What a year it has been!

     It's a bit of a cliche, to say, "If you would've told me a year ago I'd be where I am today...." Honestly though, as 2015 begins to wind down, I can't think of a better way to explain how I feel. When I read in the Dayton Daily News in late 2014 the State of Ohio was going to open their sealed adoption files this year, I faced the possibility of learning the identities of my birth mother and father with both eagerness and trepidation. Not all adoption stories have happy endings and at the time I wasn't sure it was worth opening a potential can of worms. How much havoc and heartache was I willing to put myself and others through for a selfish bit of closure? Was I strong enough to face the possibility of monumental rejection? I couldn't definitively answer these question at the time of the article.
     My biggest concern was hurting my mom's feelings. I never wanted her to feel as though she was being left behind or I was ungrateful for the motherly role she's played in my life. But when she told me she thought it would be a good idea for me to find my roots, a great weight was lifted from my shoulders. Though my mom isn't terribly demonstrative, I know early on there were some moments of wincing. When I would share new details about what I was discovering I could tell it was bothering her a bit. Over time though, her selflessness prevailed. This whole experience would be very different if she weren't in my corner rooting for me--as she has always been. And through this my relationship with her has strengthened and my appreciation for all she and my dad provided me has deepened considerably. Their choice to love me, accept me, and commit to raising me may not be rare but it certainly is remarkable.
     My mom's support was vital in prompting me to request my original birth certificate but it was my Uncle Jerry and his family, carrying the torch lit by my late mother, Rosie, who are really the people who have made this journey possible and pleasant. They didn't have to care about my curiosity. They could've chosen to do nothing after Rosie passed in 2005.  And when I found them they could've closed ranks and rejected me, like many other adoptees have experienced when finding their birth families. But they didn't do any of these things. They not only immediately accepted me but they have embraced my family and for that I'm eternally thankful.
     When I was eventually ready to reach out to Rosie's two boys, whom she raised with their father from the time they were little ones, Joe and Dan were both open to sharing stories and personal mementoes. They're perspectives, as her sons, have been the most interesting, revealing and personal to me. She may have been my mother but she was their mom. I don't think there are two better people who could shed light on the kind of person she was than her boys. Everything I've been told, witnessed in videos, or surmised in pictures, tells me she was full of love with plenty to share with everyone who knew her. I've spoken to a few of her friends and they confirm my impressions of her; Rosie was love.
     Throughout this process I've also been cultivating a relationship with my birth father, Darrel. As we do not live close to each other it's been a real challenge to connect on any deep or meaningful level but I am grateful for the effort he's making. Darrel told me from the very beginning he didn't want to try to replace anyone or step on toes and he's been a man of his word. I appreciate him letting things evolve at my pace. It's hard for me to reach deeper emotionally because I had an amazing dad and this experience has brought to the surface unresolved feelings I have in dealing with his 2002 death. I suppose we can all be better sons and in the new year I will strive to do better on my end.
     My emotions well up when I think about was has transpired over the past year. The love I have uncovered is profound. I so look forward to learning more about my birth families, discovering more truths, and hopefully meeting some of these long lost relatives in person. It's been a rewarding journey and I've tried to share as much of it as I can on this blog. Sometimes I can't write everything because when you're in the midst of the journey you have to hold some things back. Not necessarily in an attempt to be furtive but rather to be respectful and gracious. I've learned this journey doesn't only belong to me but also everyone I've come to know along the way. It's very easy to get caught up in the human drama and become obsessed with one's own desires or emotional needs. I've tried hard not to fall into that swamp and I hope I've handled myself and this story respectfully. I will continue to do so in the new year and I'm anxious to see what else unfolds.

Listing #208296

     Recently a friend asked me what I've gained from finding my biological roots and I had to stop and ponder the question. I am certainly fortunate everyone I've met and talked to from my birth mother's family and my birth father's family have been supportive, accepting and generous with stories, photographs and personal mementoes. After reading so many accounts from other adopted children, I could never have imagined it would've been this positive. I am truly blessed. However, I believe what my friend was getting at with his question were the intangibles. Rather, the deeper meaning of it all.
     When I received my original birth certificate in April, I uncovered the identity of two strangers: my birth mother Rosemary and an infant child named Joseph Paul. Of course, Joseph Paul, or "J.P." as he's become known in our house, was me before I was given up for adoption. I was quite surprised to find I had been given a name. Not all but many children of blind adoption, especially during the period of the 1950's and 1960's, were simply named "baby boy" or "baby girl," in order to keep the transaction as anonymous and as impersonal as possible. I couldn't understand why Rosie would've given me name but after discovering a letter written by her in my adoption file, her reason become very clear. After I was born, it was at least a week (probably more, but I'm not sure exactly) before she finally decided to put me up for adoption.  In the letter dated eight days after I was born she conveyed her frustrations in not being able to get the support she needed from her family and asked the social worker to set up a time as soon as possible to sign the adoption papers. I believe during that week, before she wrote the letter, she was still hoping she could figure out a way to keep me. This is why she gave me a name. If she hadn't wanted this I don't think she would've bothered.
     When I met my mother's family, my Uncle Jerry revealed "Joseph Paul" was a family name. Joseph was my grandfather's middle name and Paul was Jerry's Confirmation name. At first the notion of having another name, or quasi identity as it were, was kind of amusing. I thought the name "J.P. Higgins" sounded rather regal and would make a great pen name or literary character. I even joked I could begin a new life as J.P. and no one would be the wiser. My paralegal wife was quick to remind me that sort of ploy is considered fraud and I probably wouldn't fare well in prison.
     I've mentioned this before but as a recap, after I received my birth certificate I Googled the name and found a posting from someone looking for Joseph Paul Higgins. It turned out the message was posted by my Uncle Jerry in 2012. It's listing #208296 and I have a vague recollection seeing it (or something similar) at one point during one of my periods of searching. But honestly, it could be my mind tricking me into believing I came across it. If I did see it, I can almost promise I would've discounted it since my name isn't Joseph Paul. Again, it never dawned on me I might have been given another name at birth. But since learning about this "J.P." person, I find myself thinking about him quite intently at times. To be candid, the mere fact he (I) had a name and existed for a week or more before being put up for adoption give his identity a little bit of credibility. Sure he was an infant who was ill-equipped to understand what was happening but that doesn't negate him. He was a person beginning life like everyone else does; vulnerable, dependent, and unaware how his life would unfold. A like many of other children who wound up in adoption at a very early age, he faced the proverbial fork in the road and had no control over which path he would travel. Boy, this would make a great Twilight Zone script. A troubled soul is given the chance to go back to the beginning and take the other path. What will he find? See, this J.P. has some real literary potential, but I digress.
     I suppose if I knew nothing of my roots I wouldn't give much though to this divergent path. However, as I learn more and more about Rosemary's life and the path she traveled before her passing, I can't help but think what J.P.'s life would've entailed. I certainly think of the milestones and experiences he might of had in comparison to those in my life. Where would he have gone to school? Would he have been a better student? What sports would he have played? What career would he have chosen? I'd love to be able to lay down the two timelines side by side and see how they compare.
     On a more personal level though, I've also contemplated if he would've had a better sense of who he was as a child and young adult. At times I struggled trying to figure that out and looking back I think subconsciously I was probably dealing with issues resulting from my adoption. I wonder if he would've have felt more confidence or had a greater sense of belonging by being around people he shared DNA. Adopted children do not always feel this way--I didn't. Sometimes I even felt like a guest. I'm not suggesting anyone attempted to marginalize me. My adopted clan accepted me with open arms and loved me. However, when you're standing in a room full of family member who look nothing like you or share any of your mannerisms or traits, it's a frequent and glaring reminder of possessing an alien pedigree.
     For those who aren't adopted it may be a tough concept to wrap the mind around but trust me, adopted children often internalize the observations very deeply and it can have a negative effect on the psyche. Many adoptees, especially children, aren't sure who they're supposed to be and struggle to find footing. A child might have an inclination to feel or behave a certain way that are opposite of what the adopted family finds acceptable. It's not necessarily some major thing like religion or some other belief but it could be as simple as a talent or nagging desire for something. Often they try to emulate those around them but then blame themselves if and when they fall short. They may also feel disingenuous in their attempts which can result in problems with identity development. As difficult as it might be to understand, some adoptees (even as adults) might feel as though if they don't fall in line with the perceived expectations of their adopted family, someone they hold dear may stop loving them or reject them. For a child who may already feel rejected this is a scary notion. Many have an incredible need for acceptance, attention, and a sense of belonging. I can relate to these feelings and I doubt J.P. would've ever had to deal with them on this level.
     That being said however, we all have challenges we must endure throughout our life. And I'm not saying my life experience has been any tougher because I was adopted; it's quite the opposite. It made me stronger and as I've gotten older it's allowed me to know my self-better. And after meeting my biological family I feel as though I've found my place in this world (apologies to Michael W. Smith). I love both of families endlessly and feel so fortunate to have had this experience. My heart wells up whenever I think about everything that has transpired over the past year and I can't wait to see what's around the corner. It keeps getting better and better and I only wish Rosemary were here so we could pick up where we left off all those years ago. I wish she could've met my mom. So regardless of whether at my core I'm Joseph Paul or Todd Alan, I'm always going to be a proud and thankful son to both my mother and my mom.

