too short to ruin your evening over a football game. Tennessee had a great season but isn't on the level of a program like Ohio State (yet). But Kyle's love for the Vols was unmatched. It was also unavoidable.

Erica was born in February 1983 to in Knoxville. Her family, particularly her father and maternal grandfather, were / are diehard Tennessee fans. Erica's grandfather, Herman, was such a huge Vols fan his master bedroom was painted orange. And in his later years, he became a local folk hero for his Friday morning calls into in 99.1 FM, the local Knoxville sports talk radio station. Erica only applied to Tennessee, was accepted and graduated with her business degree in the Spring of 2005. She scheduled our wedding date around a Tennessee football bye week so none of our family and friends would miss watching Tennessee play.

My route to Vol fandom was more circuitous. I grew up in Cincinnati, 90 minutes from Ohio State and paid little attention to southern college football culture. However, one summer during a trip to Gatlinburg I asked my mom to drive me past Neyland Stadium and the University of Tennessee campus. Once next to Neyland I was floored by the sheer size and scope of the stadium. And with a gate open I let myself in to take a look at something so enormous. Once inside a facility worker came up and welcomed me with one rule, "Please don't go on the field". Even at the age of 15 I found myself intrigued with the idea of what could be so important that 100,000 people gather 6 times a year to show their support for a game. What causes this stadium to turn into a Baptist Tent Revival on bourbon? 

In the Fall of 1998 Tennessee was playing Florida in Neyland Stadium. A last second missed field goal by Florida gave Tennessee a win over their hated rival and springboarded them to a national championship the following January. I was 16 years old at the time and watched in my living room cheering for a team and a school I had no affiliation to. What force was drawing me into cheering a school two states away, in a conference I had never heard of, in a sport that never really interested me (Cincinnati is a college basketball town, for the record)? Two years later I attended my first Tennessee football game as a student and graduated in 2005 with a degree in Communications. 

Kyle's first Tennessee game in Neyland came in the Fall of 2013. We played Kentucky and won by a sizeable margin, because we always beat Kentucky...at everything. The highlight of the day however, was when two men bumped into each outside the concession line and one guy dropped his French fries. It's all Kyle would talk about for roughly 9 months was this guy's French fries. Not the game, the marching band, the fanfare, but a $6 order of fried potatoes and ketchup. 

But as Kyle grew his attention turned to the field and other Tennessee sports. I mentioned this extensively during Kyle's eulogy, but Kyle and I both became obsessed with Tennessee baseball. I purchased season tickets in the Fall of '21 and he and I attended so many wonderful and entertaining games together at Lindsey Nelson Stadium. He'd come home from school on a Tuesday, do a little homework, then we'd leave our house at 5:30 for a 6:05 first pitch. We'd watch them beat up on some directional school and leave around the 7th, home by 8:30 and him in bed by 9, 9:15. But it wasn't just the directional schools they were beating. They were beating up on some of the giants of college baseball: Arkansas, Florida and my favorite team to beat in baseball - Vanderbilt. Then in 2024, after knocking on the door a few times previously, Tennessee won 60 games enroute to their first ever national championship in baseball. I have a video of the final pitch that Erica recorded. We had a house full of friends, but when the final strike was called, I threw up my arms and immediately grabbed Kyle. This is the difference between professional and collegiate sports - collegiate sports are personal. I don't know anyone personally on the baseball team, but we are bonded by a love of the University of Tennessee. It's a family. 

The very next evening we, and 40,000 fellow fans, attended the championship parade in downtown Knoxville. It was hot and muggy and fun. Below is a pic of Kyle and Leah just a few feet from the baseball team and evenings emcee, John Wilkerson. 

Kyle loved to play, watch and study baseball. He was not the fastest kid but was such a smart baserunner. He also had an amazing eye at the plate. His final at bat came during a tournament this past October against really stiff competition in Pigeon Forge, TN. He worked a 3-2 count against a left-handed side arm pitcher throwing between 65-70 MPH. At one point he fouled off 4 or 5 straight pitches and just battled. He ended up earning the walk. I don't think I've enjoyed watching him bat any more than I did then. It was a masterclass in hitting from a 12-year-old. 

Kyle had a lot of dreams. He wanted to play baseball then go into sports broadcasting. He used to go outside and play by himself and do commentary for each "play". When he showered at night you could hear him doing play by play from his bathroom. Anyone with a teenage son wonders what nefarious acts they get into during long showers, right? We never wondered. Kyle was upstairs impersonating Kevn Harlan. 

