Another Toast for Kailey and Matt

Kailey and Matt

First, I would like to welcome our extended families and friends. We are all so grateful to you for joining us for these happy festivities!  Thank you all for being a part of this special day and helping Matt and Kailey commemorate and celebrate their wedding and anniversary.  I’d like to say thank you to the Winklers.  Mike and Kathy, you have been so gracious and generous with our family, and the happy couple that thank you just doesn’t seem sufficient, nevertheless, thank you! 

A year ago, your immediate families gathered to wish the two of you the best for a long and happy life together.  Today, at long last, we all (your family and friends) gather to celebrate your re-commitment and the anniversary of that happy day.

At the risk of repeating myself, I told you then how you captured my heart on the day I met you (and joked about the fact that I am the person you are least likely to call to come bail you out of jail).  I told you how thankful I was to see you find this wonderful guy Matt and embark on your life’s journey together, and I welcomed Matt to our family.

I told you that the key to a great marriage requires just one ingredient: mutual respect.  Nothing I have seen in the last year has changed my mind about any of those things.  Seeing your relationship grow since last September has made this father’s heart sing...but don't worry, as long as I draw breath, I will always have more advice... 

Be always true to each other; share your joys and burdens; laugh and love much; be each other's best friend. Speak well of one another, even in private. And when things aren’t going well, remember to forgive as often as it is required. Married life is an adventure, and even though your adventure started a year ago, every day is a new chance for you both to connect and re-commit. A good marriage is a contest of generosity. 

So today, as your friends and family surround you, and every day going forward, remember your promises, keep them with all your heart, and you will have that sense of joy and wonder that exceeds all you have known. With all my heart, I offer you my congratulations and warmest wishes as you begin the latest adventure life has to offer.

Now if everyone will join me and raise your glasses to toast Kailey and Matt Winkler’s first anniversary and recommitment…

Cheers to the bride and groom!

Great Basin Adventure: Roadtripping in a U-Haul with the Dogs!

Welcome to a tale of goofiness, adventure, and new beginnings! Picture this: two canine companions, Ace, the Schnauzer/Terrier mix, and Bella, the regal Golden Retriever, packed into an overloaded U-Haul, towing our trusty Toyota Prius. The mission? To embark on an epic road trip through the Great Basin, mainly via the I.O.N Highway, from the sunny streets of La Crescenta, California, to the enchanting city of Boise, Idaho! 

On Friday night, with the help of friends, we finished packing up the U-Haul (and even used the extra space in the Prius to cram in the last of the paraphernalia from our time in California), finishing around 11pm. By the time I vacuumed the house, took a shower, and put on my traveling clothes, it was early Saturday morning, and I was behind schedule... 

So this adventure starts under the cloak of darkness at the ungodly hour of 1 am. As we bid farewell to La Crescenta, Ace & Bella gave me skeptical looks as if to say, "Who planned this crazy midnight adventure, hooman?" But we were ready for anything, or so we thought!

Ace, with his Terrier determination, immediately claimed the shotgun seat. Bella, my dignified Golden Retriever, grudgingly hopped onto the cab's floorboard. And so, our journey from California to Idaho began!

La Crescenta - Boise TripTik

As we headed North, we left behind the familiar, following nearly 18 years in the same house. I was excited and more than a little apprehensive. But let's be honest, my attention was primarily focused on the drama unfolding inside the U-Haul cab. Turns out, the cab was more suitable for hobbits than dogs. Bella tried to nap but looked like a contortionist in a doggy yoga class. Ace bounced from the passenger seat to the driver's lap, trying desperately to stick his nose out one of the rolled-up windows. After a quick stop to top off the gas tank and buy some caffeinated beverages, we climbed up the Newhall Pass toward California's high desert and the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ace's antics were nothing compared to Bella's attempts at graceful snoozing, which turned into a hilarious game of "How many dog positions can you fit in a U-Haul?"

The first part of this trip was familiar. Through the Antelope Valley, Lancaster, and past Edwards Air Force Base, all places we had visited before. As we passed through Red Rock Canyon State Park and CA-14 turned into US-395, it was still too dark to make out the colorful rock formations of the canyon (side note: many Golden Era movies and television shows were filmed in Red Rock Canyon, given its relatively close location to Hollywood). But driving through California's high desert on US-395N in the middle of the night was like venturing into an otherworldly realm.

The stars above twinkled like a thousand little diamonds scattered across the night sky, guiding us through the vast expanse. The silence of the desert was both haunting and enchanting, broken only by the mechanical hum of the truck's engine and the occasional thump, thump, thump of our tires driving over Bott's Dots.

As we neared Lone Pine, California, on our journey through the desert darkness, the headlights of our U-Haul cast eerie shadows on the desert floor. While the faint distant glow on the Eastern horizon was simply the first pangs of False Dawn. The dark desert landscape revealed its secrets in the night – the silhouettes of sagebrush and Russian Thistle (tumbleweed) standing like sentinels, the silvery light of the half-moon glinting off the rocky terrain. The serenity of the night journey allowed us to appreciate the desert's stark beauty in a new light.