A family of pilgrims? Sort of

     The connection is distant. Very distant. But it exists nonetheless. Today my Uncle Jerry sent me a photo of a stained glass window my 2nd great aunt bought and donated to St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Glynwood, Ohio where her family attended. Her name was Catherine Higgins and her name appears at the base of the window. Eventually Catherine married a man by the name of Frank James Carey. 

     Upon receiving this information I decided to do some quick research on Ancestry and discovered Catherine's husband, Frank, was a sixth great grandson of a man named John Carey/Cary, who was born around 1612 in Somersetshire, England. He came to America in 1651 and is widely known in many genealogy and historical circles as John "The Pilgrim" Cary. Here's a short youtube video about Mr. Cary. 

     Well, as it turns out, my wife's 9th great grandfather is also John "The Pilgrim" Cary. While she's a direct decedent, my biological family married into the Cary line. Regardless of how, I suppose this very distant connection makes up kissin' cousins, multiple times removed. Which at this moment is no real consolation to my wife who honestly feels a bit weirded out. 

     I tried to do the math to figure out exactly what our connection is and how far removed we are as cousins but the math hurt my head. Uncle Jerry, please help!

Uncle Jerry did the math: Frank Carey, the wife of my 2nd great aunt, Catherine Higgins, is my 6th cousin 3 times removed. Frank's 6th great grandfather was John "The Pilgrim" Carey/Cary. 

It's in my blood

     I've written a number of posts regarding the dichotomy between NATURE Vs. NURTURE. Perhaps my struggles with weight gain, the gap between my front two teeth (before my dentist got ahold of me), or my flat feet can be attributed to my genetics. But how about the ability to string words together well, or sing a tune in-tune, or be comfortable performing in front of people, on the radio or on camera? Are these gentic traits or were they constructed by outside influences during my formative years? In other words, nurturing. It's hard to tell and it's an argument researches still quibble over to this day. If we could clone some of Elvis Presley's DNA would we create another megastar easily or was his environment the greater influence on his rise to fame? That's the question some ponder. 
     As I've shared before, my biological mother was a writer who wrote short plays, penned a few poems, and probably other interesting works or letters I'm yet to uncover. She also loved singing and performing and from the photos and home movies I've seen she didn't shy away from the spotlight. While I am not attempting to vouch for my own abilities, it's not too farfetched to say I'm a chip off the old block. My experiences and abilities certainly mirror those of some of my mother's.

Hosting a college TV show called Miami Valley Performs

     Many people who read this blog know I worked in radio and TV, both behind scenes and hosting a number of radio shows. I even hosted a few episodes of a college TV show (hopefully those tapes were long since destroyed). I related stories from the news, my life, or from people who wanted to share their story. One of my favorite aspects of hosting was the opportunity to interview people. Whether it was some rockstar or actor, or a local person with something important to say, I enjoyed talking to them and helping them relate their own stories. 
     I've been interviewed myself a few times throughout the years and it's always fun. I like the give and take of an interview and often discovered things about myself I perhaps hadn't thought about through their questions. One person I would've loved the chance to be interviewed by was my Grandpa Higgins. Why my own grandpa not Charlie Rose (my favorite interviewer on TV)? Let me explain. 

My mother Rosie, Grandpa Higgins, Uncle Jerry

     Since reuniting with my birth mother's family, from time to time I receive emails or notes in the mail that often include little tidbits from my biological past I was unaware of. Certain memories will come back to them and they share whatever detail that comes to mind. The email I received from my Uncle Jerry yesterday was quite unexpected and surprising. It seems my Grandpa Higgins hosted a local TV show in Greenville, Ohio during the late 1970's. Now, Donald wasn't a professional broadcaster or anything of the sort, to be sure. He was a retired gentleman who attended church and was involved with the Christian Business Men's Association in Darke County, Ohio. Through his community connections he found plenty of guests eager to be on his show and from what I've been told and observed on family home movies, he had an agreeable and friendly disposition. An ideal host, I suppose. Don't know if he did an opening monologue, though. 