 When the funeral home asked for things for him to wear during his viewing it was never a question. Kyle would wear basketball shorts and his orange Tennessee #1 football jersey. Today we wear orange bracelets and sweaters in his memory and his remains are in an orange urn in our living room. He was right there with me Saturday night as I watched Ohio State throttle Tennessee. And I can hear him in a half declarative statement / half question saying, "Dad, we're just not very good, are we?" 

A week ago Saturday, Tennessee's men's basketball team, ranked #1 in the country, went on the road to play Illinois is a tough out of conference matchup. Tennessee battled the entire second half with their two best players in foul trouble. But off the bench came #11, Justin Gainey. Gainey is a good player - a streaky shooter and hardnosed defender - Gainey is also the son of Tennessee assistant coach, Justin Gainey. With seconds left on the clock Gainey drove the length of the floor and hit a running layup as time expired giving Tennessee the win.

I know another #11 that played hoops. I know a former #11 that played basketball for his dad, was a hot shooter and played with passion. And I couldn't help noticing the sign Kyle sent us, it was unmistakable. Once Gainey got the ball, I knew it was over. I knew he would score. I knew it because it had to happen. 

I've convinced myself that ball went in because Kyle made it happen. Never mind the coaches and players that dedicate themselves to their craft and put themselves in position to be successful. Driven not by money, but by the desire to compete and excel at something they love so dearly. 

I had a religious figure tell me back in high school that you can’t pray to win. God doesn’t help teams win. You pray to compete and come out of the competition safe and healthy. After games you see teams gather in a prayer circle to do just that: thank God for health and safety in the field of play.

In reality, was it Kyle that tipped in the ball? Probably not. But I didn’t clasp my hands during that final play to pray for a win. I clasped my hands in hopes of a glimpse of my son. And I believe I got it. I got through a young man playing a game he loved, executing to the best of his abilities. And like the person I prayed to, he’ll always be remembered as the hot shooter clad in big orange!

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah.

Can You Mend a Broken Heart?

When I was a junior in high school, I took a took a Morality and Justice class for my religious elective. My teacher, Mark Wilkins, was my favorite teacher a St. X. He was intelligent, self-deprecating and open minded. During this class we were tasked with writing a paper about what God meant to us. And I remarked that I didn't believe in God per se - the long white beard, the throne - passing judgement on everyday people, but that my belief was more of a conceptual belief in a higher power. For a 17-year-old kid to write this took a lot of courage. 

St. Xavier is a Jesuit high school in Cincinnati, OH with strict academic standards and traditions. Scores of X alumni have walked the halls of Congress, played in the Super Bowl and won Academy Awards.  However, my personal academic standards didn't match with X's. I was an insignificant part of the St. X legacy or as they refer to it, "The Long Blue Line".  But that paper was one of the few positive memories I carry from my time there. I remember getting an 'A' on the paper which only encouraged me to write openly and honestly and is one of the reasons I am able to write my memories of my son on the blog.

Now, let's return to a little over five weeks ago. When Kyle died there was no definitive answer on cause of death. The night before he passed, he mentioned that his heart was racing. I believe I mentioned this in a previous post, so we assumed the cause would have been cardiac related. Two weeks ago, an assistant from the Knox County Medical Examiner's office called me with more information. Kyle's heart was "slightly" enlarged, and could they proceed with genetic testing to probe for a more exact cause? Why, "Of course!", I told the medical examiner. And with a 7-year daughter who appears perfectly healthy and happy, could you put a rush on that, please???

Philosophers have posed the following question - "How can you believe in a God that kills small children?" And even with my abstract beliefs in God I never understood that question because I've never seen God as controlling. But I've asked God and Kyle for answers in my prayers. Every morning, I go into Kyle's room, get on my knees and pray. And every time I finish with, "Kyle, please protect your sister." 

But protect her from what?

Last week there was a school shooting in Wisconsin. And I can't imagine knowing what the parents of the deceased children are feeling. Yes, I can relate to a life snatched away far too soon, but I don't know what killed my son. People die in car wrecks, of cancer, of a peanut allergy...all tragic. But at least they have answers. We have nothing other than an educated guess and some more testing.

I've said this a thousand times over the last 5 weeks, "I wouldn't wish this pain on anyone" and I truly mean that. No one should have to grieve and memorialize their own child. But you know what else I wouldn't wish on anyone? I wouldn't wish having to speak with a medical examiner about your dead child. To pour over two dozen pages of medical terminology and reports, which contain every single detail of your life; the condition of our home, the prescription drugs in our medicine cabinet, the pajamas Kyle was wearing, the length of his nails and the shape of his teeth, his body / mass index and height and weight percentiles. And the size of his heart.