Ace and Bella, usually alert during daylight hours, seemed to sense the surreal magic of the desert night. Their eyes sparkled with curiosity as they gazed at the shadows dancing in the moonlight. The desert's mysterious beauty seemed to cast a spell on all of us.

As the sun rose, we drove through Bishop, California, the gateway to Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada ski resorts. We made a right turn, picked up US Route 6 (the Grand Army of the Republic Highway - famed as the road that Jack Kerouac's protagonist, Sal Paradise, did not take in On the Road), and headed across the Hammil Valley and the White Mountains into Nevada and the heart of the Great Basin. Always a sucker for scenery, the morning light illuminated the basin's valleys and ridge lines making for interesting driving companions. But by this time, Ace and Bella seemed more intrigued by the treat crumbs scattered around the cab than the natural wonders outside. I am pretty sure they staged a secret mutiny against the compact space, plotting their revenge in doggy code.  I could tell they were hungry and needed to stretch their legs, so I obliged...

Veterans Memorial Park, Hawthorne, NV

Our stop ended up being in Hawthorne, Nevada, for gas, breakfast, and their doggie potty break. After fueling and grabbing some quick food, I located Veterans Memorial Park - which conveniently has an off-leash dog park co-located within its boundaries. Even at this early morning hour, the Nevada desert was hot, so after the dogs ran around for a bit, they were happy to sit in the shade, eat some kibble, and lap water from their bowls while I ate my breakfast sandwich and downed another Coca-Cola (breakfast of champions).

Hawthorne's claim to fame is that it is the location of the United States Army's largest Depot (aptly named Hawthorne Army Depot). The town and the Depot were tranquil this mid-August morning, and although I didn't really have the time, I decided to check out the Hawthorne Ordnance Museum next to the park. Sadly the museum wasn't open at this early hour, so our travel resumed (and we've added another museum to our "to visit" list)...

The dogs attempt a get-a-way

In my rush to get back on the road, I failed to think about a bio-break for myself...  No sooner had we started driving again than I realized that fact. Fortunately, despite the lack of significant population centers in Central Nevada, I could see a small lake in the distance and assumed we'd find some form of civilization there. Walker Lake ended up being our pitstop. Typical of many small lakes on the western borders of the Great Basin, this "oasis" is fed through snowmelt on the Eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains (most of the Sierra's snowmelt actually flows westward into the Pacific Ocean - but sandwiched between high mountain ranges, the Great Basin is named as such because water can only escape through evaporation and/or absorption and can not flow to the ocean). At any rate, when I returned to the U-Haul, I found my canine companions were trying to drive away without me...Fortunately, I took the keys with me to the restroom...

The next stretch of our trip was long, hot, and outside of a few cars on the road devoid of humanity. Save for a stretch of driving on I-80, this section consisted of two-lane state highways that required lots of attention, limited use of cruise control, and miles and miles of desert and ranchland. The hours passed like dog years, and the clock seemed to tick backward as the sun crawled across the sky. North of Winnemucca, Nevada, we crossed into Southeastern Oregon and gradually climbed up the Jordan Valley escarpment to the Snake River Plain and our new place. However, just as the scenery changed from the desert of the Great Basin to the semi-arid plateau, the drowsiness of the lack of sleep for the past 48 hours started to rear its ugly head. 

To combat the drowsiness, I started by turning up the volume on my playlist and singing along at the top of my lungs. Then I rolled down the windows and let the wind slap my face in the vain hope that the fresh air would snap me back to alertness. But alas, my eyelids felt heavier with each passing mile, and on several occasions, the only thing that saved me from a horrible accident was the thump, thump, thump of the U-Haul's wheel driving over Bott's Dots.

I was desperate to stay awake and tried everything I could think of; I pinched myself, slapped my cheeks, and even splashed ice water from the cooler on my face. But it seemed that sleep was determined to claim its prize...

Just as I was about to give in to the sweet temptation of slumber, I noticed a peculiar sight on the side of the road. There, perched on a fence post, was a hilariously out-of-place rubber chicken, wearing sunglasses and a wide grin. The absurdity of the sight jolted me awake, and I burst out laughing.

Continuing down the road, my newfound mission was to spot more of these delightful road-trip mascots. And so, in my drowsy state, I kept score of each chicken sighting and narrated a play-by-play for Ace and Bella with each one...

The rubber chicken game was my lifeline during the trip. It kept my brain engaged, alert, and, most importantly, awake. Whenever fatigue threatened to overwhelm me, the thought of spotting another quirky chicken cheered me up and chased away the sleepiness, reinforcing our determination to reach Boise and start fresh in a new city with a new house and a new job.

Speaking of new beginnings, let's talk about starting over in a place where you know absolutely no one. It's like being the new kid at the world's biggest dog park – intimidating yet exhilarating. My strategy is simple: let Ace and Bella work their magic on the locals, and soon, we will make friends faster than they can wag their tails! At our last pitstop for gas and bio-breaks, Ace and Bella were zooming around the dog run when I noticed a friendly-looking couple standing nearby, smiling at my playful pups. They had an energetic Labrador named Bailey, who seemed just as thrilled to be there as Ace and Bella. To my surprise, they decided to initiate a conversation.

