Passion Pit

Passion is defined as "intense, driving, or overmastering feeling or conviction." Passion is an intoxicating emotion that oftentimes can cloud your judgement or push you to exhausting limits to gain something you so desperately crave.

But what do you do when you are no longer passionate about something you cared about so deeply? In this instance, passion for sports, and specific teams, was such a large part of my relationship with Kyle that now I find myself devoid of passion...indifferent to scores, news and the performance of teams I once cared so deeply for. 

For example, Kyle was a huge Boston Celtics fan. I became a Celtics fan when my parents were living in the Boston area during the 80's Celtics dynasty and specifically, Larry Bird. When Larry retired following the 1991-92 season I cried so hard my mom thought Larry had died. Rest assured, Larry is alive and well on his farm in French Lick, IN some 30-plus years later.

Rooting for the Celtics was a tradition I was happy to pass along to Kyle. And for most of Kyle's life they were very good. I mentioned this, specifically, during my eulogy. We'd spend hours watching games and analyzing Celtics greats like Jayson Tatum and Jaylen Brown. Kyle even got to meet a number of Celtics players and once went courtside before a Celtics / Memphis Grizzlies game. It was a tight game heading into the 4th until Tatum took over and hit this off balance fadeaway from the elbow to put the Celtics in front for good. It was the exact shot he practiced right in front of us for warmups just three hours earlier. I remember telling Kyle, "Watch him. Watch his footwork and his high arching release. He's doing this for a reason." That reason was the game altering bucket. 

Every year my mom buys my NBA League Pass so I can watch obscure Celtics games throughout the season. And oftentimes Kyle would join me on the couch to stay up and watch the Celtics throttle some bottom feeder pushing the limits of his bedtime on a school night. He would literally sit on top of me on the couch and cheer (or jeer) as they played. And on the night the Celtics won their NBA record 18th World Championship, he was right there with me "puffing" on an unlit victory cigar. I commemorated a bet by getting a Celtics tattoo, a bet he didn't think I'd take. This has all been mentioned previously, but now my feeling about certain things have been drastically altered since his death. Of all my tattoos the Celtics tattoo is the only one I don't like. 

Even with League Pass I find I haven't watched much of the Celtics this year. Maybe they're just so good I expect them to win and don't find myself as committed as before. But that doesn't track because I am super passionate about Tennessee baseball and find myself gripped by every pitch. When the Celtics kicked off their playoff title defense on Sunday, I watched about 5 minutes, checked the score from my phone periodically and wasn't even moved when they found themselves down by a point at the half. They ended up winning, but it was a very, "Ho-Hum" feeling. Which begs the question, "Where did the passion go?"

I have so many childhood memories of the Celtics. From the last days of Larry Bird to the Rick Pitino debacle. I even have a place of the old Boston Garden which was razed in the early 90's. I used to shoot hoops in my driveway for hours as a kid until my fingers bled pretending to hit a game winning bucket for the Celtics. And to this day my dream job is starting point guard for the Boston Celtics. 

So, when Kyle died, not only did my attention turn to other places but I believe a part of my inner child died too. I lost a part of my youth, my innocence and a dream that will never return. Which is all a metaphor for a child dying. The death of a child signifies the end of youth, of innocence and of impossible dreams. 

I had so many dreams tied up in Kyle, some of them around sports, that his death was a stark reminder that dreams are just that...dreams. They're not real, but rather figments of imaginations and hopes that are just out of our grasp. Kids look up to athletes because they chased and lived their dreams an impossible scenario for 99.99999999% of people around the world. 

My dreams for Kyle were much different. I hoped that he'd one day play high school baseball. I dreamt that he'd get into a good school and find a career he could use to maximize his high intellect and charming wit. I dreamt that regardless of my dreams, that Kyle would simply be happy. My hope is that Kyle died suffering no pain. When I went into his room the morning of his death he was situated in a position that he often slept in, convincing me that he went to sleep and was peaceful in his transition to heaven. Hopefully dreaming of what brought him happiness - sports, friends, his faith and listening to and commenting on adult conversations, often irritating his mother and me. 

I'm working with my boss this week and he commented that he's excited to watch Game 2 of the Celtics playoff run with me tomorrow night. What a treat for him! I didn't have the heart to tell him that I don't care to watch the game. I don't care if they lose, and I'd rather find something else he and I can bond over. 

Last week, Kyle's middle school team gutted and fought their way to the finals of the Knox County Middle School baseball championship. And in the semifinals, we won in a thrilling walk off in the bottom of the 7th by Kyle's dear friend, Charlie. While Charlie was up to bat, I was in the dugout praying to Kyle. But I wasn't praying for victory. I was praying for Kyle to give Charlie the strength to perform and live might well have been one if his dreams - to hit a walk off hit in an important game.

I find that I am still very passionate about coaching and baseball in general. So, when they asked me to return next season I didn't hesitate for a second. Being with the team keeps me close to Kyle and allows me to compartmentalize my emotions and focus on the well-being of those around me. In a time in my life where selfishness is often encouraged in order to protect oneself, I find that I enjoy being selfless to a large degree, too. 

Which brings me back to the loss of my childhood dream and the reason why maybe I don't feel as passionate about Celtics basketball as I once did. Even though I lost a part of my childhood dream, and more importantly a child, I have gained the maturity and wisdom of an adult. Maybe I need to look at the Celtics not as a reminder of my pain and innocence lost, but as a vessel to remain close to my son in another capacity. I have suffered the worst and lived to talk about my emotional state, to be vulnerable in front of strangers and confident about the direction in which my life is headed. So maybe I need to learn to live with another sliver of pain. Or maybe I simply need to grow up.