Most 12-year-old children have a heart size between 124 and 150g. Kyle's was 300g. Genetic testing showed his heart was afflicted by one of two factors: hypertrophic cardiomyopathy and a long QT. Now, I'm not going to turn this blog into the New England Journal of Medicine, but from my layman's research yesterday these two ailments appear to be similar. If they were family members, they would be first cousins. The irony is both are treatable with medication and lifestyle changes but would likely only be diagnosed though an extended EKG, which a pediatrician wouldn't perform for an outwardly healthy child. 

So where do we go from here? Yes, we all three have appointments with cardiologists the first of next year. And yes, we will proceed with further genetic testing, if necessary, no matter the cost. Health and protection of this family is paramount. However, will these answers provide the solace my family so desperately craves?

The night before Kyle died, we celebrated my birthday. Kyle ate a filet (medium rare, of course), a baked potato and some cake. He was Kyle that night - laughing, loving on his grandparents and sister and holding court the way only Kyle could. And Erica has poured over pictures from that night driving herself crazy thinking, "Did I miss something?" Was there a sign he was sick, and we ignored it? I asked the medical examiner these same questions and she simply told me, "No". When I called Erica to share the official findings from the report, we were both crying and I asked her to do me favor. I asked her if she could forgive herself for his passing. It was no one's fault, it just...happened. 

I haven't been able to look at pictures or videos of Kyle on my phone since he died. Today I finally went back and looked at a video from August 31st, 2024. It's him and Leah making a video for Erica for whatever reason. And behind him there's a balloon that says "Congrats" on it. I mentioned to Erica this video and asked about the significance of the balloon. She reminded me friends of ours bought Kyle the ballon and a gift to congratulate him for making the West / Bearden Middle School baseball team.

It's the first time I've listened to his voice since the night before he died. I missed hearing his sweet, inquisitive nature - a voice that vacillated between young boy and pre-teen on the precipice of a new stage of development in his life. Why have I been so reluctant to watch videos and hear his voice? I pray to him; I ask for a sign that he's near me and watching over us. All the while I have access to thousands of pictures and videos which recorded so many happy memories yet I'm afraid to watch them. I'm glad I finally dove into the cache of recorded memories. It was emotional and I felt extremely vulnerable afterwards, but I crossed another barrier in my grief journey. Much like the balloon, I could feel Kyle hovering above me and saying, "Congrats, Dad. You did it."

Thank you, Mr. Wilkins. 

Tattoo You

I got my first tattoo when I was 40 years old. We were vacationing with friends in Vegas, and it was an idea I had been contemplating for some time. Maybe it was the cold reality of entering middle age or the carefree nature of Las Vegas, but I worked up the courage to sit down and get something permanently etched across my body. I knew exactly what I wanted and 30 minutes later left with a small tattoo on the inside of my right arm. 

I walked across the road back into the casino and began showing my friends... 

But before that, I Facetimed Kyle from the bathroom of a Vegas casino. He was staying with my father-in-law and I told him before I went out what I planned to do with the particular design. My devotion and pride in my children were permanently sealed with a small, intimate marking in dark ink. But they say tattoos are addicting and "they" are exactly right. I began plotting my next tattoo which in terms of design and scope to my first would be like jumping straight from rookie ball into Game 1 of the World Series.

Tattoo #2 is a representation of our family. The four triangles represent the Smoky Mountains, in which we live in the foothills of, and the waning crescent moon a nod to our last name, "Mooney". My third (Tattoo #3) tattoo is a Native American symbol for clear weather. Seeing as we're not Native American you may be wondering as to its significance. Well, you see, it rains quite a bit in Knoxville, especially during the Spring months. And Kyle played a lot of baseball in the Spring that was impacted by all the rain. And it would get us both quite upset when a game would be cancelled or postponed. I began smoking a peace pipe on evening before his games, but the neighbors complained of the smell, so I had to give that up and opt for the tattoo to bring us good fortune. Three tattoos, all inside a year on the same arm. I was finished by that point. Tattoos are expensive, they kind of hurt and I ran out of fresh ideas.

But my children kept asking me, "What's next?" I decided that if I was ever to get another tattoo it would be to commemorate a team I cheer for winning a championship. And on June 17th, 2024, my beloved Boston Celtics won their NBA record 18th World Championship. This tattoo is pretty straightforward. It's also, if we're being really honest, pretty terrible and tacky. If tattoos were a representation of hierarchy in a family, my Celtics tattoo would be the black sheep that dropped out of diesel college. It's the cousin Eddie of body art. But then a week later the Tennessee Vols baseball team won their first national championship. To be quite honest, I didn't have the heart to go through with another tattoo so soon. My arm was still sore and unlike the Celtics tattoo I didn't want to rush into another marking that I might regret. Plus, as I mentioned during Kyle's eulogy, with the way Tennessee baseball recruits and develops players if I got inked each time the won the College World Series, I'd risk ending up looking like Post Malone. So, I welched on my bet and decided to put the baseball artwork on the backburner until the idea struck me.

