There are certain games that stick with you — not because of the final score, but because of the way they’re played. The kind where effort shows up in every possession and leadership doesn’t need to be loud to be felt (and coming from me, that’s saying something). This one happened to be my first game stepping in as head coach, but what made it memorable had very little to do with me.
This weekend was one of those games for Jackson.
From the opening tip, he was locked in. Focused. Ready to do whatever the team needed… and as the game unfolded, it became clear that his impact wasn’t going to be measured just in points, but in stops, hustle plays, and moments that quietly changed the direction of the game.
Let’s start with defense — because that’s where this game was won long before the scoreboard caught up.
Jax, you took on their best shooter and shut him down. He managed just one shot all game because you were everywhere — hands up, feet moving, body in the right place every possession. You forced tough jumpers and never let him get comfortable. That kind of defense doesn’t always show up in the stat sheet, but it wins games. Your defense was locked in, disciplined, and relentless.
Then there was the hustle.
The ball felt like it had your name on it. You kept it alive over and over — offensive rebounds, assists, steals, tip-outs — just refusing to let possessions die. When we were down by six and momentum wasn’t ours, you were the spark.
No one in this league wants to see you defending them and for sure no one wants to drive the lane and see you standing in the key. You’re like a young Dennis Rodman (before he dyed his hair like an Easter egg). Those extra efforts don’t always go as stats in the box score, but they change everything. They kept us in the game and helped turn it around.
Slowly, possession by possession, we climbed back.
Eventually, we took the lead. Eventually, we won.
And there you were, right in the middle of it — leading the way, doing the little things, helping us come back and keep our team in first place.
Jackson, this was your game. And it’s one I’ll never forget.
PS: I plan on retiring with an undefeated head coaching record!
By the end of 2025, I realized I had spent most of the year trying to keep pace — not just with schedules or seasons, but with the quiet, steady way Jackson and Oliver were growing right in front of me. This wasn’t a year defined by one headline moment. It was a year defined by accumulation — small changes stacking up until suddenly, unmistakably, things felt different.
Both boys took real steps forward this year, though in very different ways. Oliver’s year was full of momentum. He played up in sports, took on bigger competition, and carried himself with a confidence that felt new — not loud or cocky, but earned. There were moments when the game seemed to slow down for him, when he trusted his instincts and went for it. Watching him compete against older kids and belong on the field with them was one of those parenting moments where pride and disbelief exist at the same time. Just as meaningful, though, were the moments when things didn’t go his way — the tough losses, the playoff ending, the frustration — and seeing him learn how to process that, reset, and come back ready to work.
Jackson’s growth in 2025 was quieter, but no less significant. He found his place — not by forcing it, but by steadily earning it. I watched him grow more confident in himself, more comfortable stepping in when needed, contributing in ways that mattered, that he earned himself by putting in the work and getting results in big moments. There were moments this year where he surprised me — not with flash, but with consistency, awareness, and leadership that showed up when it counted. He became more sure of who he is, and less concerned with proving it to anyone but himself.
Sports were a big part of the backdrop this year, but they were never really the point. They were just the setting where so many lessons played out — about effort, resilience, teamwork, and handling disappointment with maturity. I watched both boys learn how to lose, how to support teammates, and how to show up the next day regardless of the outcome. Those were the moments that stuck far longer than any score.
Jackson has always stood out. Known as the “mayor of his school,” and being asked to coach the younger football team (earning his own coaching whistle), Jax had already cemented a place among the wise beyond his years crowd.
2025 gave Oliver one of the more unexpected experiences of 2025… seeing people outside our family take notice of him — not just for his ability, but for his heart and effort. this year seeing strangers rally around Oliver was humbling and emotional in a way I didn’t anticipate. It forced me to pause and see him not just as my little boy, but as someone capable of inspiring people simply by being himself. At the same time, it reminded me how lucky Jackson and Oliver are to have each other — one pushing, one steadying, both learning what it means to grow side by side.
And then there were the moments that had nothing to do with sports at all. Near the end of the year, we took down the bunk beds the boys had shared for years and gave them separate rooms. It felt like a practical decision — until it didn’t. That first night, standing in the hallway with two closed doors instead of one shared space, landed heavier than I expected. It marked the end of late-night conversations, shared laughter, and the comfort of knowing they were just a few feet apart. Jackson was ready. Oliver was ready. I wasn’t sure I was — but that’s usually how these transitions go.