Ace and Bella at the dog run

With warm smiles, the couple introduced themselves as Cindy and Dan. They immediately admired Ace and Bella's boundless energy and playfulness. Soon, we were exchanging stories about our beloved four-legged companions, laughing at their quirky antics.

Cindy and Dan's welcoming demeanor made it easy for me to open up about my relocation. They relayed that they were from Boise and returning from a trip to Idaho's wine country. They showed genuine interest in us and eagerly shared their experiences and favorite spots in the city. They recommended nearby pet-friendly cafes and beautiful parks to explore with Ace and Bella and even suggested dog-friendly social events where we could meet more fellow dog lovers.

Our conversation flowed effortlessly as if we were old friends catching up. They shared heartwarming stories about their journey to Boise and their love for the community's warm and welcoming atmosphere. They even offered to introduce me to some of their other friends in the area, knowing that making connections in a new city can sometimes be challenging.

Throughout our encounter, Cindy and Dan exemplified the idea of "Boise nice" to the fullest. Their genuine friendliness and willingness to reach out to a stranger at the dog run showcased the city's welcoming and inclusive spirit. The way they embraced me, a newcomer, with open arms left a lasting impression on my heart.

But let me tell you, folks, the joys of making new friends and exploring a vibrant city can be both thrilling and exhausting. We finally rolled into Boise around 5 pm, and we must have resembled a circus act gone wrong. Ace's whiskers were drooping, Bella's elegance had turned into a furball mess, and I'm sure my hair looked like I had survived a hurricane.

Bella finally gets to sleep in the new house...

As we parked the U-Haul and took our first steps into our new home, we collapsed onto the floor in collective exhaustion. But as we caught our breath, we knew this adventure was just the beginning of a heartwarming and laughter-filled chapter in our lives.

So, dear readers, let this remind you that life's greatest moments often leave you exhausted and exhilarated. Our Great Basin adventure led us to Boise, where we discovered that sometimes, the best way to embrace a new beginning is with a dose of humor and a duo of adorable canine co-pilots.

As Ace, Bella, and I continue to navigate this delightful new chapter, we'll cherish the memories of our road trip. So, to all the adventurers out there, may you embrace the laughter, welcome the unknown, and let the journey take you to places you never imagined!

Until next time road-trippers, I wish you smooth roads and happy wagging tails!

Keeping Score: A Legacy Written in Box Scores

July 2016 Cubs Scorecard

I found it while packing up my office, preparing for my move to Boise—a dusty file folder tucked behind a stack of old software manuals and holiday cards. Inside was a scorecard from July 20, 2016, Cubs versus Mets at Wrigley Field. Five years to the day from when I'm writing this, and the pencil marks have faded some, but I can still make out the neat columns and careful notations that chronicle nine innings of Cubs baseball for my daughter Kailey and me during our cross-country road trip. It's more than just a souvenir; it's a thread that connects three generations of my family, linking back to a lesson my father taught me on a cool early fall evening in Pittsburgh more than forty years ago.

I was nine years old in 1974 when my family moved to Pittsburgh. My father, a Yankees fan from New York who had married into a Cubs family from Chicago, knew how much I loved my mother's team. Despite his own allegiances, he promised to take me to see the Cubs play the Pirates at Three Rivers Stadium that fall. It would become the first professional baseball game that I remember.

That day stuck with me—not just because it was my first, but because I kept score. And now, decades later, I can revisit it with uncanny clarity, thanks to a relic of the internet age: the game's box score, preserved online like some sacred archaeological tablet.

September 30, 1974. Bill Bonham pitched a complete game, but the Cubs could only muster one run—Billy Williams scoring on a bases-loaded walk to Pete LaCock in the first inning. That was it offensively for the Cubs. Bruce Kison and the Pirates held on for a 2–1 win.

I had every play neatly recorded in pencil on that crisp scorecard in my lap. That quiet thrill of charting a real ballgame, pitch by pitch, was something new entirely. It transformed the experience from spectator to storyteller. But I was still heartbroken at the loss.

Dad showed me the symbols—the elegant shorthand of baseball. He drew a mini version of the field and jotted the numbers down for each position. He explained how a strikeout was a backwards ꓘ if the batter was looking, how a 5-4-3 double play told a complete story in three numbers, how a home run was simply HR but somehow contained all the joy of watching a ball disappear into the stands. His patient explanations transformed what I thought was just watching into something deeper—active participation in preserving the game's narrative.

Then came the moment that would define not just that game, but our family's sports allegiances for decades to come. A Pirates fan sitting behind us struck up a conversation with my younger brother and me. When he offered to give us a foul ball—if he caught one—in exchange for switching our loyalty from the Cubs to the Pirates, my response was immediate: "No way." But my brother, perhaps seduced by the promise of an actual baseball, said "okay".