     My uncle reports he was once a guest on the show to talk about his experiences in the Navy. Jerry recalls the entertainment for that episode was a woman from Greenville, Ohio by the name of Virginia Bollinger. She was a family friend who lived in the same trailer park as grandma and grandpa and was a local celebrity of sorts for her ability to whistle with the beauty of a song bird. Apparently she was in high demand and performed at local schools, churches, nursing homes and appeared on Grandpa's TV show, probably to promote her debut record Whistling Melodies. 
     I'd be curious if Grandpa Higgins ever had ambitions as a young man to pursue a career in broadcasting like I did. Having hosted both radio and TV shows I certainly know the appeal. Though, unlike when I began working in the mid 1980's, Grandpa Higgins was deciding what career to follow when TV was still in its infancy. The thought of working in TV was probably the furthest thing on his mind. In fact he was only 16-years-old when the first TV show appeared over NBC on July 7, 1936. Not very many people saw this as there were only a handful of TV receivers in homes at the time. I encourage you read the info on the youtube page about this historical broadcast.
      My Uncle Jerry also revealed about himself, after he left the Navy in the early 1970's he auditioned at the Columbia School of Broadcasting in Los Angeles, CA. He passed the audition with flying colors but decided to pursue a career in electronics instead of a broadcaster. Though for a short time while in school and before we joined the NAVY he worked as a disc jockey at WDRK in Greenville, OH and then later at WGLM in Richmond, IN. 
     I think it's clear broadcasting and entertaining is in my blood. 

Four inspiring people from my life

     In my quest to better acquaint my biological family with experiences from my life they've missed, I thought I would put down on paper a few short sketches of the people who have most inspired and influenced my life, besides family, of course. There have been many people who have taken a special interest throughout the years and have left an indelible impression on my soul. These are a few of "adults" who inspired and helped during my formative years. 

Sharon Busch
     When I entered 7th grade I was excited to be in the choir. I had been in elementary school choir for a few years, had a few solos, and even performed in the school talent show, but junior high chorus was the real deal--especially with Sharon Busch. With Sharon, choir was no longer the cutsie activity where you showed up in your best outfit and sang whatever notes you could eeck out at Christmas time. In 7th grade we actually had to learn our parts and were held accountable. That's what I learned from Mrs. Busch; if you're going to sing, sing it correctly with punctuality and vigor. 

Sharon Busch

     I enjoyed choir through my 7th grade year but ran into a bullying problem my 8th grade year and dropped out of choir. The summer before my 9th grade year I had a job as a Dayton Daily News paperboy and a number of members of the Ferguson Jr. High show choir, Guy's and Dolls, lived on my route. One day in the middle of August a few of them stopped me and said the group was still in need of a tenor. Having not been in choir the previous year I knew nothing of the show choir as it had taken a several year hiatus when I first started attending Ferguson. I was a tenor and was interested in getting back into choir. I went and auditioned with Mrs. Busch the next day and promised I would stick with it. I guess I hit enough of the notes and demonstrated to her I could dance, because she offered me the final part in the show choir. 
     Throughout the year we did a great number of shows. I remember performing inside the old Dayton Arcade, Kings Island's Winterfest, the Dayton Mall, and countless churches and senior centers around the area. We also performed in a state choir competition and to this day I know a good portion of Ava Maria. Guys and Dolls was great fun and I made some really good friends that year. Towards the end of the school year she inscribed my yearbook with, "Someday your name will be lights." She was an amazing teacher and inspiration but right before the end of the year I let her and the rest of my choir compadres down.
     Besides being in choir I played soccer and towards the end of the spring season there was a tryout for a select soccer team I wanted to play on. The tryouts conflicted with the final performance of Guys and Dolls and I made the decision to skip the finale to try out for the soccer team. Mrs. Busch was none to happy with me and rightly so. I made the team but this was not one of my better decisions and I realized it right away. I never bothered trying out for any of the choirs in high school or any of the plays because I really felt like I fouled up and let people down. I regret those decisions deeply. 

Note from Sharon Busch

     Fast forward twenty plus years and I find myself working in radio and television. At some point I decided to get back into performing and began doing improvisational comedy. I did that off and on for a few years and then decided to begin taking acting lessons. Through lessons at the Human Race Theatre in Dayton, I met an amazing acting coach named Carrie Ellen-Zappa. She too became very inspirational to me through our classes and friendship and she pushed me to tryout for a production of Oliver! she was directing. I was cast as Mr. Bumble and I was thrilled to be part of a such a high quality production.
     Shortly before rehearsals ended and the show was about to go up, I decided on a lark to invite Mrs. Busch to the show. I hadn't seen her in years but I wanted her to know I had finally managed to make it back to the stage. I didn't know if she had gotten the message or was able to make it until I received a note from here following one of our performances. She spotted me in the lobby, still wearing my costume and makeup, and came up and gave me a big hug. I think the tears were streaming down both of our faces. Unforgettable, to be sure. 
     She retired from teaching at the end of last school year. From the send off she received from past students and colleagues, it's clear her love, concern, and dedication touched countless others through her years of teaching. 

Joette Gates (Sommers)

Joette and me

     I met Joette Gates sometime before my Senior year in high school. Some how or another I found myself in her classroom with a friend of mine, as she was prepping her room for the upcoming school year. She mentioned she was the supervisor for the school newspaper and that caught my attention. I recall writing a short piece for her review and her allowing me to sign up for the newspaper staff when classes began. Newspaper met everyday like a a regular class and gave students the opportunity to write, edit and layout the newspaper on a monthly basis. As someone who eventually worked in TV news, I can attest we had the same vigorous conversations about high school news stories as we did about local news at WHIO-TV. 
     I do remember one caveat Mrs. Gates insisted on was that I also had to take a journalism class she taught during first period. I remember going to the counseling office on the first day of school and changing my schedule for the year. It also turned out I had a study hall that semester and I managed to talk her into letting me be her teacher's aid that period. Poor Joette had me in her class three times a day, including first thing in the morning. Teachers must have more patience than anyone in any profession anywhere at anytime.
     Joette taught me how to write well and with confidence. It's something that I had never really considered before that year in school because I didn't like to read. It bored me to no end but I loved to write. I remember writing a few articles about the soccer team but the one I remember the most was one I wrote about the school's new library security system. I wrote I didn't think it was very good because I figured out how to bypass it. Mrs. Beecher, the school librarian, was none to happy about my reporting. It was then I began developing a thicker skin. 

     Beyond her teaching me to be a better writer, her greatest influence came from her love and care during that school year. My younger sister was having some problems and it was causing my family great stress. I remember staying after school frequently because I didn't want to go home. My parents and sister fought all the time and I was stuck in the middle. It was hard and Joette sensed something was wrong. She was there to listen and offer both guidance and solace, which I appreciated more than I could express.
     After graduating I began working in radio and TV news, she had me come back to speak to a few of her classes and it always made me feel special. But in reality it was because of her I found my voice and set me on the course I still follow today. 
     Years after she had retired and moved out of the are we reconnected on Facebook and I enjoy our occasional conversations and emails. A few years ago I had the great honor of being her guest at her mountain home and my son and I had a blast. I'm fortunate to have such a supportive and thoughtful friend and mentor. 

Vern Burk
     When I was young and playing youth soccer in Beavercreek, Ohio I remember noticing this tall, bearded gentleman, sauntering about the fields where we played our games. He wore glasses, had this sly smile, and sideburns. I assumed he was a parent or a coach but he was never involved directly with any of my teams so I didn't know for sure who he was.  

