Over the years, I have come to realize that each of my children can be a very picky eater. One often repeated conversation starts...
Dad: "What do you guys want for dinner?" Child 1: "In-N-Out" Child 3: "No, I hate In-N-Out, let's go to KFC..." Child 2: "Yuck, they are both disgusting, I want barbecue..." Child 1: "I asked first..."
...and so on, until:
Dad: "...Enough, we are stopping at the grocery store for TV dinners."
Most parents can relate to some form of this conversation. Having one picky eater can be challenging, but having three ends up being an argument. It has taken me lots of time to realize that I can not force the kids to like (or even eat) the foods that I think they should.
But coming to this realization was challenging, and I haven't always earned my "best parent of the year" trophies when it comes to getting my fussbudget eaters to "come around"...there was the (now) notorious episode of my oldest hiding sweet potatoes in her milk (and me then trying to force her to drink the concoction). Then there was the Tuna Helper riot of 2007, with my youngest (only slightly exaggerated for comic effect...) throwing her pasta at me, from across the table, and me responding that she could have it for breakfast too...
At the end of the day, I do realize that I can't force my children to do anything, especially eat, so I have (for the most part) just stopped trying. The best I can do is offer them nutritious, varied foods—and eat them myself. The kids can have theirs, or not, and the best I can do is model the behavior I want them to emulate.
So, I put the food on their plates, if it stays there, I don't push them (too much, but is a "no-thank you" bite too much to ask?!). Really, I try not to stress over it too much (to varying degrees of success). Unfortunately, none of them seem to like the same foods at the same time, which can make family dinner time a pretty stressful situation for everyone involved.
But I finally found a one-pan meal that they all tolerate (some might even say that they like...). Presenting Italian Chicken:
Ingredients
6 small to medium red potatoes, cut
8/9 oz package of frozen cut green beans
1 1/2 lb chicken breasts (3-6 breasts)
1/2 c. butter
1 package Italian dressing mix
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Lightly grease a 9x13" (3-quart) baking dish with butter.
Line one side of the baking dish with the cut green beans.
Line the chicken breasts down the middle of the baking dish.
Cube the potatoes and line the opposite side (from the green beans) of the dish with the potatoes.
Cut the stick of butter into small pats and layer over the green beans, potatoes, and chicken.
Sprinkle Italian dressing over the entire pan. Cover with foil.
Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour 15 minutes (or until the chicken breasts reach 165 degrees internal temperature).
There isn't anything here that any of the three kids hate (in fact, they love all the ingredients, although just last night my youngest says she doesn't like the green beans with the Italian dressing mix...sigh).
I serve this meal with a fruit salad, or even some canned pears or peaches, and voila, dinner time is solved (at least two times per month).
It took time, some trial and error, and a few tears (mine and the kids), but I learned that by continually offering them choices, I was finally able to hit upon something that appeals to all of our tastes (well, for the most part)!
Watching My Oldest Graduate and Reflecting on the Journey
Kailey, yesterday, I had the honor of watching you walk across the stage at Bucknell University to receive your Bachelor's degree with honors. As I sat in those uncomfortable folding chairs that seem to be standard issue at graduation ceremonies everywhere, I found myself doing what parents do at these moments: thinking about how impossibly fast twenty-two years can pass.
But mostly, I was remembering.
Full Circle at Bucknell
There's something almost poetic about the fact that you graduated from the same university where we really started our family journey twenty years ago. I can still picture that July day in 1995 when we first stepped onto Bucknell's campus together. While I was nervously navigating my first week in a new job, the two-year-old you was fearlessly conquering the jungle gym at Sunflower (the campus daycare) and treating the whole university like your personal playground.
Even then, you had this remarkable ability to make any space your own. Whether you were climbing to the top of that jungle gym or, just a few months later, getting ready to go trick-or-treating with your little brother in your Tigger costume, you approached everything with a combination of determination and joy that has become your signature.
Always the Performer, Always the Healer
Looking back through photos and memories, I can see now how your love of performing was always paired with something deeper, a genuine desire to care for others and make them feel better. When we lived in Mechanicsburg, you loved being a munchkin in the high school's production of The Wizard of Oz, and you threw yourself into the chorus and the school district's Songfest with the same enthusiasm you brought to everything else.
But even during our family Thanksgiving "Boeke Bowls," those wonderfully chaotic family gatherings where everyone was expected to contribute some form of entertainment, your performances often had a nurturing quality to them. You weren't just performing for applause; you performed to bring the family together, to make us smile, to heal whatever small rifts or stresses the year might have created.