That single word changed everything. What started as a Cubs family suddenly became divided. My brother's newfound love for Pittsburgh sports—the Pirates, the Steelers, the Penguins—created a rivalry that continues to this day. While he embraced his adopted city's teams, I remained stubbornly loyal to Chicago, setting up decades of good-natured family warfare that adds spice to every sports conversation. That moment taught me something about loyalty and choice that I'd carry forward—that the traditions we embrace, we embrace deliberately, and they become part of who we are.

But the real gift my father gave me that day wasn't about team loyalty—in fact, he was quietly rooting for neither team, content to watch his Cubs-loving son discover the game's deeper rhythms. It was about attention and presence. Keeping score forced me to watch every pitch, every swing, every defensive play with intention. It taught me that baseball, like life, is made up of small moments that accumulate into something larger, and that paying attention to details creates memories that last. Looking back now, through the lens that only comes with time and distance, I understand that this wasn't just a baseball lesson—it was a masterclass in being present, in showing up, in the quiet ways that love is demonstrated through shared experience.

Decades passed. I married, had children, and found myself facing the same choice my father had made—whether to pass along this beautiful burden of Cubs fandom. Even as I embraced this ritual with my own children, I couldn't escape Mike Royko's famous warning Sins of the Fathers and the generations-long suffering we Cubs fans inflict upon our children. In his 1989 column, Royko pleaded with fathers not to pass along the disease of Cubs fandom, calling it worse than drug addiction. He warned against hooking innocent children on a lifetime of disappointment and heartbreak. Royko was kidding, but not really...

Despite his wisdom, despite knowing the pain that comes with loving a team that specializes in creative ways to break your heart, I couldn't help myself. Still, I carried that lesson forward. When I wasn't coaching my son's Little League teams, I was in the stands with my scorecard, chronicling his journey from tee-ball through high school and into college. Those scorecards became the record of his baseball career—not just the statistics, but the story. The strikeout that led to tears but also to determination. The diving catch in the gap at the Little League Western Region Complex. The clutch HR with two outs in Arcadia.

As I wrote back in 2009, during another year of Cubs disappointment, I knew I was passing along the same "optimistic pessimism" that had been inflicted upon me. I was the dad telling my children that tomorrow is a new day, that there's always next year, that this season—surely this season—would be different. Despite the decades of evidence to the contrary, despite the mathematical reality of Cubs history, I continued to believe. And worse, I taught my children to believe too.

Every box filled in was a moment preserved, a way of saying this mattered, you mattered, this game we shared mattered. The habit became so ingrained that I've purchased a program or scorecard and kept score at nearly every Cubs game I've attended since that first one in Pittsburgh. My children learned not just the symbols and abbreviations, but the ritual itself—the careful attention, the patient recording, the way that keeping score transforms you from passive observer to active participant in the game's unfolding story.

Which brings me back to that scorecard from July 20, 2016, when Kailey and I sat in the sweltering heat at Wrigley Field, watching Bartolo Colon face off against Kyle Hendricks during what would become the Cubs' championship season. Our seats were next to two Mets fans who had flown into Chicago that very day just to see Colon pitch. A friendly rivalry bloomed between us, scorecards in hand, each of us tracking every pitch, every run, every substitution. As the Cubs pulled ahead, our scorekeeping turned competitive, complete with light trash talk and shared laughs. wo Anthony Rizzo homeruns later, we left the ballpark grinning, ready to continue our trip westward, while our new Mets friends flew home to New York, slightly sunburned and disappointed. It was the kind of fleeting, scorecard-fueled camaraderie only baseball can conjure.

As I filled in each box that afternoon, I was struck by the perfect symmetry of the moment. Here I was, passing along my father's gift to my daughter, just as he had done with me four decades earlier.

But there was something different about that day, something that only became clear in retrospect. For the first time in my adult life, that eternal Cubs refrain of "wait 'til next year" actually came to pass. That 2016 season—the one chronicled in part on that faded scorecard—ended not in heartbreak but in celebration. The curse was broken. The suffering, at least that particular strain of it, was over.

I think about my father often, especially now that he's gone. I understand better what Kierkegaard meant about how we live life forward but understand it backward—those moments that seemed simple at the time were profound acts of love. He was teaching me not just about baseball, but about presence, about the importance of being fully engaged in the moments we share with the people we care about most.

The scorecard in my office now represents more than just that Cubs-Mets game or even our cross-country adventure. It's a tangible reminder of a chain of connection that runs from my father to me to my children—each of us learning that some things are worth preserving, that attention is a form of respect, and that the stories we keep are the ones that make us who we are.

My children are young adults now, and they've inherited more than just Cubs fandom from me. They've learned that baseball is a language of connection, that keeping score is really about keeping memories, and that sometimes the most profound gifts are the ones that look like simple pastimes. When they have children of their own, I suspect they'll find themselves at ballparks with scorecards and pencils, continuing a tradition that started with a patient father in Pittsburgh all those years ago.

The game ends, the crowd goes home, but the scorecard remains. A humble piece of paper transformed into family history, one box score at a time.

And for all of Mike Royko's warnings about the sins we visit upon our children, I can't help but think some sins are worth inheriting—especially when they come wrapped in the language of love, attention, and the enduring hope that this year might finally be the year.