From the RAF Lakenheath Base Paper, 1973

     My Sophomore years in high school I made the Reserve B men's soccer team and one of my teammates was Dave Burk--it turned out his dad was the man I recalled seeing at the soccer fields years before. Though I finally made the connection of who he was, I didn't get to know Vern until the following year after being cut from the men's team. On the encouragement of some of my friends, I volunteered to become the equipment manager of the women's varsity team. Vern was one of the assistant coaches. Shortly after the season began, Vern saw I had some soccer skill and had me begin working with the goalkeepers. It meant a lot to me to be part of a team. 
     Vern was and remains one of the most interesting people I've ever known. Among other things, besides having a great soccer mind, he was also a chess master. He won the Dayton Chess Club Championship in 1969, 1977, 1981, 1982, and 1991. He also served as the club's president three times throughout his long involvement. 
     He was a scholar and historian who worked at Wright Patterson Air Force Base and wrote papers on whatever subject his work steered him to. He and his family had previously lived in England and being a soccer fan I enjoyed listening to him talk about English Football and how we could improve our play. 

My mom, dad, me, and Vern; BHS graduation 1988

     Vern was very involved with Beavercreek soccer and all levels which is one of the reasons we became friends. While managing the women's team I was basically his shadow; before the game, during the game and then usually at Noble Roman's Pizza after the game. I became involved with the Beavercreek Celtic's and went to board meetings while I was still a student and Vern, who at the time I believe was serving as the board president, welcomed my thoughts and comments on the goings on. Afterwards we would hang around Marion's Pizza (where the Celtic meetings were held) and talk about history and other subjects over a pizza. When he could he put me on his team as a guest player and I got to travel and play in many out of state tournaments. In fact, it was because of him I was recruited to play in college. I ended up rooming with his middle son David, while at college. 
     I learned a lot from Vern about soccer and a great many other things and always enjoyed seeing him. In some ways I connected with him more than I connected with my own father. I'm not sure why but we just seem to hit it off. He had a lot of interests and a very dry and ironic sense of humor. I remember one night after a soccer meeting he randomly asked if I wanted to go see a movie; we saw the family friendly Full Metal Jacket. Sometimes when our soccer team was traveling, back at the hotel after a long day of games, while my teammates were swimming or goofing off, Vern and I were sitting quietly somewhere as he taught me the game of chess. I never studied the game to become a high quality player myself but I've kept a board ever since. 
     One of the saddest days of my life was when he past away from diabetes on December 20, 1991. At his viewing, his wonderful wife Judith told me Vern always enjoyed my company. That meant a great deal to me that day and twenty-three years later it still means at lot. Over the years I've seen his family around town and we stay connected through Facebook. He was a great man who influenced many people throughout his life and I'm fortunate to say I was one of them.

Mike Peters

Mike's alter-ego. 

     Many people have heard of Mike Peters. He is a Pulitzer Prize winning editorial cartoonist and creator of the comic strip Mother Goose and Grimm. While working locally at the Dayton Daily News his backyard happened to butt up against my backyard in Beavercreek, Ohio and I spent a lot of time at their house, annoying his daughters and jumping on their trampoline. 
     My friends and I also did a fair share of TP'ing their house and if I recall correctly, Mike and his daughters returned the favor in kind, more than once.

Getting a Grimm T-shirt for my 17th birthday

     His drawing table was positioned in front of the sliding glass doors on their back patio and I could see when he was sitting there working on his art. On occasion I would go over and watch as he would create his magic and he was always welcoming and friendly. I recall during one visit, around the time I was 13 or 14 years-old, he commented he thought I would do well working in broadcasting when I go older. He went on to say he thought I had a good personality and would probably be a natural communicator.
     At that young age nothing of the sort had ever dawned on me and his words were intriguing. I certainly was fascinated by radio but I didn't understand what it took to be on the radio. Not long after I began saving my money and bought some DJ equipment from Radio Shack and began broadcasting from my bedroom. Eventually I also started volunteering at the Miami Valley Cable Council and a career in broadcasting became a real possibility for my future. 
     I was never a scholarly student and always felt if I would be a success in life I would have to achieve it using my own talents and communicative skills. Mike's kind words that day helped frame this idea in the mind of a wandering and carefree child. And as it turns out, he was right. The business surely has its up and downs but I've always felt most comfortable working in that kind of creative environment. 

The crux of my adoption story

     Up to this point in my adoption journey much of what I've revealed has centered around the discovery and reconnection with my biological roots, in particular, my birth mother Rosemary's family. Along the way I've also included essays about my adopted parents and family, as to leave no doubt of my absolute love and appreciation for all of them. Personally, it's been a life changing and worthwhile endeavor and I hope people are getting something out of it. However, I'm feeling the crux of my story may very well lie beyond what I've written thus far. I've begun to realize my story transcends the human interest and fascination of familial reunion and is reaching deeply into the realm of self-discovery, awareness, honesty, and accountability.

     Before I began this journey my family medical history was unknown. Any issues I have or may have had in my life, including the physical, emotional, or mental, belong to me and me alone. In many families certain medical conditions experienced by previous generations are well-known and documented and watched for as family members grow and age. In the case of most adopted children any health traits or problems are a complete mystery. Other than being told I had a paternal grandfather who was an alcoholic, no further pertinent information was provided by the adoption agency. And that tidbit of information about my grandfather is somewhat in dispute, which I will discuss later.

     Let me establish that many of the conclusions I've drawn about my biological mother Rosemary and her health have been based on facts and anecdotes shared by her loved ones. Others are logical assumptions, supported by certain observations I've made throughout the process. I've been blessed to receive stories, personal tokens, photos, videos, and a number of her written works, all of which has provided greater insight into who my mother was as a person. Through this, I've gained a clearer perspective of my own being, as well. In her, I see myself. We share many wonderful traits and talents but also some of the same personal struggles and challenges.

     Throughout my life doctors have hinted some of my weight challenges were probably partially caused by genetics. Looking at early family movies and class pictures of my mother it seems her weight gain began after she became an adult. And more directly, after she gave me up for adoption. This is an import point to consider. As a child, I was husky (as my mom called it) and got my share of teasing because of it. However, I refuse to accept the notion I was a “roller wheel” as some bullies alleged. The most I weighed in high school was a 165 lbs. and I played soccer nearly everyday. I gained the majority of my weight during my first marriage. It was ugly, painful and I fed my emotions with food. From what I know about Rosie, I think following my birth and subsequent adoption she did the same thing. Even her own brother, my Uncle Jerry, intimated this when we first met. Perhaps how we deal with emotions or stress is also genetic. 

     Even after Rosemary married and began her life as a wife and step-mom, she struggled with her weight. I had the great pleasure of having dinner with one of her step-sons this past week and he remembers a time when she dropped 150 lbs. only to gain it back. I've been down that road before. In fact, I'm still on that road, having gained back the weight I lost after my gastric bypass surgery. It's embarrassing to admit but I have to be honest in what I write. And to myself. I can't eat the portions I used to before my surgery but I my wife tells me I'm a grazer. My love hate relationship with Miller Lite doesn't help, either. I get bored easily and once I begin drinking it becomes a bit of an obsessive compulsive ritual until it's gone. Rosie never drank, thankfully. Which brings me back to whether my paternal grandfather was an alcoholic or not.

