hey danny

Hey Danny—

Tough one last night. It was not the way you wanted it to end. On one hand, back-to-back appearances in a collegiate national championship is incredible stuff, the kind of thing very few people on this planet can say they achieved. On the other hand, going 0-2 in those games, both times against good but beatable teams, has to sting. I personally, a non-athletic person, can scarcely begin to imagine getting so high and so close and not taking it home.

But it’s not just the way it ended. It’s that it ended. A journey in competitive team sports that started when you were six years old came to a close last night. It’s a thing that’s hard to imagine for me in a literal way, but I have had some journeys end, and new ones begin. Maybe we can talk about that stuff after you get home from school this week. I know it hurts. I know you’ll have to sit with this a while.

Do you remember the start of the journey, that first soccer practice? I do. We were new here, the summer before you started first grade, when we showed up late that summer at Priory Park, both of us more than a little uncertain of what we were about to find. We didn’t know anyone, or anything about soccer. I remember Mr. Gladden trying to herd a bunch of other six-year-olds while carrying a bag of balls and another bag full of colorful pinnies and practice cones. It was an overwhelming, chaotic scene. I asked him if he needed help, which he gladly accepted. By the time I turned around, you’d taken a ball and were running around under the hot sun, dribbling with the other kids. It was going to be OK.¹

So much happened over the next sixteen years. Soccer was fun and always there on the side, and there were brief forays into basketball and Ultimate to add a little variety. Even a couple of golf camps. Of course it was baseball where you really shined and found your first passion. I could write it all out—I remember it all, in detail, and was privileged to be there in the dugouts for most of it with you—but it’d be way too long. Some of the highlights:

• That first triple you smashed off coach pitch into right field at Lincoln
• The first time you were called in to pitch in minors at Priory (so nervous! all of us!)
• The six all-star/travel team selections
• The first home run (I missed it, but Mr. Kilburg told me all about it) (and I never missed another one)
• The game at Keystone where you homered, and both of your grandfathers were there to see it
• The 12-6 lights-out curve you developed in majors, sitting down some of the best hitters in town
• A brief and successful stint at catcher, when the team needed you and nobody else would/could do it
• The state tournament in Olney—white squirrels, and delinquent twelve-year-olds escaping from the hotel at night (not you, though)
• That Pony league tournament game where you nearly single-handedly took out those cocky punks from Des Plaines (they eventually gave up and just started walking you)
• Making the high school team freshman year

And so, so many more moments I’ll never forget. I hope you sometimes look back at those fondly, too.

Then came your first real setback: the stress fracture in one of your back vertebrae towards the end of freshman year. Heartbreaking. I was out of town when mom called from the doctor’s office and told me how devastated you were. We all were. After the mandatory period of rest, difficult for you in any case, I remember how hard you attacked your rehab. Physical therapy, that fancy computer thing at Rush Orthopedics that analyzed your swing and pitching motion, working out with Sam, working all winter with Scott and the guys at Strikes to get ready for sophomore tryouts. “Grit” is the overused term, but the right one. You were ready.

And then the biggest curve ball of all: just days before tryouts, you told us you were going to go for volleyball, not baseball. What on Earth? You’d never played a minute of competitive volleyball in your life outside of middle school gym class! I confess now that despite our unconditional support, we were a little skeptical, yet ultimately not too surprised when you got the news you made the JV team. You’d succeeded at everything else, why stop here? Of course, two days later, COVID ended that school year and season. We all lost something important there. But I’m quite sure we never doubted your choices again.

Your path was charted, and it started in earnest in club season that fall, with them moving tournaments and games to Indiana since the ban on mass gatherings in Illinois was still in place. That 17U club season brought fresh challenges, including a clueless young coach who didn’t know how to use you, and your parents who didn’t really know the sport and how to navigate that club situation. Didn’t matter; it was obvious you were smitten by the sport. You’d found your thing, your joy. Every spare minute, you were out there bumping a ball in the driveway, or doing little mini-sets in your room. Your workouts changed to be more about jumping and hitting.

Post-COVID, junior year on varsity started with a lot of bench time until a couple of guys ahead of you on the roster had to leave the team just before the playoffs. Given the opportunity, and I say this with absolutely no fatherly bias, you became the team’s best outside and carried them through the playoffs to the quarterfinals. The 18U club season to follow was even better when you got additional professional coaching from Leo. You were again on the floor for every point of every game, leading the team to successes in tournaments all over the Midwest, getting a couple of All-Tournament mentions. The senior year high school season picked right up where that ended, again with you playing every point of every match except for a couple of times where Coach Cousin pulled you in blowout wins, and the one set he sat you out for after you skipped practice on senior ditch day. The trip to state also ended in the quarterfinals that year, but to this day, nobody sees that season as anything less than an unqualified success.

I never thought after only two years of competing in the sport we’d be taking meetings with college coaches, but there we were. I remember the first trip we took together to Shannon Center to watch St. Xavier, and I knew before the first set ended that you were going to eventually be a Cougar. The excitement, the atmosphere, the high level of play, and the perfect size/location combo. Playing time got harder to find in college, for sure, and whether the experience there turned out to be exactly what you hoped for, well, it might still be a little too soon to say. Some time and distance will be required.

I’ll use the word again: what a journey. From a preschooler whacking whiffle balls over your aunts’ fences to two collegiate national championship silver medals. I was feeling some kinda way about it last night as you walked off the court for the last time, and I know you were, too. Watching you play (and your sister dance) has been a centerpiece of my non-work life for sixteen years, and if I’m being honest, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this time on my hands, though of course that pales compared to what you’re facing and feeling today.

Here’s what I do know: the journeys change, but they don’t stop. You’ll find a way to scratch the itch. There are tournaments, there are adult leagues, there are pickup games at the park or the beach. And there are other ways. Maybe you’ll take up some other sport², or something else entirely. It’s a big life and a big world. I’m not chasing the same passions I did at 22 (happy birthday, by the way!), but you know well that I’m not done chasing. I know that will be true for you, too, even if the details are unclear at this moment.

Another thing I know for sure—and I really hope you do, too—is that I’ll always be your biggest fan. If the games or whatever are open to the public, and it wouldn’t be too weird for an old guy to hang out and watch, keep me posted.

Love,
Dad