When Quiet Leadership Wins: A Management Parable from the Pandemic

There's a certain irony in discovering that your greatest leadership strength emerges during a global crisis that sends everyone else into isolation. But that's exactly what happened to me during the COVID-19 pandemic—a time when my natural introversion, disguised for years behind the extroverted demands of advancement work, finally became a professional asset rather than something to overcome.

When Caltech announced that most staff would work from home indefinitely in March 2020, I found myself in an unusual position: I was one of the few people who genuinely wanted to keep coming to the office. Not because I was eager to risk exposure, but because someone needed to be there. The Development office couldn't just go dark. Gifts still needed processing, deposits had to be made, and our suddenly remote workforce needed technical support to function from their kitchen tables and makeshift home offices.

As a manager, I faced a choice that would define not just my leadership style, but my understanding of what authentic leadership actually looks like.

The Anti-Hero's Journey

Most leadership stories follow a predictable arc: the reluctant hero discovers hidden courage, rallies the troops, and emerges transformed. My pandemic story is different. It's about an introvert who spent years performing extroversion finally finding a crisis that rewarded authenticity over performance.

You see, advancement work—fundraising, donor relations, event management—is built for extroverts. Or at least, it rewards people who can convincingly play one. For years, I'd forced myself into that mold, powering through donor dinners, schmoozing at cocktail receptions, and maintaining the kind of constant "on" energy that successful fundraising demands. I was good at it, but it was exhausting. I'd joke that I was "socially distant" long before the pandemic made it fashionable, but the truth was deeper: I did my best thinking, my most creative problem-solving, and my most genuine relationship-building in quieter, more intimate settings.

When the pandemic hit, suddenly everyone was discovering what introverts had always known: that meaningful work could happen in smaller groups, that technology could facilitate connection without requiring constant physical presence, and that sometimes the most productive thing you can do is give people space to think.

But someone still needed to be present for the work that couldn't go remote.

The Reluctant Office Guardian

The decision to keep coming in wasn't dramatic or heroic. It was practical, and it was right. Our gift processing couldn't stop—donors were still making contributions, and in fact, some were increasing their giving in response to the crisis. The university's financial stability depended on maintaining those relationships and processing those gifts promptly. Beyond that, our suddenly remote team needed technical support, equipment, and someone who could coordinate between the physical office and the digital workspace everyone was scrambling to create.

I could have asked one of my staff to take on this responsibility. After all, as a manager, delegating is part of the job. But something about that felt fundamentally wrong. How could I ask someone else to take on the risk and isolation of being one of the few people on a nearly empty campus while I worked safely from home? If the work was essential—and it was—then I needed to be there to do it.

This wasn't heroism. It was basic management ethics: don't ask your team to do something you're not willing to do yourself.

Enter the Four-Legged Co-Worker

The decision to bring Ace, my Schnauzer/Scottish Terrier mix, wasn't entirely planned. California's shelter-in-place orders meant that suddenly everyone was home with their pets, while I was spending long days in an eerily quiet office building. Ace had always been my companion during work-from-home days, so it seemed natural to extend that arrangement to the office.

What I didn't anticipate was how much his presence would matter—not just to me, but to the few colleagues who were also coming in and, eventually, to the team members who started venturing back to campus as restrictions began to lift.

Ace became the office therapy dog without any formal training or certification. Colleagues who were starting to feel stir-crazy at home would email to ask if they could come in and take him for a walk around Pasadena. These weren't just casual strolls—they were genuine mental health breaks for people who had been isolated in their homes for weeks or months, desperately craving not just physical activity but the simple comfort of interacting with a friendly, uncomplicated creature who was just happy to see them.

For an extroverted-introvert like me, Ace was the perfect icebreaker. People would stop by my office to pet him, and in those moments, real conversations would happen—not the forced networking chatter of pre-pandemic office life, but genuine check-ins about how people were coping, what they needed, and how we could support each other through an unprecedented situation.

The Introvert's Advantage

Here's what I learned during those long, quiet months in the office: sometimes the best leadership happens in the spaces between the big moments. While everyone else was adapting to Zoom fatigue and trying to recreate their extroverted work styles in a digital format, I was discovering that my natural preference for one-on-one conversations, my comfort with silence, and my ability to focus for long periods without constant stimulation were exactly what the moment required.

The few of us who were regularly on campus developed a different kind of team dynamic. Without the usual office buzz and constant interruptions, our interactions became more intentional, more focused. When someone stopped by to walk Ace, we'd end up having the kind of substantive conversation about work challenges, family stress, and pandemic anxieties that rarely happens in the rush of normal office life.

I realized that I'd been trying to lead like an extrovert for years—rallying teams through high-energy meetings, maintaining constant communication, and always being "on" for my staff. But the pandemic created space for a different kind of leadership: steady presence, thoughtful response, and the kind of quiet reliability that introverts often excel at but rarely get credit for.

The Management Parable

Every good parable has a lesson that transcends its specific circumstances, and the lesson of my pandemic experience isn't really about working through COVID-19. It's about authenticity in leadership and the dangerous assumption that there's only one way to lead effectively.