Looking back, 2025 wasn’t about milestones you circle on a calendar. It was about watching independence take shape in real time. It was about realizing that the things I used to focus on — wins, stats, outcomes — mattered less than character, effort, and growth. It was about seeing Jackson become more grounded in himself, and Oliver begin to test just how far his drive could take him.
As the year closed, I felt deeply grateful. Not because everything went perfectly — it didn’t — but because I was present enough to notice the changes while they were happening even if watching those changes happened while the boys quietly closed the doors to their own rooms for the first time in many years. The practices, the car rides, the quiet talks, the proud moments, and even the silence after lights out — that was 2025.
We’re heading into a new year now, and I know the pace won’t slow down. But this year reminded me that growth doesn’t need to be rushed or measured to matter. Sometimes it just needs to be noticed, because realizing they are now forging their own path and leading their own journey is not just hard to handle… it’s exactly what you’re been raising them to do.
Sometimes the view from the hallway comes with the best seats in the house — if only you don’t mind a little distance from the action.
Five years ago, my wife and I carried bunk bed pieces down the hallway and into Jackson’s room, assembling what felt like the physical symbol of brotherhood. Two small boys. One room. One nightly routine. One parent wedged awkwardly between a wall and a ladder reading just one more book.
That first night they slept together in their bunks felt monumental. I even wrote about it at the time because that’s what dads like me do when they realize a moment matters—try to freeze it in words before it slips away.
Fast forward to now.
For the past couple of months, both boys have been asking to “set up their own rooms.” Not demanding. Not dramatic. Just casually, the way kids do when they’ve already moved on emotionally and are waiting for you to catch up.
So today we did it.
We rebuilt the bunks in Oliver’s room. Jackson’s room got a solo bed—no ladder, no top bunk negotiations, no whispered conversations that definitely weren’t happening five minutes after lights out.
Tonight is the first night they’re sleeping separately.
(Unless you count the occasional 3 a.m. migration into mom and dad’s room or a friend’s sleepover—but let’s not ruin the narrative.)
I knew this day would come. I just didn’t realize how much I’d miss the old routine until it was gone.
There was something special about bedtime in that shared room. Reading a book while one boy asked questions and the other slowly drifted off. Turning the lights down and listening to them talk to each other—about nothing and everything—until their voices faded into sleep. Sitting there longer than necessary because once they were asleep, the day officially ended.
Now there are two rooms. Two goodnight hugs. Two light switches. And somehow… less noise.
I’m proud of them. Truly. This is growth. Independence. Confidence. All the things we’re supposed to want for our kids.
But tonight, standing in the hallway after tucking them in, I felt it—that quiet reminder that childhood doesn’t ask permission before it changes. One day you’re climbing down from a top bunk, and the next you’re realizing you’ve done it for the last time.
I hope they always remember what it felt like to share a room. To fall asleep knowing their brother was right there. To learn—early—that even when life eventually gives you your own space, you don’t have to do everything alone.
Because rooms change. Beds move. Eras quietly end.
But brothers? That’s the part I hope never does.
PS: The fight for where Wednesday sleeps from now on has begun. Chalk up a night one win to big brother.
The scoreboard said we lost our playoff game today… but I walked off that field proud of my son and my team.
This season, my son played up with the fourth graders even though he’s only in third grade. From day one, he never used that as an excuse. He just showed up… every single time. Not one missed practice. Not one late arrival. Every drill, every rep, every huddle… he gave his full effort.
He earned his spot as a starter on offense and defense. He returned kicks and he did everything we asked and more, without ever complaining. He worked hard, listened, and played with heart every single game. That’s not something you can coach… that’s just who he is.
As his coach, I saw the growth. As his dad, I saw the love for the game and for his teammates in his eyes everytime I looked at him.
