Inside HOKIE SPORTS | Vol. 12 No. 3 | January 2020

10 Inside Hokie Sports I’m sure that 2019 affected all of you in a variety of ways. Time has a way of doing that, regardless of whether it is a year, a decade or longer. For me, 2018 was a year of tremendous happiness. I married the love of my life, my dad officiated part of that ceremony, and the entire lead- up to the event offered constant reminders of all the wonderful people whom I had come in contact with through the years and at the many stops along the way. It reinvigorated me in a personal way after the grind of the previous several years. Oh yeah, and the Eagles won the Super Bowl, so for my bride, 2018 represented the “THE GREATEST YEAR EVER!” Sometimes, I am guilty of coming off as though I own all the answers. I try to rationalize things, and in doing so, I admit that I ultimately ignore the underlying emotion in people, including those closest to me. Including myself. If you maintain a cynical perspective, you rarely get caught off guard. But, I would be patronizing myself if I chose to do that entering 2020. There isn’t any cliché I can spout or new workout plan I can start that eliminates knowing that I spent the better part of 2019 sad, mad, or both. In 2019, I called what, to this point in my career, turned out to be the most exciting stretch of events ever—the Hokies’ run to the Sweet 16 and a matchup with Duke in Washington, D.C. It marked an exhilarating time, culminating in an electric night. It should have all felt really good. It didn’t. You couldn’t mute the talk throughout that time about Buzz Williams potentially (and ultimately) departing, and for me, that meant that many of the people who had helped stabilize me here in Blacksburg were leaving as well. When it came to fruition, I felt angry. And sad. I wasn’t mad at Buzz Williams or the others who left, but at a relatable feeling to everyone. Helplessness. I understood their leaving, but I held no control over it. None whatsoever, and it came at a time for me when I finally began to feel settled—comfortable. It was at that time that my dad took a fairly drastic turn for the worse. What had been a slow-developing and manageable form of cancer became more aggressive within him. It took a toll on him, and I felt it. Doctors tried different forms of treatment and chemotherapy, and I noticed a difference in him. His personality changed, along with the toxins in his body. His hope started to diminish, and that made things worse. His oftentimes overly optimistic outlook on his condition began to darken. I got angrier—at the unseen attacker to my life’s stability, sure, but also at myself. I obviously wanted to be there for him as he struggled, but found that, the more I saw, the more it became real. And I refused to deal with that, what you don’t know and all of that. That approach didn’t help him—or me. By the time summer rolled around, my family convened for our annual vacation/reunion at Grandview Lodge in Nisswa, Minnesota. The place always represented family and fun, and both tranquility and escape, too. On this occasion, it represented finality. My dad could barely walk, but in his stubborn way, he refused to concede to the direness of his condition. He became defiant—and angry. He collapsed into my arms, as I shadowed him while he attempted to walk to the sand on the beach. As I caught him, I saw despair in his eyes. He was nearly broken, and it nearly broke me. When we said goodbye at the end of the week, he cried. He started to say, “I don’t know when I will see you again … .” I cut him off. I didn’t know either, but I knew that football season loomed on the horizon and all the stress that comes with that. I knew I couldn’t get through it while thinking about that possibility. And I left. I did see him again, but never out of a hospital bed and never fully coherent. It gnaws at me. I think about it, and him, a lot. As you know, we lost him on the morning of the Duke game—Sept. 27. I know he would have wanted me to call the game, but that wasn’t his decision. I had been at his bedside for five days when I left to come back to Blacksburg that Thursday. When I started to leave, I heard from the doctors that his condition wasn’t immediately life-threatening. So I left—again. The misinformation makes me mad. I think he knew, though, because as I said goodbye, he used the strength left in his body to give me a kiss on the cheek. Like he did when I was a boy. Maybe I did know because I knew it was goodbye. He immediately spiraled, as I got off the plane in Roanoke. There was no way that I could have gotten back. So, I called the game. It went poorly. I felt numb. In some ways, I felt that way the rest of the year. So, unfortunately, as I enter 2020, there are new realities to face. I feel sad thinking about my mom living life without him and what her new reality looks like. I feel sad thinking about my brother coping with the loss in closer proximity. I feel sad thinking about how much life I have left to live and his absence within it. And I feel mad when I lack that ability to force myself to stop being sad. As dumb as that may sound. However, I have arrived in 2020 with a new perspective. My dad lived long enough to support me through all manner of trials and with Jon Laaser New Year, New Reality THE OFFICIAL KIDS’ CLUB OF VIRGINIA TECH ATHLETICS 2 PLANS TO CHOOSE FROM ORANGE LEVEL: FREE MAROON LEVEL: $35 Visit hokiesports.com/hokiekidsclub to join!