Comfortably Numb

What is your very first childhood memory?

I was around the age of three. My parents had just moved to Cincinnati, and we were living in a house in a suburb north of the city, I was in my room, it was dark. There was a piece of artwork in my room in the shape of balloons. I was standing in my crib.

When you think back to your childhood, I bet a lot of things bring you comfort. I had a very good childhood. I lived and played in a neighborhood with a lot of other kids my age.  We spent most of our time outside regardless of the weather. And most of our days revolved around playing whichever sport was in that particular season. As we grew older, we spent our nights playing flashlight tag. I remember coming home well past dark, dressed head to toe in black and always being really, really sweaty. 

When you reminisce you seem to block out some of the negative memories - the fist fights, the bad grades, the backtalking to adults (although, maybe that was just a "me" problem) - and focus on the more cherished moments. Childhood trauma and grief are foreign to most and live in the perpetual shadows of human existence. But why? Is it a human condition where we block out negative memoires in order to progress forward. Is our brain protecting us from ourselves? Or have we been conditioned to bury those painful memories so deep; we lose them forever?

In coaching, you teach your players to, "get comfortable, being uncomfortable." It's a tricky way of convincing a child to accept failure and learn to try new things. 

When Kyle was 9 or 10, we were invited by a major league scout and family friend to take batting practice at a local high school. The scout asked Kyle to make some slight changes in his swing to give himself extra power. It the first of many times a coach would ask him to make adjustments in order to be more successful. 

And it's no different when a teacher asks you to interpret a text a differently or a boss asks you to adjust a habit you've developed at work. The delivery may differ, but the message is always the same, "We need you to be better." And in order to be better sometimes you need to take a position that seems undesirable. That's oftentimes called growth.

We are bombarded with messaging constantly that affects our subconscious thought in ways we cannot possibly comprehend. Every conscious decision is driven by millions of unconscious thoughts we cannot identify. In fact, some philosophers would argue that conscious thought is an illusion and that every thought or action we have comes from a source we are unaware of. So, is what we tend to remember and forget even under our own control? 

Grief is uncontrollable. The grief journey, as I've mentioned before, is not linear but rather circuitous. One minute you're happy and the next a song comes on the radio and you're in tears, which happened to me this week. I went to get our puppy some food and the song "Teardrop" by Massive Attack came on Spotify. It's not a song I remember Kyle enjoying, but it reminded me of him being in my truck alongside me. I'm controlling the vehicle on the road. I'm controlling the station I listen to on the radio. But I am not controlling my emotions. I am at the behest of something I cannot comprehend. I do not, in this moment, exercise free will as I have been taught is my right as an American. 

We tend to dull these seemingly negative emotions through a variety of measure. Some eat. Some drink. Some drug and some manifest their grief in violent and disturbing manners. But they are there. The grief and the pain are all there, lying in our subconscious waiting to attack like a snake in the grass.

On my recent travels, I began taking Kyle's favorite stuffed animal with me. Wolfie, was a stuffed wolf Kyle received on his 5th birthday. Kyle wasn't a particularly big stuffed animal kid (unlike his sister who holds court with her's daily), but Wolfie was always there including next to him on the morning he died. And now, Wolfie comes with me. Wolfie has now officially been through Terminal A at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. Wolfie has stayed in a Paducah, KY Comfort Inn and Wolfie has been crushed by the weight of my fat ass in my martial bed in Knoxville. I haven't slept with a stuffed animal since my Flash Light Tag days so why do I have him now? I use him was a way to comfort myself during the evenings when I'm reminded of Kyle's last night. Holding Wolfie is a way for me to keep the negative thoughts at bay and feel a closeness with my son.

Last week I went to bed crying, which hasn't happened since the day after he died. I could have gone back downstairs and numbed myself with food or drink, but I didn't. I gripped Wolfie tight, and I cried. And instead of burying my emotions deep somewhere where they would eventually strike, I leaned into those feelings and came out the other side...happy. I got comfortable being uncomfortable and think I learned a new way to grieve. I've now inventoried that emotion subconsciously for a later date. I am stronger that I was a moment before I cried in bed*.

When we grieve openly, we allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Vulnerability is a powerful emotion, and it helps develop trust between people. The day Kyle died his friends from school and church gathered to talk about him. When I found out, I wanted to go see them. However, someone from our church convinced me to stay home. Was it to protect me or them from the hard conversation we were bound to have? Or was it a fear of allowing someone to be vulnerable in front of others? And during Kyle's service - there was never of question of whether or not I would speak. No one knew Kyle better than me and I wasn't going to allow him to be eulogized by someone that couldn't accurately describe who he was or what he meant to so many. His death gave me strengths I didn't know I had, which is ironic given the circumstances.

Your memories are there to serve as a reminder as well as to caution and protect you from pain. But when pain becomes your primary emotion, you can either choose to run towards or away. In this instance, choosing to run headfirst into my pain isn't a sign of weakness, but of strength. I am growing comfortable being uncomfortable and it may just save my life. 

* An oddly funny footnote to this story is that while this was happening Erica was brushing her teeth. She heard me crying and hollered out from the bathroom (mimics speaking with a mouth full of toothpaste and a toothbrush, "Are you okay?"). It's funny because at any moment in our house someone can be crying and it's no longer alarming... it's just accepted like hearing someone fart, "Was that you?" and you simply move on.