That same spirit carried you through high school, where I saw you channel your love of performance into cheerleading. But even then, when I'd watch you on the sidelines, encouraging the team and energizing the crowd, I could see that what you really loved wasn't the spotlight, it was that your energy could lift other people up.
Daddy's Little Girl (Who Always Knew Her Own Mind)
The photos from those early years tell a story I sometimes forgot in the midst of living it. There's you at one year old, covered in chocolate/marshmallow Easter Bunny, grinning like you'd just discovered the secret to happiness. There you are at Disneyland, intently steering one of those spinning teacups with Faith and Teddy, already showing the focus and determination that carried you through organic chemistry and someday the MCAT.
And yes, there are all those "Daddy's Little Girl" moments, the Cubs games where you wore your Cubs hat with such pride, the quiet times when you'd let me read to you or help with homework. Those moments were precious not because you were compliant or easy (though often you were), but because even as a little girl, you chose to share them with me. Kailey, you were never the kind of child who needed to be coaxed into affection; she gave it freely, genuinely, and with her whole heart.
Through the Messy Years and Beyond
I won't pretend your teenage years were always smooth sailing. Like most parents, I occasionally found myself wondering if the sweet little girl who used to curl up with me for bedtime stories was still in there somewhere, buried under homework stress and the perfectly normal process of figuring out who you wanted to become (newsflash, you were still there).
Those years taught me one of the hardest lessons of parenting: the art of quiet, patient watching. Standing back while your child makes mistakes you could have helped them avoid. Biting your tongue when you see them choosing the difficult path instead of the easier one you could have shown them. Watching them stumble when a simple word of caution might have kept them upright. Often, I wasn't good at any of those things, but I never stopped loving or caring about you. Yes, I wish I could have those days, weeks, and months back, but please know that I am grateful for seeing you become the person that you are - no matter the temporary heartaches.
But I did learn something important during the times when I had to step back and just watch: I could still be your trampoline. When you fell and you did fall, as all young people must, I was always there to give you the spring you needed to bounce back up and take another crack at whatever challenge had knocked you down. I would have loved to solve the problem for you, but I hope settling for helping you find the resilience to solve things yourself will serve you well.
Here's what I learned during those years: You never stopped being exactly who you'd always been. That determination I saw on the jungle gym? It carried her through honors classes and college applications. That nurturing spirit from our family gatherings? It translated into genuine friendships and a growing certainty that you wanted to spend her life helping people heal.
By the time you became one of my "Santa's Elves," trusted with the family Christmas magic and the responsibility of keeping wonder alive for her younger siblings, I realized that you'd successfully navigated the transition from being a child who believed in magic to being a young adult who could create it for others.
The Doctor She Always Wanted to Be
When people ask me if I'm surprised that you chose medicine, I have to laugh. From the time you were little, whenever anyone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up, the answer always seemed to be the same: "A doctor." Not because it sounded impressive or important, but because you genuinely wanted to help people feel better.
What does surprise me, in retrospect, is how perfectly your path prepared you for that goal. All those years of performing taught you how to be present with people, how to project confidence when others needed to feel safe, how to read an audience or in this case, a patient. Your cheerleading experience showed you how to be part of a team while also taking individual responsibility for a role. Even those chaotic family Thanksgiving performances taught her how to bring calm and joy to stressful situations.
The Graduate
Watching you walk across that stage in your cap and gown this week, I wasn't seeing the end of your childhood or even the end of your college career. I was seeing the beginning of the next chapter in a story that's been remarkably consistent from the very beginning: a young woman who wants to use her considerable talents to make other people's lives better.
Kailey, I know you're going to be heading to medical school in a year or so, and while I know it will be challenging in ways that even your demanding undergraduate coursework wasn't, I'm not worried. I've had twenty-three years to watch you tackle new challenges, and you've never failed to rise to the occasion.
What Comes Next
As I write this, I realize that one of the greatest gifts of being your father has been watching you grow into exactly who you were always meant to be. The little girl who climbed fearlessly to the top of the jungle gym has become a young woman who isn't afraid to tackle the mountain of medical school. The child who performed with such joy for our family has learned to bring that same warmth and authenticity to everything she does.
