Tag: gratitude

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Holding the Line: Loyalty and Change at ASU Baseball

After five years as the ASU Men’s Baseball Team Manager, I transitioned into the role of Administrative Assistant to the head coach. This role was meant to keep me involved in the university’s baseball program, with the goal of eventually working my way up into the front offices of the baseball world. However, shortly after returning from the College World Series in Omaha, Nebraska, our head coach passed away after a battle with liver cancer. He was my mentor, my advocate, and the most influential person in my life up to that point.

Suddenly, I was thrown into the midst of running an athletic office, while only familiar with the on-field processes. The university began searching for a new head coach immediately. I was convinced one of our assistant coaches would be promoted. Bill Kinneberg was a strong contender, though his status as an alumni of our rival, University of Arizona, made him a less-popular choice with the hiring committee. Despite his three years as our pitching coach, the prestigious head coach position was not decided by the previous coaching staff.

Within a couple of weeks, the new hire was announced: Pat Murphy from Notre Dame. He was young, enthusiastic, and eager to start. The athletic department was excited about their decision, and Coach Murphy arrived the very next day. However, the existing coaching staff was less thrilled, a sentiment I did not fully understand until I began working under him. Murphy was arrogant and constantly boasted about his connections and plans to change ASU baseball.

The problem was, ASU Baseball was already the most prestigious NCAA Division I baseball program, with a long list of alumni who had made it to the Big Leagues. Murphy’s desire to change the program seemed unnecessary, but he wasted no time in doing so. Within a week, he had fired the entire coaching staff. I was the only familiar face left in the baseball program. I felt indispensable, as Murphy needed my help to navigate the procedures, introduce him to the players, and show him the facilities.

Despite my administrative role, I longed to be back on the field, where I thrived and stood out among my peers. My true talents lay in setting up batting stations, compiling statistics, and tracking spray charts. I was the one who kept the dugout running smoothly during practices and games. Fans, boosters, sports writers, alumni, umpires, and players relied on me as Packard Stadium’s curator. I was not meant to sit at a desk on the fifth floor of the ICA Building, dressed in business attire and working behind the scenes.

Murphy did not like my close relationships with the players and the Brock Family. He wanted me to be impartial and loyal solely to him and his new crew. This was difficult, as I bled maroon and gold, while they still had Fighting Irish running through their veins.

During that first week, I fielded phone calls from legendary athletes like Brian Urlacher and Pat Leahy. Murphy always took calls from famous people, while everyone else received a message of, “He’s not available right now. Can I leave him a message?” His overconfidence was too much, and I never felt comfortable in his presence. I wanted things to be the way they had always been-classic Sun Devil Baseball heritage and pride. The common joyful exchange between players, coaches and fans. A commitment to excellence for the program’s sake, not a personal pedestal to become self-important.

To be continued in next week’s blog post

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Remember The Inherent Worth of Every Individual

From the moment I saw her, I felt an instant dislike. She had a rugged appearance, with tattoos covering her face, neck, and arms. Her walk exuded a cockiness that made it clear she wouldn’t take nonsense from anyone. She spent her time smoking and asserting her powerful presence in the yard.

Whenever I encountered a new inmate, my first thought was always, “What did they do to end up here?” My initial assumptions were usually “drugs” or “DUI.” However, as I got to know more about people, I realized their stories were often much more complex.

One woman was in for theft and trespassing after living in a deceased man’s house for over a year. His family, who lived out of state, were waiting for the courts to settle his estate before putting the house on the market. In the meantime, the fully furnished house sat vacant. She knew about his family situation and decided to move in. While living there, she found a collection of rare coins, which she pawned to buy groceries. Another woman was in for arson after setting her condescending boss’s house and cars on fire in an act of revenge.

However, most of the women I met had done things many others have done – shoplifting a shirt, driving home from happy hour buzzed, or falsely applying for unemployment and food stamps because their current jobs didn’t pay the rent. They just happened to be the unlucky ones who got caught. Regardless of the cause, guilty or innocent, during my stay, I realized that every single person means something to somebody.

One day, as I was returning from work, the gate officer was letting a family in for a weekday visit. We stood in line patiently, waiting for the guests to be processed. Soon, a little boy, about four years old, came running through the gates toward the visiting area. He was yelling, “Mom! Mom! I’m here! I finally get to see you! Mom! It’s me, I’m here!” He was calling for his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in who knows how long. He was so excited that he couldn’t hold back, even though she was inside and couldn’t see or hear him. All of us witnessing this tender moment couldn’t help but shed some tears. The reunion hit home for all of us who were missing our families and friends. After a couple of minutes, his mother came out of the visiting area door – it was the rugged lady I had assumed was just a nobody acting tough for attention. However, she was a mother, loved, missed, and needed by this little boy.

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The Impact of Media Ideals on Personal Happiness

Have you ever pondered a world devoid of television, newspapers, and magazines? Imagine a life unswayed by the media’s fabricated images of perfection and success. If our realities were shaped solely by direct experiences, would the specter of depression still loom for chasing an unattainable ideal? The allure of a flawless existence—magnificent homes, celebrity, wealth, and aesthetic beauty—is a mirage perpetuated by the media. Such perfection is a myth, an unachievable standard that leaves us grappling with disillusionment. The truth is, every aspect of what we consume is curated, from the narratives of reality shows to the stories we follow.

In my younger years, I would envision my life as if it were a cinematic masterpiece, a seamless blend of fantasy and desire. With each passing phase, I endeavored to embody an unfeasible persona, and with it, happiness eluded me, for I was always in pursuit of the next unobtainable thing. Now, in moments of reflection, I recognize the countless experiences that slipped by—not for lack of presence, but because my heart and mind were elsewhere.

In the relentless pursuit of validation, we often become actors on the stage of life, performing for an audience we believe holds the key to our worth. This ceaseless striving to impress others can lead us to miss the genuine moments that make life truly rich. We are present, yet not fully—our minds preoccupied with crafting the perfect image, the right words, the most impressive achievements. It’s a chase that leaves us breathless, not from the exhilaration of living, but from the exhaustion of pretending.

The irony is profound: in seeking admiration, we overlook the simple joys that deserve our full attention. The laughter of loved ones, the quietude of a morning sunrise, the spontaneous conversations that meander into deep connections—all sacrificed at the altar of approval. It’s only when we pause the performance and step off the pedestal that we realize happiness was never in the applause. It was in the unscripted, imperfect, and beautiful moments of being truly ourselves, surrounded by those who cherish not the mask, but the authentic soul beneath it.

Life’s fleeting moments often slip past unnoticed as we chase the elusive narratives spun by the media. Now, as I sift through photos of my existence, I yearn to hold onto those memories a bit tighter. I seek to immerse myself once more in the warmth of Cancun’s sun, to be enveloped by the laughter that echoed across Cabo San Lucas’ sands, and to sway to the Caribbean rhythms that once guided us on the dance floor of a cruise ship. The roar of the crowd at sports arenas, the intimate melodies of guitar strings at concerts, and the serene whispers of mountain trails linger in my mind—their sounds as clear as the day they first resonated. I long for the days of wildflower hunts with my daughter, the tranquil strolls with my dogs by the river’s edge, and the Zambian sunsets, a canvas of fiery tranquility. These moments, vibrant and enduring, are the hues that should illustrate my life’s rich narrative.

I may not have a picture-perfect life, but my existence is not lacking; it is replete with a rich tapestry of locales, faces, and adventures that have graced my journey. As I gaze ahead, I eagerly anticipate the myriad of experiences the next half-century holds.