     In conversations with by birth father, Darrel, he assures me his father was not an alcoholic. I don't know why Rosie told her social worker he was but its listed on the questionnaire I received from the adoption agency. For years my mom has always been concerned about me drinking because of this fact. Perhaps he wasn't an alcoholic but I do know he died at the age of 45. I turned 46 a month ago. Darrel has also had heart problems for a several years and was actually hospitalized a few weeks ago with an arterial blockage. He's home now and recovering. Given heart disease can fun in some families it scared the hell out of me.

     So here's what I know: my mother was very obese and died at the age of 58; my father has had heart problems for a number of years; my paternal grandfather who died at 45 may or not have had a drinking problem; I'm 46, obese, and drink too much too often. The truth is often painful and scary and I assure you I'm feeling both of those emotions at this very moment. 

     I think this is the real reason I found my biological roots and why my mom was adamant about me doing so. Who's needs an hug?

Memories of a friend

     During my recent vacation to celebrate my birthday with my biological aunt and uncle, they mentioned remembering a friend of my birth mother had introduced to them sometime back in the early 1970's. They didn't remember her name specifically but her husband's name was very unusual. After a Google search and a few short clicks I found two names and a picture on Facebook. My aunt and uncle looked at the photo for a few moments and felt fairly positive it might be them. After returning home from the trip I did a bit more digging and was able to confirm their identities. From there, I went back to Facebook and after only a few messages and a few repeated attempts at a “friend request,” we were connected.

     I am happy to say we spoke on the phone today for about an hour and talked about her memories of my mother, Rosie. These memories, which I have been given permission to share, are both lovely and heartbreaking. I've mentioned before in other blog posts that the circumstances around her pregnancy and my subsequent adoption were both dramatic and traumatic. Clearly, from what you are about to read, my mother had some very difficult challenges during her early years as an adult. Please keep this in mind though, in the end everything turned out for the better and everyone involved went on to live happy lives.

     Cheryl and Rosie were close friends for a number of years during the late 1960's and early 1970's. She remembers Rosie, who was in her early 20's, as having a heart of gold and being full of love and compassion. The kind of person who would do anything for anyone. However, she also remembers Rosie as being someone who, “cared far more for people than people cared for her.” Sadly, she remembers Rosie confiding at times how she felt unloved and unaccepted and thought people judged her harshly because of her weight problem. As a result of this self-loathing and sense of rejection, Cheryl believes, from her observations, Rosie had a tendency to cling to people who showed her any amount of acceptance.

     During this time she remembers Rosie being a bit of a transient, renting rooms in area houses which had been converted into small apartments. She recalls she worked in the title office of a car dealership but often didn't have enough money to get by. It also didn't appear as if Rosie received any help from her family or that she even had a good relationship with her parents. On one occasion she remembers Rosie inviting her mom and dad for dinner her in small apartment and while she was in the kitchen cooking, one of her parents asked Rosie why “she couldn't be thin like her friends,” and why all she thought about was “eating and cooking.” Cheryl recalls protesting and chiding Rosie's parents for saying such a rude thing and reminded them the dinner was being prepared for them. Cheryl remembers them responding they were going to stay. Cheryl remembers being left with the distinct impression a great deal of embarrassment surrounded Rosie's weight problem for her parents and the rejection she felt by them and others drove her to eat even more.

     According to Cheryl, when Rosie confided she was pregnant, she was in a panic and didn't know how to handle the situation. No mention was made of who the father was or if he even knew. Later, after she announced to her parents she was expecting, Cheryl remembers Rosie being shunned and offered no help or guidance whatsoever, other than them pushing for her to give me up for adoption. Cheryl remembers Rosie calling her mom numerous times and pleading for them to reconsider helping, only to be hung up on repeatedly.

     Cheryl remembers Rosie being poor, desperate, and lost. The whole matter tore her up emotionally and the last thing she wanted to do was give me up. Cheryl remembers Rosie talking to a social worker for advice and getting information about adoption. Still holding on to hope she tried to figure out a way to keep me but eventually came to decision to give me up. Cheryl told me my mother wanted me to have something she never felt she had herself—two loving and accepting parents. And that's what I got.

     Cheryl closed our conversation by saying how astonishing was to hear from me. She also said after after looking at the side by side pictures of me and Rosie, I was the spittin' image of my mother. Cheryl was very forthcoming with her memories of my mother and Im grateful for her willingness to share. She told me to stay and in touch and if I think of anything else to just ask. She seems like a very sweet lady. It's not wonder she and my mother were such good friends all those years ago.

     I closed by reassuring Cheryl that many years after my birth and adoption Rosie and her parents reconciled and everyone regretted the decision of ever letting me go. This was revelation was comforting to her, as she had always wondered what had happened to Rosie, after the two of them lost touch. She was also very sorry about Rosie's passing in 2005.

     Before hanging up, there was one last item she wanted to share about Rosie that sent goosebumps racing over my body. A few years after Rosie had me and settled back into her normal life, Cheryl gave birth to her first child. She remembers Rosie being very excited about the baby and wanted to be involved as much as possible. Both Cheryl, and her husband at the time, loved Rosie and welcomed her interest and involvement with their new baby boy—they happened to name, Todd.

     Truth, is indeed, stranger than fiction.

Adding to my family archives

     My wife likes to pick on me because I keep a personal archive. She does so in jest, I might add, to not cast aspersions. Her gentle jabs have more to do with the amount of space the archives occupy in our closet than the overall act of keeping them. I suppose when I was younger I thought someday I would do something grand and someone somewhere might want this stuff to exhibit. We all start out with grandiose notions, don't we? (FYI, no one has asked yet for any of my archives. Well, except for my friend JP, who has my black and white JAZZ HANDS show choir gloves in his trophy room. Though, I think this is more out of a out of a sense of parody rather than posterity.)

     The real reason I keep an archive is for my children and their children and all the children that come after. The remnants I have from my ancestors are treasures. Two of the the things most valuable to me is my dad's old baseball glove and small silver bell pendent my mom used to wear when I was little. The smell of the glove leather reminds me of my dad and going to his ball games and I vividly recall playing with my mom's pendent when she would hold me in her arms. Both items are kept in my study and on display so I can see them as often as I like--which is almost everyday. Memories are wonderful but these heirlooms quench all the senses and connect me to the past. I want my descendants to be afforded the same experience. I can imagine my great-great grandchild sitting on the floor playing with the same pine wood derby car my dad helped me build for Cub Scouts when I was a boy. To me, that's gratifying.
     After reconnecting with my biological mother's family I was touched by their heartfelt generosity. During our first meeting I was presented with Rosie's personal photo album and a small silver baby cup bearing her engraved initials. I was told it was a gift to her from an uncle. No longer was Rosie only an abstract idea in my mind; at long last I had a tangible connection to my mother. The emotions at that moment were overwhelming and I wasn't prepared to receive such amazing gifts. This scene was repeated on the morning of my birthday, a week or so ago on September 3rd. 
     Fairly soon after reconnecting earlier this spring, I suggested to my newly found family it might be nice to spend my birthday with them this year at their home in Pennsylvania. As I've written before, I think our reconnecting has been as much about them finding me as me finding them. So, inviting myself to their place didn't seem out of place. They were eager to celebrate and after 45 years of missed birthdays we agreed it was about time. 