And then it struck me. The baseball tattoo was back on albeit with significant changes to honor the current state of my family. I would implement the design of a baseball field and add the #11 (Kyle’s number) behind the 1st and 3rd bases, the positions Kyle loved to play. Baseball fields are unique in that the infield dimensions are always the same. But once you get into the outfield anything goes. Some fields play really deep, while others play shallow. Some have walls as high as 37' (the Green Monster in Boston's Fenway Park) or low (55" in left field at Dodger Stadium). They can be a variety of shapes, sizes and angles. 

I always told Kyle that one of the reasons I loved baseball is that it's a metaphor for life - a lot of failure and missteps, unique and interesting challenges, but a lot of fun if done correctly. The infield represents your day to day life - uniform, concrete and routine - while the outfield represents the unincumbered - free of constraints to chase whatever it is you're passionate about. It's my favorite tattoo to date as it holds a deep significance to him and something he loved so dearly. When I got the design made and tattooed this past Friday at (3 Sevens Tattoo [ Seymour Tennessee ] (@3sevenstattoo) • Instagram photos and videos) Owner and Artist Jarrod Ray was eager to hear the story and inspiration behind the design. Him and his team at 3 Sevens inquired about Kyle, who he was and did he have a relationship with Jesus. And I explained to them - Kyle loved three things - his family / fiends, baseball and God. Kyle used to pray for me because I was not as close to God as I once had been, that's how strong his faith was. After the few hours spent with Jarrod and his team at 3 Sevens we gathered in a circle and prayed. It was a somber and peaceful moment and once that humbled me as a father and a Christian. 

Now a quick Google search shows that the art of tattooing goes back to as early as 3250 BCE which is over 5,200 years ago. For centuries different cultures around the globe have used tattooing as a way of tribal and personal identification, devotion to a deity or acknowledging kills on the battlefield. When I was kid, however, tattoos were a way to falsely identifying someone as "white trash" but have since undergone a cultural renaissance.

Which is where I enter the equation. I never hunted mastodons during the Ice Age, and I never served in WWII, but I do use tattoos as a way of cultural identification. My cultural markings identify me as a devoted father, family member and fan. A person who loves so deeply that he's willing to permanently honor those around him with a pound of his flesh. 

Some claim that tattoo removal is more painful than the art of tattooing itself. Why is that it? I'm sure it has something to do with the actual removal procedure, but is there an underlying emotional significance in the removal process itself? I'd give anything to have my son back. I'd spend every day for the rest of my life getting poked and prodded with tattoo removal lasers to have another minute with him. And now I'm bargaining, another stage in the grieving process. The bargaining stage helps to offset the helplessness I feel in dealing with Kyle's death. My hope and belief are that one day we will be together again. And I hope when we do it's when I'm old and grey. And at first, he won't recognize me. That is until he looks at my left arm and sees that godawful Celtics tattoo.

The Girl of 1,000 Faces

It dawned on me the other day, this blog is dedicated to the memory of Kyle, but I still have another child that is equally important to me and our family. Leah will be 8 next month and she is also very much grieving her brother, albeit in her own unique way like any other child. 

Leah and Kyle had a really fun relationship. In fact, Kyle used to ask me all the time, "Who do you think is the funniest person in the house?" It was a rhetorical question because the answer was always, "Leah." If you've met Leah, you understand her sense of humor and personality. But let me try and explain Leah to an outsider. Leah is a BIG personality. You know kids these days love what's called a Blind Bag? If you reached into Leah's Blind Bag, you'd pull out the following: a mash up of dance hall and marching band songs, earrings, a leotard, softball bat, camera and silky pajamas. She's essentially a cross between Taylor Swift and Judy Garland.

We've exposed Leah to every extracurricular possible - dance, gymnastics, softball, basketball - but she really gravitated towards a children's acting camp she took last Summer at a local high school. At the end of the camp they put on an abridged version of Aladdin and Leah scored a speaking role as the Cave Guardian. And of course, she did great and loved the entire experience. So, when Leah asked to get up on stage at Kyle's memorial and end the service by singing "Rocky Top" it was no surprise. She had been very upset and annoyed during Kyle's memorial that it was beginning to unnerve Erica and me. The truth of the matter is that part of a child's grieving process is involvement in the decision making around memorializing their dead family member. By allowing her to sing we were helping her stay connected to her brother and feel like an important member of the family. Plus, we could hear Kyle's voice when she got on stage, "But, of course Leah had to sing!".