For too many years, I'd operated under the belief that good managers needed to be perpetually energetic, constantly communicating, and always "available" in ways that felt natural to extroverts but exhausting to introverts. The pandemic forced me to question that assumption—and what I discovered was that my team didn't need me to be someone I wasn't. They needed me to be genuinely present, reliably supportive, and authentically myself.

When colleagues came to walk Ace, they weren't looking for a pep talk or a motivational speech. They were looking for connection, for someone who could listen without judgment, and for a brief escape from the intensity of everything happening in the world. My willingness to simply be there—physically present in the office, emotionally available for whatever they needed, and comfortable with the kind of unstructured interaction that often makes extroverts uncomfortable—turned out to be exactly what people needed.

The Ripple Effect of Authentic Leadership

The most surprising outcome of my pandemic leadership style wasn't how it affected my team's productivity (though that remained strong) or even their morale (which, considering the circumstances, was remarkably good). It was how it changed my understanding of what management could look like when it aligned with rather than fought against my natural temperament.

I stopped trying to manufacture energy I didn't feel. Instead, I offered the kind of steady, reliable presence that came naturally to me. I stopped forcing constant communication and instead made myself available for the kind of deeper, less frequent conversations that actually moved projects forward. I stopped treating my introversion as a professional liability and started recognizing it as a leadership asset—especially in times of crisis when people need stability more than enthusiasm.

The result was a kind of leadership that felt sustainable in a way my previous approach never had. More importantly, it was leadership that my team could trust because it was genuinely me, not a performance of what I thought a manager should be.

Lessons for the Post-Pandemic World

As organizations continue to grapple with hybrid work models and the lasting changes COVID-19 brought to workplace culture, my pandemic experience offers a few lessons that extend beyond crisis management:

Authentic leadership is more effective than performed leadership. Your team doesn't need you to be someone you're not. They need you to be reliably, genuinely yourself—especially when everything else feels uncertain.

Different situations call for different leadership styles. The high-energy, constantly-communicating approach that works in some contexts can be exhausting and counterproductive in others. Sometimes the most powerful thing a leader can do is create space for others to think, process, and respond at their own pace.

Small gestures can have big impacts. Ace's walks around Pasadena weren't solving the pandemic, but they were providing real mental health support for people who desperately needed it. Never underestimate the power of simple presence and availability.

Crisis reveals authentic character. The pandemic stripped away a lot of the usual performance aspects of professional life and forced everyone to figure out what really mattered. For leaders, it was an opportunity to discover whether their management style was genuinely effective or just well-rehearsed.

The Quiet Revolution

My pandemic experience taught me that some of the most effective leadership happens quietly, in the spaces between dramatic moments, through consistent presence rather than grand gestures. It taught me that authenticity isn't just a nice-to-have in leadership—it's essential, especially when people are scared, stressed, or struggling to adapt to unprecedented circumstances.

Most importantly, it taught me that being an introvert in a field designed for extroverts doesn't mean I need to become someone else to be effective. It means I need to understand how my natural strengths can serve my team and my organization, especially when the usual playbook doesn't apply.

The pandemic was a crisis that revealed what really mattered: not the ability to work a room or deliver inspiring speeches, but the willingness to show up consistently, to listen more than you talk, and to create the kind of environment where people feel supported enough to do their best work even when everything else feels uncertain.

And sometimes, apparently, it helps to have a friendly dog around to remind everyone that not all problems require complex solutions—sometimes they just require a walk around the block and someone who's genuinely happy to see you.

The quiet leaders—the ones who lead through presence rather than performance, through consistency rather than charisma—often find their moment during crises when authenticity matters more than energy. The pandemic was my moment, and Ace was my inadvertent co-teacher in the lesson that sometimes the most powerful leadership tool is simply being genuinely, reliably yourself.

Mole Day and Celebrating Science

Celebrating Science Geekdom and Nearly Two Decades at Caltech

Caltech Mole Day Celebration

October 23rd—10/23—is Mole Day, that wonderfully nerdy holiday celebrating Avogadro's number: 6.022 × 10²³, a cornerstone of chemistry that lets us count particles by the mole, and a perfect excuse for science geeks to throw themed parties, bake atom-shaped cookies, or just revel in atomic enthusiasm. For most people, it's just another Tuesday in late October. But for chemistry enthusiasts and science geeks everywhere, it's a day to embrace the beautiful precision of the molecular world. And after 16 years at the California Institute of Technology, I can honestly say there's no better place to celebrate your inner science nerd than on a campus where casual elevator conversations about quantum mechanics are completely normal. Especially in a year shaped by isolation and uncertainty, that shared love of science felt more grounding—and more necessary—than ever.

Where Being a Science Geek Actually Pays Off

At Caltech, intellectual curiosity isn't just tolerated—it's the currency of daily life. You might find yourself in an elevator with someone casually discussing their latest paper on gravitational waves, or overhearing a lunch conversation about the finer points of Mars geology. It's the kind of environment where Mole Day isn't just acknowledged with a passing nod; it's genuinely celebrated by people who get excited about things like molecular constants and stoichiometric calculations.