Rosie's Baby Book and other items

     My birthday morning began with homemade Belgian waffles by Uncle Jerry, fresh bacon, and an assortment of nfruit toppings. This is my favorite and it was no coincidence. Apparently they had been in contact with my wife the weeks leading up to our visit to make sure they had some of my favorites on hand. How lucky am I? Pretty darn lucky. Later that day we had lasagna and cheesecake for desert. Again, my favorites.
     The highlight of the day, as with any birthday, was opening gifts. And much like the photo album and silver cup, these gifts were personal and very touching. First was a five DVD collection of their family movies, beginning in 1959 through the late 1960's. I've since watched the videos and they contain archive footage of Rosie as a young girl, teenager, and young woman. Among other things, it shows her going to prom, marching in a parade, and playing the piano. It also shows her tearfully opening a box on Christmas morning containing the typewriter she had desperately wanted. It also shows Uncle Jerry gleefully opening a train set from Santa Claus. Also quite moving were the images of my Grandma and Grandpa Higgins hugging, kissing, laughing and holding each other under mistletoe. It also shows vacations, snow storms, croquet, picnics, and a lot of horsing around. In all, it shows a happy family. My family.
     Uncle Jerry then handed me a large overstuffed envelope. I was amazed to discover Rosie's permanent record. That's right, it was her final grade card from high school and other personal paperwork. Sadly, I did not inherit her praiseworthy scholastic abilities. The envelope also included her diploma, class pendent, tassel, and a choir pin. I have the same items from my mom and they will soon all be displayed side by side with their graduation portraits. Two kinds of love, to be sure. 

A lovely card and sentiment

     The item I found most intriguing was Rosie's baby book, kept up by her mother. Many parents, including myself, have started baby books for their children and over time lost track of the books or stopped filling them out altogether. Grandma Higgins did a very nice job filling in most of the book with both the big and small details of Rosie's early years. I think my favorite entry is an outline of Rosie's lefthand and a foot. I can't tell if Rosie attempted to trace it herself when she was a toddler or if Grandma was responsible for the squiggly lines. Either way, it's sweet and beautiful. I was especially touched by the little pink baby bracelet Rosie wore on her wrist in the hospital nursery as a newborn. Then Aunt Kathy handed me a small box and card. She makes greeting cards as a hobby and her handmade birthday wish is quite exquisite. The inscription, even more so: "Dear Todd, Happy Birthday! We are so happy that we can celebrate with you! "Happy Birthday," for every year that we missed with you. We love you. So happy we found you." After drying my eyes I opened the small box to find a silver diamond and opal ring. According to Kathy, it was Rosie's favorite piece of jewelry. Truly a treasure that will be cherished for generations to come. 
     All of these gifts, and most importantly the time I've spent with my biological family, reinforce to me that something has been missing from my life for the past 45 years. In the past I've written my desire to find my biological family was done out of curiosity more than some emotional desire. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I wasn't able to recognize this need in myself as easily as my mom did when she encouraged me to search. Part of my identity has been missing and this was made clear to me during my visit to Pennsylvania. Beyond all the things I received that had belonged to my mother, simply sitting with my family was the biggest blessing. It was wonderful and I especially enjoyed chatting with my cousin Emily. I'm several years older but I feel comfortable enough to say we share common sensibilities. We even talked about Seinfeld, of all the things. Finally, someone in my family who gets me! Clearly, humor comes from nature, not nurture. I can't wait to learn more. 

Uncle Jerry and Aunt Kathy receiving my gifts

     It might be interesting to note that I was not the only one to receive gifts during the visit. To me, at the risk of parsing words, there is a difference between the words "present" and "gift." Presents are wonderful and include items like toys, slippers, jewels, DVD players, or even a new car. Gifts, on the other hand, at least in my mind, should have meaning and reveal heartfelt sentiment. After getting to know him, I was astounded to learn Uncle Jerry, much like myself, used worked in radio. This was during his younger days but he's always had an interest in the history of broadcasting. If fact, growing up north of Dayton in Greenville, Ohio he used to listen regularly to WING-AM. Turns out WING-AM was very first professional radio job and during a station sale of old equipment, I snagged one of the original microphones from the North Main Street studios in downtown Dayton during the 1950's. It's been in my collection ever since and from one radio geek to another, I was happy to pass this mic on to him as a token of my love and appreciation. Maybe someday we'll do a radio show together. That'd be a hoot! 
     My Aunt Kathy has become a very special person to me. Not only is she my aunt but she was good friends with Rosie and for a short time they shared an apartment. I feel a special connection with her because of this and many of the other wonderful things she's shared with me. I will be forever thankful for her love, concern and prayers. I had a special gift in mind but I was afraid it would be too personal too soon in our relationship. However, with encouragement from my wife, I decided to present Kathy my baby blanket and a little lock of hair my mom had kept in my baby book from my first haircut. I know she was deeply moved. Of course, I would've loved to have given this gift to Rosie but it didn't work out that way. Though, I'm sure Rosie approves of the gesture.
     This is how you celebrate a birthday.

You say it's your birthday? Well, it's my birthday, too!

     When I was eight years-old my mom and dad threw me a birthday party and invited every kid who lived within shouting distance of our house. If I am recalling each of those neighborhood friends correctly after forty-six years (which I believe I am), I'd put the number around twenty-five. There were a lot of kids in the old neighborhood and my dad created a grand treasure hunt in the backyard, drew a giant picture of a clown and had us throw beanbags through the mouth, nose and eyes, and even built a balloon/dart board like you'd see at a carnival. My mom, who made and decorated fantastic cakes, fed not only the kids but the parents, too. My parents went all out on my birthdays and I deeply cherish those memories. I can only speak for myself but as an adopted child being reminded frequently how much you are loved goes a long way to quell any lingering feelings of abandonment. Perhaps this is why they went to such efforts.
     I must admit not all birthday memories are as clear. For example, the memories of my fortieth birthday party, a mere six years ago, are considerably hazy. A friend's band was playing at the Dayton Marriott patio bar and another very good friend rented the hotel room adjoining mine. Let's just say we filled two bathtubs full with "beverages" and no one went home thirsty. Again, I remember only bits and pieces. It started with Bad Juan, a tambourine solo on stage, plenty of sweaty hugs, a ride in an RV, and somehow ended in a $50 taxi ride from downtown Dayton back to the Marriott--about a five minute drive. Clearly, I'm a good tipper on my birthday.
     I mention these two parties because without question they are probably my most "memorable" birthday celebrations. I've been lucky enough to have many others with great friends and family but I can honestly say these two were probably the tops. That was until today.
     After reconnecting with my biological family, my Uncle Jerry and Aunt Kathy expressed to me how sometimes when my birthday would come around each year, they, along with my late birth mother Rosemary, would often think about me. They wondered where I was, if I was okay, if I was loved, if I was having a good life, and probably if I was having a happy birthday. This idea floored me. It had never once occurred to me, while I was stuffing my face full of cake or tequila, people I didn't know might be out there wondering about me and missing every single one of my birthday celebrations. And to put a fine point on it; my cause for celebration was a yearly reminder of a regrettable and painful moment in their lives. I understand this feeling. Every year on my dad's birthday in November, I spend time thinking about him and what he meant to me when he was alive. I do this on other days as well but none more than on his birthday. When I considered this I decided the only thing I could do to remedy the situation was to boldly invite myself and my wife to their home in Pennsylvania to celebrate my birthday. I'd like to report today was the most meaningful and beautiful birthday celebration I think I've ever had.
     I promise to write all about it and spill the details of the day's festivities in full but right now I'm still trying to take it all in as it's been, in a word, overwhelming. I truly appreciate every gift I've ever been given in years past and remember many specifically from friends and family quite fondly. Today, however, was one for the record books and I can't wait to share them here on my blog. All I will say tonight, as I wrap up another year of life and begin another, the gifts I received today are shinier, more treasured, and more breathtakingly remarkable, than any I ever remember receiving in my life. Stay tuned. 

