You Can’t Win ’Em All

Growing up, my twin brother Paul (TU Class of 2001) and I bowled in leagues on Saturday mornings. Four years in a row—from fourth through seventh grades—we qualified for the championships, only to come up short each time to teams we should have beaten. When we finally won that elusive title in eighth grade, emotion poured out as all of those years of frustration were erased by that singular win.

Although I was never a great athlete, sports have always been a part of my life. I wrestled all four years in high school. It took a lot for me just to have a shot at the starting lineup. There were a lot of losses in wrestle-offs for the chance to compete. But as a senior when I was able to contribute and even win a few matches, there was a sense of pride because I had to work twice as hard to get half as far as some of my more talented teammates.

We need losing to appreciate winning.
That’s true not just in sports.

My wife Lori (Class of 2000) and I learned this too well on Sept. 9, 2004, when our then 15-month-old son William was diagnosed with brain cancer. One minute you are stressed about all that comes with caring for an infant—diaper changes, feedings, bathing and no sleep. The next minute that doesn’t seem so bad when you’re faced with a new reality of hospitalizations, surgeries, chemotherapy, seizures, and dealing with enough prescriptions to open your own CVS.

Nothing changes a parent’s life more than hearing your child has cancer. William’s tumor was the size of a tennis ball and put so much pressure on his brain stem that it was bent into a C shape. Some doctors told us to take lots of photos, because he would be dead in two months.

But this was one battle we were not going to lose. On the day we were supposed to leave for a dream family vacation—that we’d saved years for— we were instead meeting with a neurosurgeon, who was preparing to cut open our son’s skull and perform a 12 1/2-hour surgery to remove the tumor.

William got through the surgery only to suffer a stroke and go into a coma. He awoke six days later on Lori’s birthday. But his battle was just beginning. The delay in chemotherapy led to his cancer spreading down his spine. Doctors talked about hospice but agreed to one round of chemotherapy. It worked. William’s scans have been clear since that first round of treatment.

However, the months and years that followed brought dozens more surgeries and chemo treatments. There were Medevac flights, countless ambulance trips, stays of weeks at a time in the hospital and more near-death experiences than any child should have to endure or any parent should have to witness.

William has won his battles with cancer so far, but in many ways we’re never really done fighting. He deals with seizures, learning disabilities, hearing loss, cognitive delays and balance issues among a host of other health problems. Through all of it, he maintains a positive outlook and loves life as much as any person we have ever met.

Such a life-altering event makes you realize you were already a winner. I’m glad to report that William turns 16 this year and is still cancer-free. Still, his medical issues can leave us utterly exhausted as we fight every day to make sure he has everything he needs in life to succeed. When that exhaustion kicks in, we often take a minute to reflect on the losses many of the parents face who had children in the oncology unit with William. They would deal with all of the medications, learning disabilities, hearing loss and seizures in a heartbeat if it meant their babies were still here. There were at least a half dozen children with whom William underwent treatment who have since passed away.

We were excited to see our family grow when our twin daughters, Megan and Marissa, entered the world in 2006. We felt like winners again. Our children were doing well, and professionally I was on top of the world covering the Ravens for The Baltimore Examiner. Then, on Feb. 15, 2009, the paper closed. I was out of work in the greatest economic downturn since the Great Depression with a wife and three kids to care for.

It took a lot for me to get up. I had to reinvent myself professionally. I learned about digital and social media as I filed for unemployment for the first time in my life. I mowed lawns. I held yard sales. I spent time as Mr. Mom; Lori had to return to work as a nurse after five years at home. I went on countless interviews while doing anything I could to help keep food on the table and a roof over my family’s head.

It was painful, but I came out of it a better person. I rebuilt my career and can now enjoy watching my children deal with wins and losses in sports on their own. It’s a lot more stressful watching my daughters face sudden-death overtime in a field hockey game or William competing in swimming and bowling at the Special Olympics than when I was a competitor myself. I also make sure that even in defeat, they take something positive away so they can come out stronger than before.

Dealing with such struggles as a parent and professional changed my perspective as a lifelong sports fan. I still get excited when my teams win and frustrated when they lose, but it’s no longer a life-or-death feeling with each victory or defeat.

Writing A Season to Forget came after a lot of losing. It took 10 years and countless pitches to get a publisher to even consider one of my proposals. But when you’ve experienced as much as our family has gone through, you realize being rejected by a publisher is not that horrible. Life is too short to let your dreams be derailed by a loss or two.

AN EXCERPT

Heading into the 1988 season, the Orioles expected to struggle after a 95-loss season the year before and subpar seasons the two previous years. Not even the return of famed manager Earl Weaver in 1985 and 1986 was enough to correct the Orioles’ path. The franchise attempted to revamp its roster in 1988 by bringing in 14 new players.

While not expecting to compete for a playoff spot, not even the most knowledgeable baseball experts thought the Orioles were going to be historically bad. They were wrong. Baltimore opened that season with a record of 0–21, shattering the record for futility to start a season by eight games.

From a 12–0 Opening Day loss to the Milwaukee Brewers in front of a then-franchise-record 52,395 fans at old Memorial Stadium to a 4–2 loss against the Minnesota Twins at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, the Orioles found different ways to lose each night. It got so bad that even President Ronald Reagan sent a message of support to the loveable losers from Charm City. Religious leaders, psychics and mental health professionals even offered to help the team find a path to that elusive first win.

By the time they finally won a game—a 9–0 victory against the Chicago White Sox at old Comiskey Park on April 29, 1988—the damage was already done. The Orioles were already 15 1/2 games out of first place in the American League East before May 1. They went on to finish the season with a 54–107 record, 34 1/2 games out of first and 23 1/2 games behind the next worst team in the division (the 78–84 Cleveland Indians).

The high point of the season came on the Orioles’ next home game after their first win, when an announced crowd of 50,402 came out to support the team on “Fantastic Fans Night.” That was also the date that then-Maryland Governor William Donald Schaefer announced a 15-year lease agreement between the Orioles and the Maryland Stadium Authority to house the team in a new stadium in downtown Baltimore (which would eventually become Oriole Park at Camden Yards).