JPL's Mission Control facility

One of the unexpected perks of working at Caltech was the connection to NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Since Caltech manages JPL, I had incredible opportunities to visit the Lab and indulge the space science geek that's been hiding inside me since childhood. Walking through JPL's halls, seeing actual mission control rooms where engineers communicate with spacecraft millions of miles away, witnessing the hardware that would eventually travel to Mars or Saturn—it was like stepping into the future I'd dreamed about as a kid watching Star Trek.

These weren't just guided tours for VIP visitors. They were genuine glimpses into humanity's greatest adventures, tangible reminders that the theoretical physics discussed in Caltech classrooms eventually becomes the technology that explores our solar system. Standing in those rooms, I couldn't help but think about all the science fiction I'd consumed over the years and realize: this is how we actually get there.

Some of my favorite experiences were bringing my children to share in the wonder of these scientific environments. During "Take Your Daughters to Work Day" at Caltech, Faith and Kailey got to visit actual research labs and help scientists make ice cream with liquid nitrogen—pure magic for kids who thought science was just textbooks and homework. But perhaps even more memorable was bringing my son Teddy to JPL's open house, where we saw Mars landers being constructed and talked to scientists who were actively searching for exoplanets. Watching his eyes light up as researchers explained how they detect worlds orbiting distant stars reminded me why I fell in love with science in the first place. There's something special about sharing your workplace with your children when that workplace happens to be connected to missions exploring the solar system and pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. Even if they didn't all end up pursuing STEM careers, those visits planted seeds of curiosity and showed them that science isn't just theory—it's adventure, discovery, and the relentless pursuit of answers to the biggest questions we can imagine.

When Hollywood Comes to Campus

During my time at Caltech, the campus became something of a magnet for Hollywood productions. It seemed like there was always a film crew somewhere, drawn by our authentic scientific atmosphere and those iconic academic buildings that just scream, "serious research happens here."

I got to witness some of the filming for both Numb3rs and Young Sheldon—shows that, in their own ways, tried to bring scientific thinking to mainstream television. Watching the Young Sheldon crew work was particularly fascinating, knowing that the show's series finale would bring young Sheldon Cooper to Caltech as a graduate student. The attention to detail was remarkable—those whiteboards covered in equations weren't just random scribbles but real physics, carefully vetted by actual Caltech physicists. It was Hollywood magic meeting scientific rigor, and seeing that process unfold was absolutely captivating.

Numb3rs brought a different energy to campus, showcasing how mathematical thinking could solve real-world problems. As someone immersed in the Caltech environment, it was thrilling to see mathematics portrayed as the exciting, dynamic field it really is, rather than the dry subject many people remember from high school algebra.

I even had my own brief brush with science television when I was selected for a "man on the street" interview for a cable science show. The irony? Because I could actually explain gravitational waves coherently, they didn't use my footage. Apparently, they were looking for one of those "gotcha" moments where random people fumble through complex scientific concepts. Still, I got to be part of the process and witness how science communication works from behind the scenes—a reminder that sometimes being scientifically literate works against you in the entertainment world.

Meeting My Science Heroes

But perhaps the most humbling aspect of my Caltech experience was the opportunity to meet and work alongside scientific legends. These encounters went far beyond what any science geek could reasonably hope for.

Having actual working meetings with luminaries like Kip Thorne—the theoretical physicist whose work on gravitational waves eventually earned him the Nobel Prize—was both intimidating and exhilarating. Here was someone whose research literally opened a new way of observing the universe, and I'm sitting in his office discussing fundraising strategy with him.

Voyager's Golden Record

One of my most personally meaningful encounters was getting to work with Ed Stone, a Caltech faculty member, former JPL director, and mission scientist for the Voyager project. As a kid, I was absolutely enthralled by the Voyager flybys of the outer planets—those stunning images of Jupiter's Great Red Spot, Saturn's rings, and the mysterious moons of the gas giants. They sparked my lifelong fascination with space science. Meeting Dr. Stone was like meeting one of my childhood heroes. In my work, I had the privilege of helping establish a scholarship that bears his name, and he came to my office several times during that process. Here was the man whose vision and leadership had given us those incredible cosmic postcards that inspired an entire generation of science nerds.

I also had the remarkable opportunity to meet Gordon Moore, the Caltech alum who co-founded Intel and whose famous "Moore's Law" predicted the exponential growth of computing power. Dr. Moore was always thoughtful and genuine in our interactions—mostly revolving around his annual philanthropic gifts to the Institute—and I was tickled that he remembered my name from year to year. One moment I'll never forget: holding a one-million-share Intel stock certificate in my hands while helping facilitate some of his philanthropy. The weight of that piece of paper—representing not just enormous financial value, but the legacy of innovation that built the modern computer age—was absolutely surreal.