I'd like for you to meet someone

Darrel and his lovely wife Terry.

     Typically when you see an online "personal" introduction, it usually involves a proud new mom and dad introducing their newborn child to the world. Technology certainly has made it easier to mass introduce someone instead of sending snapshots to friends and family far and wide. This personal introduction puts a bit of a spin on this "paternal" approach. Instead of a new born, I'd like to introduce every one to my biological father, James "Darrel" Click. With his permission, I've posted a few pictures from his Facebook page. Pictures from his childhood are on the way and I will be adding those as I receive them. 
     Darrel was born in Kentucky and has a twin sister. His family moved to the Dayton area and he graduated from Xenia High School in 1964. In fact, he lived in a home only about 5 minutes from where I live today. He worked for many years as a bulldozer operator for the Great Lakes Dredge and Dock Company, dredging oceans and other bodies of water, in an effort to rebuild land and beaches. He retired several years ago and now owns a successful lawn care company in Sarasota, Florida. Darrel has a daughter and grand children who live in Kentucky, and a step-daughter and step grand-baby who live in Sarasota.  

Darrel and his twin sister, Brenda

     Darrel met my birthmother Rosemary in the summer of 1968. They dated for a few months but like many young relationships do it fizzled out. To be candid, the whole story surrounding my birth and subsequent adoption is still a little sketchy to me. After all, it's been over forty-five years and all I have to go on it what I've been told. I hope to investigate further and connect more of the dots as I progress through this amazing journey. Either way, I'm very happy to report Darrel and I have been speaking almost every week and I've enjoyed getting to know him better. 
     Plans are being made to hopefully meet face to face sometime this fall at my home in Xenia. If it's not too cold, maybe he we can go fishing in Shawnee Park like me and my dad did a few times. Maybe this time I won't need an adult to bait my hook. We'll see. 
     

My Life and the Beautiful Game

     As I've mentioned before in other posts on this blog, much of what I write is to enlighten my newly found biological family about my life and experiences. They've missed so much and in these posts I'm attempting to fill them in on some of the more profound or memorable life moments. For those of you who already know my sorted and bloviated tales, I sincerely beg your indulgence.

For some reason they called me Tank. 

     Right out of the shoot, I must admit I stole the title for this post from Edson Arantes do Nascimento. You might know his better as Pele, perhaps the most legendary soccer player living today. His autobiography is entitled My Life and the Beautiful Game, but it also seemed fitting for this article. Pele, if you didn't know, is Brazilian. and as a child I read everything I could about him. He, and Johnny Bench, were my two childhood sports heroes. This was before youtube and the only way you could see old film footage of his play for the Brazilian National Team was on hard to find VHS tapes or clips on Wide World Sports, which was even more rare given soccer was new to most of America. When I started playing at the age of 8, it was only the second year for the Beavercreek Soccer Association. I remember signing up because some of my classmates were playing and I thought it sounded like fun. I don't know how many BSA teams existed at the time but it was probably less than 15. Now, from the looks of the John Ankeney Soccer Complex in Beavercreek and all the kids I see around town in BSA wear, they probably have around 200. I can't imagine the number of kids who have played in the BSA and in their select program, the Beavercreek Celtics, which began in 1982.
     When I began playing there was no such thing as a "soccer complex." Back in the 1970's we traveled around Beavercreek playing at different sites each week. Fields were located at local schools, churches and a few at Rotary Park, though I think that occurred a few years after the league initially started. Essentially, the goals were made from either 2x4's bolted together or iron piping and were cemented into the ground. As a goalkeeper I ran into one of those immovable posts more than once. Sadly, neither it nor I had any give. Now, goals posts are constructed differently and generally are not cemented into the ground. Things are much safer now for courageous (or stupid, depending on your point of view) goalkeepers.

Lots of padding

     I suppose my coaches put me in the goalkeeper position for the same reason my coaches made me the catcher on the baseball team; area of circumference. Clearly, I took up more real estate than many of my teammates. I was also somewhat fearless and enjoyed the aggressive nature of playing goalkeeper. Plus, I could dropkick the ball to midfield which the coaches appreciated as well. I usually played goalkeeper for 2 quarters, sat out the 3rd quarter and played center midfielder during the 4th quarter. To be honest, I loved playing in the field better. I liked the running, shooting, slide tackling and of course scoring goals. As a midfielder you get to play a lot on both sides of the field, both offense and defense. I remember one game where I took a shot at goal from the middle of the field and scored. It seemed like the longest goal ever, though we were all ten years old and were playing on a smaller than normal field. It was still a thrill. I also remember yelling a referee telling him he stunk and being kicked out of the game. My parents were embarrassed and they made me sit out the next game. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day; not every referee is cut out for officiating. Another memory is when a New York Cosmos player named Ricky Davis came to the soccer fields when they were located on Beaver Valley Road. I was in the middle of a game so my mom managed to get me an autograph. He later went on to become the captain of the U. S. National Team. 

Rick Davis autograph

     I played in the BSA every year through the 9th grade. One year I decided to try football (American football) and hated it. After a week I quit and was placed on a soccer team and never strayed from the beautiful game after that. Sometime in the early 1980's a number of my friends tried out for a new select team called the Beavercreek Celtics. I wanted so badly to tryout but my mom and dad (primarily my dad) said no. I don't know if it was because the fees for playing on the team were too high in his opinion or if there was some other reason but he wouldn't let me try out. It was heartbreaking. I don't know if I would've been good enough to make the team but it really set the course for the rest of my soccer "career." It's no secret that players of any sport will generally improve as they play with and against other players of higher skill. Not playing in the select team program I was relegated to playing in the BSA recreational league throughout my early teens and it was rather lackluster. I was so jealous of my Celtic friends. They had the best uniforms, played in some really neat tournaments, and even won the State Cup one year. I was there watching from the sidelines. Talk about feeling left out. Ouch!
     At some point I made the transition from goalkeeper to midfielder. I recall during an indoor soccer game we were winning handily my coach moved me from goalkeeper to center forward. I ended up scoring a few goals and from then on each game he put me in the goal for a while and then move me to center midfielder. I kept scoring, so when the outdoor season began again I was moved to center midfielder permanently. 