I have no idea what specific challenges medical school will bring, but I expect that you'll meet them with the same combination of determination, compassion, and grace you have shown throughout your life. Please still call me when you need encouragement, and know that I'll probably still worry about you more than I should. But mostly, I'll continue to do what I've been doing for the last twenty-two years: watching with pride and amazement as you become more yourself with each passing day.
So congratulations, Kailey. You've earned every bit of recognition you received this week, and you've earned something even more valuable: the confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you want to accomplish.
The little girl who wanted to be a doctor has grown into a young woman with the knowledge, skills, and character to make that dream a reality. You've always been Daddy's Little Girl, but more importantly, you've become your own person, someone I'm incredibly proud to know, and incredibly excited to watch as you embark on this next great adventure.
Break a leg, kiddo. But then again, you always do.
Every year, without fail, I tear up at the end of It's a Wonderful Life.
Sometimes it's just a lump in my throat that sends me out of the room for a "drink of water." Other times I just openly cry, no single dignified tear about it. I think the kids have noticed, and they've learned to look away right around the part where Harry Bailey raises his glass, maybe so I won't feel embarrassed. But I never do.
For some reason, this year I am thinking about why this movie, and this scene in particular, gets to me every time. I think I finally understand it. But I'll come back to that.
I am sure that I saw the film for the first time as a kid, on our huge console television set. I don't remember crying then. I just filed it away. But years later, in college and working at Brentano's Books, one of the first things I did with my first paycheck was special order a VHS copy of this movie. Naturally, using my employee discount. Not a textbook. Not a concert ticket. A 1946 film about a man standing on a bridge, ordered on purpose and waited for. I don't think I could have explained why then.
That first VHS was a poorly colorized version of the movie, which was less than ideal, but when the tape eventually faded, I replaced it with a better (B&W) DVD version, and when iTunes started streaming movies, I bought it there too. Some things you just keep.
More Than a Christmas Movie
The easy reading of It's a Wonderful Life is that it's a feel-good holiday picture about family and friends. That's not wrong. It's just thin.
What Capra is actually doing is building a moral argument about what makes a life worth living. George Bailey is not a hero in any conventional sense. He doesn't fight wars, discover cures, or build anything that bears his name. What he does, over and over again, is show up.
He shows up for his brother Harry when Harry falls through the ice as a boy, losing hearing in one ear in the process. He shows up for Mr. Gower the druggist, who accidentally poisons a prescription, saving the man's livelihood and probably his freedom. He shows up for Mary, for his family, for the working people of Bedford Falls who need someone to fight Potter on their behalf, year after year, at the cost of his own dreams.
None of it looks heroic in the moment. It just looks like life.
The film's real genius is what Capra does with the alternate universe. Pottersville isn't just darker and meaner than Bedford Falls. It's a place where no one ever had someone show up for them at the right moment. George's presence was invisible and unheroic. Every small decision to stay, to help, to absorb the cost held the whole community together. Remove him and the web collapses.
Jimmy Stewart and the Weight of 1946
Stewart was never more perfectly cast, and not simply because he was a veteran. He spent nearly two years fighting to get overseas, his superiors reluctant to send a famous actor into danger. He finally got his way and arrived in England in late 1943 as the operations officer, and later the commanding officer, of the 703rd Bomb Squadron, flying B-24 Liberators over Nazi-occupied Europe. At a time when air crews were expected to be killed between eight and twelve missions, Stewart flew twenty. Near-death experiences and the loss of men under his command aged him visibly.
On February 24, 1944, during what airmen called Big Week, Stewart's own squadron was sent to bomb an aircraft plant at Gotha, deep inside Germany. Only one plane of the 703rd made it home that day. Stewart sat through the surviving crew's debriefing, listening to what they had seen. Partway through, he broke down and left the room.
In the final months of the war, he was grounded for what we now call PTSD. He returned home in August 1945, went almost directly into production on the movie, and never spoke publicly about his wartime experiences for the rest of his life.
All of that is on screen, whether Capra planned it or not. Actors and crew on set reportedly realized that in the scenes where George Bailey unravels in front of his family, Stewart wasn't entirely acting. The hollowness behind his eyes in certain moments, the way his voice cracks before it steadies, those aren't performance choices. They're a man carrying something real into a role that needed exactly that weight.