Leah saw Kyle in his bed the day he died. It was a very brief moment, but it happened. We have worked with childhood grief counselors and clinical professionals to determine the best course of action for her care. Most say that her grieving will come later in life - say when she becomes a mother - and begins to fully grasp the enormity of what Erica and I are going through. She's asked me some questions, "How did they get his body out of the house?" and "Is he really dead?" One change I've witnessed is that she seems to have taken an active role in seeking out added responsibilities around the house. Yesterday I was taking Bubba out and came in to find she had made herself a bowl of cereal and cleaned up her mess afterwards. She's also asked to clean up after Bubba outside and will walk him on his leash without prompting. She has been ready and eager to get dressed and go to school on time, which is not her standard operating procedure. In fact, the majority of arguments in this house with Leah revolve around her being dressed and ready to leave on time. 

I believe she senses our grief and is doing more to help ease our burden. Or maybe she's inherited some of the sweet and concerned nature of Kyle. Regardless of the reasons why, she's been a bright light in an unimaginable dark tunnel of sadness. She motivated Erica and I to get out of bed each morning and focus on our normal routine of being supportive and loving parents. 

Last year Erica was at Leah's elementary school when a teacher shared a story with her. She remarked that Leah was and is really kind and patient with all the special needs kids at her school. If you know Leah, sweetness is not the first word you necessarily think of. She can be aloof at times. But now I see it. I see the concern, the extra attention and grace with those who need it most. I call her The Girl of 1,000 Faces because of her dramatic nature. But maybe she's simply our little girl with the beautiful soul.

We've Lost Our Minds

When I was a kid growing up in Ohio, all I wanted was a dog. I used to get up every birthday and Christmas and check boxes in hopes that a puppy would be inside. As I grew older, I realized that my parents were not dog people and the only way I'd over own a dog, was if I purchased one on my own. In fact, my parents were not animal people, period. In the 5th grade my pet goldfish jumped out of his bowl and died. You know your home isn't hospitable to pets when an animal with a legendarily short memory has had enough. 

Erica was the polar opposite...she always had dogs. I've heard hilarious stories over the years about Molly, Zeke, Trusty and Simba. Simba was famous by getting pregnant multiple times from the various neighborhood hounds. If Maury Povich had a segment of "Are You the Father of My Baby?" for animals, Simba would have been his first guest.

So, when Erica and I rented our first apartment in Knoxville we purchased a beagle named Linus from a breeder in Greeneville, TN. Linus passed unexpectedly back in 2005, but by the Spring of 2006 we were gifted another beagle named Sammy. Sammy lived to be nearly 17 years old. He was a good-looking pup but about as sharp as a basketball and incredibly stubborn. In fact, Sammy wasn't an ideal pet until his last 2 years when he became deaf and nearly blind. Seriously, it took our dog being placed on full disability before he became easy to deal with. 

When Sammy passed, we agreed it would be some time before we brought another dog into our home. As the kids grew, we were (and are still) continuously on the "go" and not in an environment conducive for a pet, let alone a puppy. The kids begged for a new dog all the time and our message to them was simple, "Do the research, come up with a plan to divide chores associated with the dog and we can talk."  They never got past the brainstorming stage, so we never purchased them a dog. 

A few months ago, I started to reintroduce the idea of a dog. Erica was hesitant to discuss it, but seemed to soften as the days and weeks went on. I wanted a puppy from a breeder and Erica was more inclined to a pound puppy from a local shelter. Still, with the kids schedules and my traveling for work I believe Erica was afraid she'd end up with the lion's share of responsibilities associated with a small animal. And after Kyle passed, I decided to shelve the idea indefinitely as we continued to deal with our grief. 

But as John Lennon once famously said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." On Monday, Leah's former kindergarten teacher brought over dinner for our family. During our brief visit she mentioned that the breeder she purchased her latest puppy from had a litter with three golden retriever puppies left (hint, hint). We laughed the idea off finding the very suggestion ridiculous. And then the breeder reached out to us directly. She was aware of our situation and wanted to gift us a pure bred (White) Golden Retriever boy puppy as a way to bring joy into our lives. Between the hours of 5PM to 8PM Monday night we went from not even entertaining the idea of owning a pet to purchasing dog toys from Wal-Mart.com and Amazon. 