The quiet confidence that comes from knowing you’ve earned it, that is not part of his game yet… so I’ll say it for him…
He belonged here this year… and he earned every second of it. When the season ended, even in that tough loss, I realized something: stats and scores don’t define a player — character does
My son is a little boy. He’s no longer an accessory; he is growing up and starting to develop a little personality. He’s not just a lump on a log who poops. He does stuff, he stands up and looks around and notices things.
Today I came home from work and he was holding himself up just doing some work at his little table. I walked in the door and he gave me one of those slow turn arounds where he looked upset that I was interrupting him. He smiles when he sees me, but usually can’t be bothered and gets right back to work. I picked him up and his little chubby tummy was sticking out. No onesie. Just his little boy belly under a t-shirt. I feel like any day now I’m going to walk in the door and he’s going to be using Skype to conduct business meeting in a three-piece suit.
Why are we always wishing for time to move so quickly. When you were six you couldn’t wait to you were ten. When you were ten you wanted to be 16, when you were 16 you wanted to be 21… etc, etc. etc. Steph and I are always waiting for Jax to hit the next developmental milestone. When will he crawl, when will he walk, when can he solid foods? But, Im not so sure I am ready for all these things just yet. I want my little one to stay just that- LITTLE!
I feel like it was just yesterday that I was sitting in Mrs. Clarkson’s class listening to her read us the Polar Express for the first time. I can still remember getting chills as her voice played the different roles in the story. When did I grow up (age wise, obviously not maturity)? I closed my eyes and I’m 35 with a wife and son. I mean I wouldn’t change any of the stops along the way of the last 30 plus years… but I wish I hadn’t been so excited for the next “big thing” to come along.
There’s a belief in Taoism that we often move through life with our mind way ahead of us. Sound familiar? It does to me. All of us face so many distractions and goals, wants and visions of what we can be or should be that we constantly are looking to the future. We work more than we should, we compete way to much and we want to improve who we are for the future instead of improving and being in the now. The problem with that is we are never in tune with our lives at that moment. We are busy moving to the beat of everyone else and the world itself. According to Tao “A Taoist lives a long healthy life, as a Taoist moves to the beat of their own subtle personal cues”.”
I guess that brings me to where I am today, enjoying this little dude growing up and the moments we have each day. (This blog has definitely helped with that, I tend to notice and pay more attention to the little things now). So as Jax grows up, which he inevitably will… I need to remind myself, that he will do the things he wants to do when he is ready to do them, and his mom and I should enjoy the ride!
HOWEVER… there is the issue of the UGGs. Mommy bought him UGG boots yesterday and he was wearing them like a champ and that is right where I step in and say Tao or no Tao… He’s not going to take “personal cues” from his mommy when it comes to footwear. I know Tom Brady wears UGGs, (which is precisely why I don’t like Tom Brady). But either way, i still miss the days where he would be all swaddled up and would sleep in my arms.
Back in the day when I was a youngin’ Fall used to be about 3 things: Football, Watching Sleepy Hallow in sweat pants and doing nothing. Now We have a kid and we are expected to do parenting stuff.
Parent stuff is different than non parent stuff. I didn’t want to look at leaves last fall and I definetely don’t want to look at them this fall. Yes I love New England, yes leaves and colors are great to look at for like five seconds… Hiking, camping, leaf peeping… Definitely all family like activities. Before I was lucky if I could down a cup of coffee and drag my butt to the gym. Now… no more going to the gym to work on sculpting the perfect physique, definitely just leaf peepin’ now.
That’s not me. I’m not trying to sit still with a pair of binoculars and a .45 millimeter lens to take photos of nature. I just want to lay down in my dark man cave in my pajamas.
Before Jax came along things were different… Not better just different. Weekends were for laziness. They consisted of anything but activities, anything but putting on jeans and having to take a shower.
Back in the day weekends consisted of being able to compose a novel on the toilet. I read every article of Sports Illustrated (or at least the ones that didn’t have to do with hockey). Now I’m lucky if I get to finish what I started.
Weekends were for laziness, weekends were for cleaning out the DVR which was up to about 87% full… If I was able to mow the lawn that was a plus. Now… Well… Now I do parent stuff. I go to fairs, I drive to grandma’s house and I go leaf peepin’. But then again, if that means I get to spend time with my little man… Get me some binoculars.
Sorry Sons: Chronicles of a New Dad 