BHS 1985 Reserve "B" team

     In August of 1985 I tried out for the Beavercreek High School soccer team. At the conclusion of the previous season the head coach of the Celtic's select team was named head coach of the Varsity team. The speculation was he would pick his select team players and everyone else would be cut. That didn't happen but every one of his players made one of the four teams. I managed to make the Reserve "B" team and wound up as the starting left back defender--the last line of defense before the goalkeeper. I started every game and rarely sat out. It was a great feeling being part of the team. I worked hard and was thrilled about my future prospects of playing varsity in the next year or so. 
     The following spring most of my teammates who didn't make the Celtic select team were placed on a team called the Hibernians. The coach, a great man who eventually became a great friend named Vern Burk, felt there were many talented players who needed a quality and competitive place to play organized the team. At the time, the BSA did not offer soccer leagues for high schoolers. You either played select soccer in the spring or you didn't play at all. Unfortunately, I was a year older than most of my teammates and was too old to play in the under 16 league. So instead I was put on another team called Captain Crunch and the Funky Bunch. To be honest, most on the team were more concerned with partying than playing soccer. I wasn't happy about the situation and thought being lumped in with this group would severely hurt my chances to make the high school team in the fall. 

No pictures of the Funky Bunch exist
but this seemed fitting. 

     I don't know if being one of the "Funky Bunch" hurt me or not but I was cut from the high school the first week of tryouts. I was crushed. It was the most emotionally painful thing I had experienced thus far in my life. I thought my soccer playing days were over and I sat and did nothing for quite awhile. The only thing that kept me interested in the game was the fact I was working at a local soccer shop. Somehow I managed to get a job at Ryan's Soccer International located in Centerville and I worked there for a few years. Then I got hired at Frye's Soccer Shoppe in Beavercreek and worked there until I left for college. 
     After sulking for a few weeks I decided to dig in and prove to the coaches and my friends I was worthy of playing on the high school team. I talked to Vern Burk, the Hibernians coach, who was also the assistant women's varsity coach, and he got me a job as team manager for the BHS women's team. Along with filling water bottles and making sure the soccer balls were fully inflated, he and the head coach, Andy Bisswurm, gave the opportunity to train the goalkeepers, scrimmage with the team and offer some instruction. I certainly would've preferred playing on the varsity team but it kept me around the game I loved so much. Plus, I learned a bit about coaching and began seeing the game with a different perspective.

News clippings (before the internet)

     In the Spring of 1987, now that my friends were a year older and able to play in the same league I played the year before, many of us were placed on a third tier Celtic team. The top tier Celtic team was made up of the varsity players and few guest players from other area schools. I was also named the team captain and was moved to starting forward. It was a great season--the team finished in second place and I ended the season with 15 goals. Towards the end of the school year the men's soccer coach held a meeting for anyone interested in trying out for the team the following season. After the meeting I stayed and spoke to the head coach and I remember him telling me he had heard about my success on the spring team and told me to keep working. He added, "there's no reason" I couldn't be starting for him in the fall. After he told me that, I thought perhaps the reason I was cut the previous year was because I figured I had it made and wasn't focused or dedicated enough. I was already in the midst of a refocused effort to improve but I dug in even deeper. I knew one my of my weaknesses was my fitness and speed. In an effort to improve I upped my daily running routine to about 5 miles per day and sometimes I would run in my neighborhood dribble my soccer ball. I spent many summer days on the school's practice field running sprints and practicing my skills. Plus, I began a weight training regiment at the high school and was in the best shape of my life. Along with this fitness regiment and practice I figured I had a better than average shot of making the team. In truth, I knew there were players better skilled than me and I only wanted to be on the team to prove them and myself I had the ability to play at a higher level. 

Umbro camp evaluation

     On a lark I decided to try out for the Ohio junior olympic development team. I had no chance of making it but I wanted to see how my skills measured up to some of the better players in the area. As expected I didn't make the team but because I was "under consideration" I gained an invitation to an exclusive soccer camp put on my the Umbro soccer apparel company. The camp, held at Earlham College in Richmond, Indiana was being coached by former English professional players. It was loads of fun and I came away from the camp with many new found skills and load of confidence. 

The Diego Maradonas

     I'd like to say I made the team that fall. I did not. Again, I was cut during the first round of tryouts and the crushing disappointment I felt the previous year was trumped tenfold. I was bewildered by what occurred. So, instead of moping around like I did the year before I decided to coach and volunteered to lead a BSA team we named the Diego Maradonas. It was great fun and it kept me busy, along with returning as the team manager for the women's varsity team. I played more soccer that fall that I likely would've if I'd made the team. Later I would hear from a few who had made the men's varsity team they were surprised I had been cut. Especially so early during the tryout process. I heard a rumor the assistant coach remarked, "If Todd wants to know why he was cut all his has to do is ask." I never asked, and to this day when I see that former coach, who's now the head coach and has been for 25+ years, I've wondered if there was any truth to the rumor. Again, I've never asked. 

In action at LMU

    Surprisingly though, I still managed to be recruited to play at Lincoln Memorial University, a small school in Harrogate, Tennessee. The head coach, a man named Jonas Holdeman, saw me and a few others play in a tournament in Kingsport, TN during the summer of 1988 and offered me a spot on the team. That fall I was part of the team and even got to start a few games here and there. I played only one year of varsity soccer and was thrilled to get the chance to play in a mid-season tournament at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, the mecca of college soccer. Though we lost both games to two UNC teams it was an amazing experience and one I will never forget. I would've liked to have stayed and played three more years but I decided to go into radio and was eager to get started. I left LMU in the spring. 

Lincoln Memorial University Men's Varsity 1988

     Following my competitive playing days I coached for a few years at Beavercreek as an assistant in the women's program. I also coached a college aged women's team one spring in the early 1990's. I really enjoyed it and to this day prefer watching women's soccer over men's soccer. After that family responsibilities and my burgeoning radio career cut in to my time for coaching and playing. I also gained a bunch of weight during my unhappy marriage which ended in divorce. I coached my son's Kindergarten team but he wasn't real interested in soccer. I would imagine if I had been in better shape and able to play with him more at home in the yard perhaps he would've stuck with it. But we still enjoy the occasional game of FIFA World Cup on the Playstation. 
     Maybe if Mary and I have a child or two who grows to love soccer I'll have to brush of my old Adidas Copa cleats (which I still have incase I'm ever called up to play) and teach them a few things about the game. I think the first thing I'll teach them is that playing and having fun is all that matters and making the team isn't everything.