These weren't just brief handshakes at formal events. These were real conversations, working meetings, moments where you could pick the brain of someone who had literally reshaped our understanding of the universe or revolutionized entire industries. Each brought their own infectious passion—Kip Thorne's enthusiasm for the theoretical beauty of physics, Ed Stone's wonder at cosmic exploration, Gordon Moore's vision for technological progress. Their ability to make the most complex concepts feel accessible and exciting reminded me why I fell in love with science in the first place.

The Real Magic of Scientific Thinking

As we celebrate Mole Day, I'm reminded that the best part of being surrounded by scientific thinking isn't just the knowledge itself—it's the mindset. It's the curiosity that drives you to ask "what if?" and "why?" It's the collaborative spirit that brings together brilliant minds from different disciplines. It's the willingness to get genuinely excited about something as wonderfully specific as a number that helps us understand the fundamental building blocks of matter.

Caltech's Millikan Library (and my office)

That mindset felt especially vital in 2020. As I walked back to my office after a routine COVID-19 screening test, I was struck by how quiet and empty the Caltech campus had become. The vibrant intellectual buzz—the impromptu hallway debates about quantum mechanics, the packed lecture halls, the bustling labs—had been replaced by a pandemic-induced stillness. But even in the silence, science was at the center of our lives. It was science that helped us understand the virus, science that guided public health responses, and science that ultimately delivered the vaccines.

Reflecting on my experiences at Caltech—from holding Gordon Moore's Intel stock certificate to walking through JPL's mission control rooms, from meeting the visionary behind Voyager to watching Hollywood try to capture scientific authenticity—I'm struck by a common thread: science isn't just about understanding the world; it's about transforming it.

Ed Stone's Voyager missions didn't just teach us about Jupiter's moons; they fundamentally changed how humanity sees itself in the cosmos. Gordon Moore's insights didn't just predict technological growth; they enabled the digital revolution. Kip Thorne's gravitational wave research didn't just confirm Einstein's theories; it opened an entirely new window for observing the universe.

And in the face of a global pandemic, science once again proved its power—not just through discovery, but through real-world action that saved lives.

The study of science matters because it's how we push beyond the boundaries of what we think is possible. Every equation on those Hollywood whiteboards, every conversation in a Caltech hallway, every moment spent geeking out over Avogadro's number—these aren't just intellectual exercises. They're the building blocks of innovation, the foundation of progress, and the source of solutions to challenges we haven't even imagined yet.

Whether you're calculating moles in a chemistry lab, pondering the mathematics behind gravitational waves, or simply marveling at the elegant patterns in nature, you're participating in humanity's greatest ongoing adventure: understanding our universe and our place in it.

So here's to Mole Day, to Avogadro's number, and to all the science nerds out there who understand that some of the most beautiful truths in the universe can be expressed in equations, constants, and the simple joy of discovery. After 16 years surrounded by people who dedicate their lives to pushing the frontiers of knowledge—and during a year when science helped us confront a once-in-a-century crisis—I’ve learned this: the world needs more people who will unapologetically geek out over the profound mysteries that make life—and the universe—so astonishingly beautiful.

Happy Mole Day, everyone! May your calculations be accurate, your vaccines effective, and your sense of wonder never fade.

Toasting Kailey & Matt's Wedding

Dad and the Happy Couple

We all join this evening to congratulate Kailey and Matt and wish them all the best for a long and happy life together.

Kailey, you captured my heart the day I met you, and despite the fact that I am the person you are least likely to call to come to bail you out of jail, that love has only grown deeper as the years have passed. As I look at you today, this grown woman, my daughter, I am in awe of who you have become.  But no matter what your age, and no matter what you accomplish, you are, and will always be, “my little girl,” the girl who gave herself “time-outs” when she was mean to her brother, the girl who got so mad when I prevented her from being run over by a car, the girl who became my Christmas elf, the girl who gave me butterfly kisses from her top bunk…

Today, as you marry this wonderful man, I see that my beautiful butterfly has broken free from her chrysalis, and my awe is replaced with pride and respect. You and Matt are about to embark on a breathtaking journey filled with twists and turns, ups and downs, happiness and heartbreak, and all of the love that can only come as husband and wife. 

Matt, I want to welcome you, and your family, to our clan.  I won’t pretend that I don’t have tons of advice for you about joining this motley crew or about being Kailey’s partner, but I know that you will find joy by discovering those things together with her (and Kailey made me promise to be brief…).

What I will tell you both, from my experience and from my heart, is that the recipe for a great marriage requires one key ingredient: mutual respect.

You have chosen each other, so as you move forward in life together, respect each other, value your differences, appreciate your similarities, fight fair (when necessary), make up often, and honor each other. Then, and only then, will a long life of love follow.

I know this is supposed to be a toast and not another episode of “Dad’s life lessons,” so… since we are in my native land (Chicago) and since that always brings out the Irish in me, I’ll share with you the traditional Irish family blessing:

May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings,
Slow to make enemies,
Quick to make friends,
But rich or poor, quick or slow,
May you know nothing but
Happiness from this day forward.

Now if everyone will join me for one last Irish tradition, please raise your glasses and toast the bride and the groom…

Merry met, and merry part,
I drink to thee with all my heart!

Happy happy! Joy joy!!