The rough edges in the performance are features of the same thing. The broad early scenes, the outbursts at Mary and the teacher on the phone, reflect what postwar audiences were actually carrying. They hadn't yet arrived at the tidy domesticity of the 1950s. "Leave It to Beaver" was still a decade away. Life in 1946 was messier and rawer, and a perfectly composed hero would have felt false. George's flaws are what make his redemption land. A man who never snapped, never came unraveled, never stood on a bridge and meant it, doesn't need redemption. The arc works only because we've watched someone genuinely come apart.
Barrymore's Potter works precisely because he's a cartoon. The film is a morality play, and morality plays require moral clarity. A more ambiguous Potter, some conflicted figure with understandable grievances, would have complicated George's choices in ways the story can't afford. Every time George refuses what Potter is selling, that refusal needs to read as virtue, not mere stubbornness. The cartoonishness keeps the moral architecture clean. George isn't wrestling with a complicated man. He's choosing, over and over again, not to become one.
Donna Reed's Mary is sometimes called underwritten, and that criticism misreads the role. Mary isn't the dramatic center. She's the fixed point. She's what Pottersville doesn't have. Her constancy isn't a limitation; it's the whole point of the character. She knows what George is worth before he does, and she holds that knowledge steady through everything. It's a supporting role by design, the story belonging to George and, in its way, to Clarence, and Reed plays it with exactly the right quiet precision.
Why I Cry
I don't tear up when George is saved. It almost always happens when Harry stands before George and raises his glass to "the richest man in town."
It gets me because George never knew. He spent his entire life pouring himself out and genuinely believed, standing on that bridge, that none of it had mattered. He'd measured himself against the life he'd given up and decided the ledger came up short. And he was so wrong that it's almost unbearable.
There is a particular kind of work in life that doesn't announce itself. It shows up without being asked. It keeps its word because keeping your word matters. It stays in the room when leaving would be easier. It doesn't generate recognition. It just quietly makes the town worth living in.
I've said before that this film inspires me to be more and do better. Most people describe it as comforting, and I understand that. The ending earns its warmth. But for me, it has always felt more like a charge. A reminder that the work isn't finished. That showing up tomorrow matters as much as having shown up yesterday.
Part of what moves me is something I've only recently been able to name: the chain dimension of what George does. He saves Harry from the ice, and Harry grows up to save a transport full of troops during the war, and those men go home to their families and their towns. George never sees any of that. He just pulled a kid out of frozen water because his brother needed pulling out. The ripples go where they go, long after the moment is gone. That's not a comforting thought, exactly. It's a clarifying one. The things we do for the people in front of us travel farther than we can see, in directions we'll never know.
This year drove that home more than most. I lost Maddie, our big yellow Lab, in February, and she took a piece of the house with her. Ted came home from school to sit with her near the end, which told me something about the kind of person he's becoming; maybe the years of showing up helped to make him that way. In June, Kailey walked across a graduation stage, and I stood there calculating all the years that led to that afternoon. The teachers, coaches, quiet presences that never get named in a commencement program. The chain of people who showed up.
I think about Bill Peters, who spent four decades at Crescenta Valley Little League keeping the Rally Tally and answering questions nobody else could, mostly because he couldn't stop caring about the kids. I did a lot of his work this past spring. His name doesn't appear anywhere in those results. The kids who ran to check if their names were in print didn't know, and don't know, what it cost him to put it together every week. But it shaped them. It shaped me. I think about Yoko, too, whose quiet, steadying presence made me better at my job for nearly a decade, and who was gone without warning in the spring of 2013. Her name doesn't appear anywhere in the work she made possible either.
George Bailey finds out, at the last possible moment, that all of it mattered. Most people never get that scene. They just keep showing up and trusting that the chain holds.
Most people reach for It's a Wonderful Life in December because it comforts them. I reach for it because it reminds me of something I don't want to forget.
The script is as good as anything Capra ever wrote, and the casting... Stewart, Reed, Barrymore, and the incomparable Henry Travers as Clarence hold up against anything from the era. What the film understood, and what most holiday pictures don't, is that sentimentality only works if it's earned. Every warm moment in the final act lands because the preceding two hours made it cost something. That's craft.
A version of this story gets made in almost every decade: the ordinary person who discovers their life mattered more than they knew. Most of those films are forgotten. This one keeps finding people every December because it got the thing right that the others usually get wrong. It doesn't let George off easy, and it doesn't let the audience off easy either. The ending isn't a reward. It's a challenge wearing the costume of a reward.
It's a Wonderful Life runs every December on NBC, and it's easy to find. Watch it to the end. Don't turn it off at the bridge. That's where the whole thing is.