When we visited the puppies on Tuesday we were impressed with the breeders, their backstory and the puppies themselves. Of the three puppies left, two of them were rambunctious while the third boy was laid back and calm. When he walked over to Erica, she reached down to pick him up. He laid in her lap, and she loved on and snuggled next to him. She then looked down - he was wearing a read collar with baseballs on it. If you're looking for a sign, this was a lightning bolt to the head. He is 10 weeks and 2 days old; he sleeps all night in his cage and is doing a really good job with housetraining. Meet Bubba - the newest member of the Mooney family. And for the uninitiated, Bubba was Leah's nickname for Kyle. 

We are smitten with this pup who in less than 48 hours has brought us so much joy and laughter. A dog is not a replacement for any one person, but it is nice to have a central figure that we can rally our energy around to love and adore.

Last evening we took Bubba to a friend's house for dinner and to play with their dog, who’s roughly 2-1/2. Leah was carrying Bubba into their house when she remarked, "Now we're the perfect family!" It caught Erica and I off guard and upset us both. We overreacted and upset Leah, and it took us all a few minutes to collect ourselves. Leah was apologetic and sad for what she said, and we both forgave her...there was no ill will in her statement. She was happy and for a brief moment likely forgot that her brother's no longer with us. She was joyful and excited for her new puppy which was the whole point behind agreeing to get a dog in the first place.

When Leah came outside to apologize to me, I was with Bubba as he sniffed around in the grass in the backyard. I told her, "If given the chance to have this dog or your brother back for a minute I'd choose your bother every time." Then we both started to cry, and she told me she missed him. She then put her hands on my cheeks and gave me a kiss. And in true Leah fashion, wiped my kiss off her lips and started to laugh.

What I didn't tell Leah is that we're not and have never been perfect. And we weren't the perfect family when Kyle was alive either. A part of our soul has been amputated, and we'll never get it back. But if you're going to attempt to fill the void left by Kyle why not fill it with a handsome, sweet, funny and smart goofball named Bubba. Because while Bubba certainly doesn't make us perfect, maybe we're all perfect for each other.

A Return to Coaching

I got roped into coaching Kyle when he was three years old. His very first t-ball team needed a dad to assist, and I was reluctant to help. I had very little experience playing baseball as a kid and hadn't followed the sport much as an adult. Fortunately, coaching t-ball isn't as much coaching as it is positive behavioral reinforcement, so I was qualified to help. Seriously, t-ball had three rules: 

1. Don't throw the metal bat 

2. Follow the white line

3. Don't gang tackle, that's a different sport

That's it. It's that simple. It tends to get a bit more complicated as they get older, especially baseball which has dozens of quirky rules and unique scenarios that make it a special sport to play. I was Kyles head baseball coach until he was about 9, 10 years old when I decided to let others assume that role. 

But not basketball. I continued to coach Kyle at basketball up until his passing last month. In fact, in Kyle's final game he scored 14 points, and our team won 50-14. Kyle only wanted to play rec league basketball, which his mother and I supported given his seemingly yearlong commitment to practicing baseball and all of his other extracurricular commitments. So, when he died my initial reaction was that my days of coaching, too, were indeed over. 

But in the days following his passing I began to feel quite strongly about finishing out the basketball season. While my son may be gone, my love for basketball and for our team is very much there. And any opportunity to be close to my son in some capacity, I'll take it. I know some were surprised, although supportive, of my decision to return, but unable to process how I garnered the strength to do so. My first practice back was this past Thursday, and I had moments of doubt. The drive to the gym was painful and awkward. Normally a time reserved for he and I to discuss the game and strategy was filled with silence with the exception of the drone of the radio. But practice went well. The boys hustled, they listened, they executed, and we ended with a huddle break down dedicated to Kyle.

On Saturday we played a doubleheader, and it couldn't have started any worse. We got down 9-0 and trailed the entire time before losing a game that was not as close as the final score indicated. The boys played lackadaisically - they were out of position on defense, lacked effort on the boards and played carelessly with the ball on offense. At point one of my players had his hands in his pockets on defense to which I remarked, "Why are your hands in your pockets? Are you playing basketball or waiting in line at a bar?"

I was incensed and ready to light the fire of all fires underneath my players when two things dawned on me:

1. This is recreational basketball played by 12- and 13-year-old children.

2. These boys are grieving, too.

They lost their friend and teammate. An emotional leader and talented player they were adjusting with how to survive and thrive just like I am. I asked them how they thought their performance was during the first game and they all agreed they played poorly. I reminded them that effort and attitude and commitment to each other doesn't require any talent. It just requires a desire to be better and compete.

The second game was the polar opposite of the first. The boys executed, they competed and played with an edge and effort that would have made Kyle proud. I know I was certainly proud. Honestly, I didn't even care if we won* or lost as long as we played hard and hard fun.