Thirty years. Where does the time go? It feels like just yesterday I was a wide-eyed college kid, perched in front of the TV, watching what would become one of the most iconic games in Cubs history – The Sandberg Game. June 23, 1984. Even the date sounds magical.
That whole summer, I was hooked. Every game, every inning on WGN, felt like it was leading somewhere special. The Cubs were good, actually good, and for the first time in my memory, "This Year" didn’t feel like desperate hope. It felt like destiny knocking.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Another Cubs fan reliving the past? Haven’t they learned anything? And you wouldn't be wrong. Being a Cubs fan requires a deep, almost irrational obsession with the ghosts of seasons past. It’s passed down, generation to generation, right alongside the eternal mantra: “Wait ‘til next year.” We're optimists, dammit. Even when we know better.
But this game… this game was different. This wasn’t heartbreak in disguise. This was magic. And Sandberg’s heroics only fueled the fire of belief in every Cubs fan’s chest.
The Cardinals were in town that sweltering Saturday afternoon, June heat thick as molasses, the kind that makes Wrigley’s ivy wilt. NBC’s Game of the Week. National audience. The Cubs trailed 9–8 in the bottom of the ninth. They had clawed back into the game after Cubs starter Steve Trout had an uncharacteristically short outing (1⅓ innings, 7 earned runs). But down by one in the bottom of the 9th inning, with former Cub Bruce Sutter, the Bruce Sutter, "Engine 42," armed with that devastating split-finger fastball on the mound for St. Louis, everything about it screamed “typical Cubs loss.”
Then Ryne Sandberg stepped into the box.
CRACK!
The crack of the bat echoes through Wrigley Field—that unmistakable sound every baseball fan knows by heart. Thirty-six thousand voices erupt in unison as the ball arcs toward the ivy-covered outfield wall. With the score now knotted at nine apiece, chaos erupts at the corner of Clark and Addison as fans leap from their seats in pure jubilation.
But we weren’t done.
Tenth inning. Cubs down 11–9. Sutter is still on the mound. And there’s Sandberg again, cool as a lake-effect breeze digging in.
CRACK!
Lightning struck twice. Another bomb to left-center. Another eruption from the Bleacher Bums. Bob Costas’s voice cracking with disbelief: “Do you believe it! It's gone!” Even the Cardinals looked stunned, frozen in place as the impossible unfolded before them.
It wasn’t just that he tied the game. It was how he did it. Against Sutter. In a clutch moment. This was the Cubs flipping the script, writing themselves as heroes instead of goats. Sandberg single-handedly (with help from a Dave Owen RBI single in the bottom of the eleventh) inoculated an entire fanbase with an unwavering (and, yes, probably irrational) belief in the impossible.
And that belief carried us through the summer.
September 24, 1984 – Wrigley Field. Cubs vs. Pirates. Rick Sutcliffe on the mound, that magnificent beard flowing in the breeze. When he struck out Joe Orsulak to clinch the NL East, the roar in Chicago could be heard for blocks. Grown men wept. Strangers hugged. For the first time since 1945, the Cubs were heading to the playoffs.
"This Year" had finally arrived.
Then came October.
Earlier that year, I started school at San Diego State. When the Cubs and Padres met in the NLCS, and the Cubs took Games 1 and 2 at Wrigley Field, that Sandberg-forged optimism morphed into full-blown euphoria. Dreams of a rematch of the 1945 World Series vs. Detroit had to wait; we had destiny to finish.
A college buddy, a lifelong Padres fan who had already thrown in the towel, sold me his tickets at a markup that would make a Ticketmaster exec blush. I didn’t care. I was going to see the Cubs punch their ticket to the World Series.
Games 3 and 4? Not quite the fairy tale. The Cubs lost both at Jack Murphy Stadium. The familiar knot returned, that sinking feeling every Cubs fan knows too well. But still, I believed. This team is different, I told myself. One more game. One more chance.
Then came Game 5.
Cubs up 3–2 in the bottom of the seventh. A routine ground ball rolled to first base. And then… Leon Durham. The ball went right through his legs.
Right. Through. His. Legs.
A little piece of my soul died right there in Jack Murphy Stadium. I watched our World Series dreams trickle between Durham’s glove like sand through fingers.
Then, the Padres took the lead on Tony Gwynn's double. Of course, they always do when you’re a Cubs fan. I lingered in disbelief after the game. I’d gone from watching history to watching heartbreak live and in person.
And yet… even as the Padres danced on our dreams, even as I sat in stunned silence in that stadium, a little voice whispered: Just wait ‘til next year.
Thanks, Ryno. Thanks, Leon. (Well… maybe not you, Leon.)
Of course, 1984 ended in heartbreak. (Spoiler alert: so did many years after that.) But for one afternoon, for those few hours watching Sandberg rise above it all, I dared to dream. I believed that maybe, just maybe, we weren’t cursed after all.
The Sandberg Game wasn’t just about two clutch home runs. It was about something bigger: the power of hope. The unshakable loyalty of Cubs fans. The ability of baseball to create moments that transcend the game.
It reminded me that even during decades-long droughts, there can be moments of joy so pure that they stay with you forever. Moments I can relive again and again, and feel that same surge of hope even 30 years later (even as we are fifth in the NL Central and 12 games under .500...).
So thank you, Ryne Sandberg. Thank you for the memory of a game that still makes me smile. Still makes me believe. Still makes me say: Hey, maybe this year…
I hope you’ll forgive a detour from my usual posts. Today, I need to write about someone who was my faithful hiking companion, who loved to chase a tennis ball with unrelenting enthusiasm, who was always by my side during quiet nights, who greeted me at the door with joy, and who taught the kids and me more about unconditional love than most people ever will. This is a memorial for Madison, really Maddie to us, our beloved Yellow Labrador Retriever.
The better part of a decade ago, we rescued Maddie with the help of the Pups and Pals rescue. She’d been found living on the streets, estimated to be around two or three years old. She was skittish, especially around men, which led us to believe she’d been mistreated in her early life. But the first time we saw her, we knew. Faith, my daughter, reminded me recently that we fell in love with that goofy Lab at first sight. There was a spark in her, a sense of joy just waiting to come out.
She warmed up to us quickly, especially to me. Despite her size (she weighed over 90 pounds), Maddie was convinced she was a lap dog. If I sat on the couch or in my recliner, it wasn’t long before she climbed right into my lap, tail thumping and tongue ready. She had no sense of scale, and we loved her for it.
A little over a year ago, we brought another rescue into our home, a puppy named Ace. From day one, Maddie took him under her paw. She became his surrogate mom and big sister, teaching him the rhythms of our household: how to play gently, where the best sunspots were, when to bark, and when to nap. Ace adored her. He followed her lead, cuddled beside her each night, and looked up to her in every way. Her absence is confusing for him now; he still searches the house, tail wagging hopefully. He misses her as much as we do.
This past New Year’s, I started noticing that Maddie wasn’t quite herself. She was slower, less playful. I chalked it up to her age. But a couple of weeks ago, she began limping on one of her hind legs. I took her to the vet, hoping it was something minor. There was no obvious injury, but the X-ray revealed a faint spot on one of her lungs. Labs are sadly prone to lung cancer, the vet said. We went home with pain meds and instructions to rest.
Over the following week, her condition declined. I knew I needed to take her back to the vet, but I hesitated. Part of me was afraid of what I might hear. By the time I finally called, the soonest appointment was Monday evening.
Maddie and Faith, May 2011
That weekend became a gift. We spent long hours together, quiet time on the couch, short moments in the yard, and peaceful companionship. My son came home from college and had a chance to sit with her. My youngest daughter was off from school for Lincoln’s Birthday and spent the day curled up beside Maddie. When I got home from work that evening, the two of them were snuggled close on the couch. That image is one I’ll carry with me.
When I picked up Maddie’s leash for what would become her last car ride, she still perked up. She struggled off the couch, tail wagging faintly, happy just to go somewhere with me. We sat on the grass outside for a few quiet minutes. Then we headed to the vet.
The second round of X-rays confirmed what we feared: the light spot had developed into an aggressive tumor. The cancer had spread to her ear canal and leg. The fluid in her lungs made breathing difficult. Her body was failing her.
It was time.
In those final minutes, I lay down beside her on the floor of the vet’s office, holding her gently, cradling her head in my arms. I whispered to her, telling her what a good girl she was, what a gift she had been to our family. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stop time, to stay there with her just a little longer. She was calm and trusting, as always. And when the moment came, and the light left her failing body, she was wrapped in love.
Letting her go was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I know it was the right one. She’s no longer in pain. Still, the space she filled in our home and in our lives feels enormous now that she’s gone.