The games themselves were a microcosm of my life recently - disappointment, failure, sadness, lethargy, attitude, togetherness, effort and happiness. It's hard not to find the parallels between sports and real life which is one of the reasons I think athletics resound with so many people. 

Yesterday evening, Leah played a game in her first season of basketball and scored her first point at the free throw line. Her team is raw, young and learning on the fly. It's hard for me not to coach from the bleachers or critique her performance. Kyle loved watching Leah compete. It really bothered him that he missed a number of her fall softball games as they conflicted with his middle school baseball practices. He loved competition and loved his sister even more and would constantly text me asking for updates on her and the team's performance. If you watch the video below, you'll see Leah's shot bounce twice before it goes through the net. And if you listen closely, you'll hear me yell, "Money" as she releases the ball. It was her shot. And it was my voice and video, but it's unmistakenly Kyle - shooting his shot and his mouth off at the same time. 

* (we won 34-28) 

Stop Texting Our Son at School!

Kyle always wanted an iPhone. We compromised and bought him an Apple Watch. It had the functionality of a phone - it could make and receive calls, text, etc. without the internet access that turns kids today into the Children of the Corn. 

He and I texted quite often about a wide variety of topics but mainly centered around his practices, schoolwork with some funny memes mixed in. Every day at 3:30 when he got on the bus Erica and I would receive the same text:

"Hi. How R U?" - Kyle

"Good, you?" - Me

"Good." - Kyle

Then 15 minutes later he'd saunter off the bus, come inside, give me a hug and proceed to eat a snack before homework and practice.

I haven't received that text exchange in three weeks and it's a daily reminder that he's no longer physically present to brighten our days. But I haven't stopped texting him. I talk to him constantly, especially around the house, and update him on current events. Below are some of the texts I've recently sent him:

"Big day today...playoff rankings and the men play Syracuse in basketball. I miss you."

"Just saw Wicked. It was really good. You would have loved it. Miss you."

"Ohtani is NL MVP and (Aaron) Judge in the AL. It's not the same without you."

And my personal favorite:

"Your sister wants me to buy a Tesla."

It's hard knowing that I'll never get a response, but I believe deep down he can read these. But I'm not the only one. Last week I picked up his iPad and he had dozens of texts messages from teammates, family and friends. Below are some of what was sent to him:

"Love you, bro." - Eli E.

"You always encouraged me and pushed me to grind (at baseball) ...see you sometime. I love you." - Charlie

"I love you so much." - Will H.

"You were the best friend." - Roman

"I miss you." - Owen

There are also pictures his friends sent of them with him over the years. My favorite was from his friend Oakley. Oakley watched the Celtics win the NBA Finals with us and we celebrated with victory cigars (mine lit, theirs were not). The pic is a selfie of the two of them chomping on their Churchill's, pure joy in their eyes and hearts.

Recently Kyle had been struggling to complete homework and turn in assignments on time. Kyle was an Honor's student who mainly brought home A's, so a handful of failing assignments were concerning. We really tightened the screws on him to drive home the importance of organization and putting in the extra effort on assignments. One of the reasons for his supposed misstep was my constant barrage of texts I was sending him throughout the day, affecting his focus.

I apologized and promised to try my best to leave him alone during school, but to tell you the truth, I no longer regret or feel bad about any of it now. 

Enjoy your weekend and God Bless.

I Should Have Been a Professional Driver

Last week Erica spoke with a local Knoxville mother who tragically lost her 13-year-old son a few years ago. She mentioned to Erica that, amongst other things, she didn't drive for 4 months. The thought of driving Erica around for the next few months isn't an inconvenience but rather allows me some control over the safety of my family and an opportunity to focus on anything other than the inevitable black cloud in my rearview (like what I did there with the pun?).

Let me offer some additional context...I cover the entire State of Tennessee, parts of Norther Mississippi and Southwest Virgina for my company, which is to say I drive quite a bit. And I like to drive. I like to listen to a podcast (anything sports related) an audiobook (currently listening to the Elon Musk biography by Walter Isaacson) or any Spotify playlist that includes 90 era's Grunge (a lot of Alice in Chains in current rotation).

In fact, the day before Kyle passed Erica and I were having breakfast, and I mentioned that I would probably hand down my Chevy truck to him when he turned 16. It was paid in full, in good condition with low mileage (under 90K). Hell, I learned how to drive in a mid-sized truck delivering auto parts for my dad's business before I even turned 16. 