I like to think she’s somewhere free now, unburdened and unbothered. Running through open fields, tail up, nose in the wind. Rolling in the grass, barking at nothing and everything. Just being a dog again. I hope she’s found that place. And I hope she knows we’ll meet again someday. Until then, Maddie, run fast and look for me at the rainbow bridge.
One of my favorite photos of her, taken seconds before she licked the lens, became the basis for the “Yellow Labrador Retriever lover” microbadge I created on BoardGameGeek. It’s a small digital keepsake, but now, it’s also a quiet tribute. A reminder of her presence and her joy.
Some memories carve themselves into your heart not because they are joyful or painful, but because they are both.
May 2013 is a month I will never forget for all the reasons I wish I could and all the ones I’m grateful I can not.
Just a week before Crescenta Valley High School’s final baseball game of the season, I lost someone who had become like family to me. Yoko wasn’t just my assistant, she was my partner, my protector, and my friend. She was a quiet force in my life, anticipating needs before they were spoken, always steady, always there. Her sudden passing knocked the wind out of me. There was no time to process the loss, no space to grieve, only a hollow ache and the blur of unfinished days.
And then came the game...
It was May 10. Crescenta Valley was facing Arcadia High for a share of the Pacific League title. It was the last game of the regular season. We were down 4–2 in the top of the seventh with two outs. Two runners on. One last chance. And then, my son Ted stepped up to the plate.
I’ve seen him in that stance hundreds of times. The journey to that moment started the day he was born. I bought him his first glove and baseball that day, a hopeful gesture that probably said more about me than it did about him. Before he was old enough to even join an organized team, we were out in the backyard with a bucket of tennis balls, me pitching underhand and him with a toy wood bat that looked huge in his tiny hands, swinging with all the ferocity a four-year-old could muster.
It wasn’t long before he outgrew the toy gear. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn’t just play baseball; he loved it. He studied it. He mimicked batting stances, lived and breathed Cubs baseball like me, and slept with his glove under his pillow.
When I coached him in Little League, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure, but more than that, he wanted to get better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready. And he carried that intensity forward, refining it with every season. The instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he reached high school, he wasn’t just a good player, he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments. He was ready for the big stage.
And there he was on the biggest stage of his high school career.
He took the first pitch. Then came the second.
Crack.
The sound was unmistakable. The ball launched deep into the Arcadia night and cleared the left-field fence as a three-run home run to give CV a 5–4 lead and ultimately the Pacific League crown. The visitor's side of the stadium erupted. His teammates mobbed him at the plate. He rounded the bases with a joy so pure, it broke my heart wide open.
I stood there, still, trying to take it in, so buoyant I could barely breathe, so heartbroken I could barely speak. Another parent turned to me, eyes wide, and asked, “How did that feel? Watching your son do that?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truth is, I didn’t know how to answer. How do you describe something like that, something that feels like it belongs to a dream or a movie? So, I just said the first thing that came to mind: “Wow. Just… wow.”
It wasn’t eloquent, but it was honest. It was all I could manage with my heart caught between bursting with joy and breaking with grief.
Because I wasn’t alone in following Ted’s baseball career. Yoko followed it just as closely. She asked about his games before I could bring them up. She celebrated his wins, checked on his bumps and bruises, and teased me for pacing too much in the stands. She believed in him always. And she would have loved that moment. She would’ve printed out the box score and saved the clipping. She would’ve told me, “He’s going to do something special.”
And she was right.
Earlier that spring, Ted had thrown a no-hitter against Loyola High, striking out nine and scoring the game’s only run himself. He finished the season hitting .408 in league play and was later named the Pacific League’s Most Valuable Player. A few weeks after that game, he committed to continuing his baseball journey at Loyola Marymount University, realizing his dream of playing Division I college baseball—so LMU is a perfect place for the next chapter of his story.
It’s impossible to capture what it meant to witness that swing against Arcadia not just because of what it meant for the team or the title, but because of everything it carried: the hours in the cages, the missed dinners, the long drives, the small-town hopes. And yes, the grief.
The joy of that home run will always live beside the sorrow of losing Yoko. That’s how life works sometimes, grace and loss in the same breath. That week taught me again how to hold both.
If you’d like to see the moment that still gives me chills, here it is:
And if you’d like to know more about Yoko and the extraordinary soul she was, I wrote about her here: 🕊 In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...
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