One time I let Kyle drive my truck. This was earlier this year, and we had spent an hour or so at the ballpark taking BP and fielding grounders. The park was empty and the ideal location to learn how to drive. Kyle was a big kid - around 5'4" 130 lbs with big hands and big feet. In fact, over the Summer, he had really started to thin out, but he was a solid kid even from the day we brought him home from the hospital - meaning he could easily see over a dashboard and reach the pedals. Do you remember your driver's education classes? The car would have the separate brake on the passenger side so your driver's ed teacher (always an old coach) could slam on the emergency brake before you wrapped the Buick Skylark around a pole or worse. I gave him simple directions, "Gas right, break left, only use your right foot." And it went about as well as you would imagine. We slammed the gas, then slammed the brake. He turned too sharply. I've never been so afraid going 4 MPH in a empty parking lot. Finally, before we jumped a ditch, I threw my left leg over the center console and hit the brake while simultaneously putting the truck in park. And we laughed and laughed and agreed it would be a while before we ever let him get behind the wheel of a car again. He remarked that he was fine with letting me drive him around for the rest of his life.

Every day I look for a sign of Kyle's presence and maybe it's been under my nose, or in the passenger seat the last three weeks. By driving Erica around during her personal grief journey I'm fulfilling Kyle's desire to have me in control of the future safety of our family. Maybe I should open my own business called, "Brennan's Livery Service" and trim out a Crown Vic, take on two clients (Erica and Leah) and get a black suit with a skinny tie and a captain's hat. 

Now that would make Kyle laugh.

What is Wrong with Me?

Have you ever felt like you were dying? I have...one time. When I was 22 years old, I went to sleep next to my girlfriend (now wife) in our college apartment. 3 months away from graduation with a job lined up and the excitement of moving to Nashville, I had the world by the throat. That fateful evening however, I kept shooting up out of bed with my heart pounding and out of breath. I thought I was having a heart attack. After a few hours in the ER, I was dispatched with some Ambien to help me sleep and more questions than answers. Additional tests followed with my physicians, and it was determined that I had Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). In short GAD is a misfiring of brain function that causes me to react to threats differently than others. In layman's terms, I think the worst when a tough situation hits. 

Your boss called. I'm getting fired.

The school called. Kids probably sick.

Doctor's office called. Bloodwork probably showed a thyroid irregularity.

But here's where I could always rise above the noise in my brain. Once I put my hands on whatever problem I perceived I could immediately calm myself and handle the problem properly.

Your boss called. No worries, I'll make it top priority.

The school called. Kyle left his lunch on the kitchen table. I'll run it by on my way to the office.

Doctor's office called. Oh, sorry about the mix-up. Here's payment for the outstanding $17 bill.

As I've grown and matured, I've learned how to properly manager my anxiety. Almost gone are the days where I can't focus due to a potential problem looming ahead. Until now. The day Kyle passed I had adrenaline running through my veins so coarsely it felt like an out of body experience. It wasn't until the first responders left that I went out on my back porch and lost all composure, which is to be expected.

We quickly packed our things and left to spend the next two and half weeks living with in-laws and friends. Surrounded by family and friends we were showered with love and attention, every need taken care of, including details regarding Kyle's service. But my wiring tells me that something terrible is on the horizon. Because at some point we have to go home to house where our son passed and deal with the cold reality that we are now a party of three and not four. 

I've gone nearly half my life without a night's sleep like I had back in the Winter of 2005 until last night. I couldn't get comfortable. I was hot, then cold and restless throughout the night. I kept waking up every hour to wonder if our 7-year-old daughter was asleep in her bed even checking on her once to make sure she was still breathing. When my alarm went off at 6, I tossed and turned with trepidation until I went into her room to wake her. She awoke in typical Leah fashion - surrounded by stuffed animals and wearing a sleeping mask, she took her sweet time descending from her lofted bed. 

I'm alone now in our house as I type this post. It is quiet except for the humming of the furnace in the garage and cars passing outside our neighborhood. It's the midday quiet that one expects when working from home alone on a Monday. And I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have worries but I am not expecting the worst at this very moment. The say that the stages of grief are not a chronological cycle but rather a pattern of mismatched shapes. Right now, I am in the 'Acceptance' stage of grief. And I don't think there's anything wrong with that. 

Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?

My name is Brennan Mooney. I am 43 years old, married, gainfully employed and a father. On the evening of November 13th (my 43rd birthday) my 12-year-old son, Kyle, went to sleep and never woke up. My family is angry, confused, scared and heartbroken. We lost the guiding light of our household. Through these entries I will attempt to work through my grief, explain who I am, who my son was and hopefully provide solace to so many that are grieving alongside us the loss of Kyle. 

God bless.