Simply Paying Attention To the Universe and Riding It For Whatever It Intends To Deliver Because, Well...It's Like That Sometimes

Stories. They are written and rewritten, and become variation of the revision, allowing us to see what we thought we knew anew once again.

Yesterday, a father of a young man in our Sports Literacy Labs stopped me and wondered if I could talk. Whenever an adult approaches me like this, my anxiety immediately moves to "Crandall, listen, and hear the complaint. It's good to get feedback." The parent was a lawyer and an accountant and he said, "I wanted to talk to you." He was curious about the design of our literacy labs and how they come to be, especially since his son is enjoying himself so much. He wanted to know more about the way we building writers, self-esteem and the individual integrity of each kid (the Hoops4Hope mission). He was impressed and plans to sign his son up for other labs. He wanted the back story.

I told the story and he tells more of his own - we quickly bonded. He's from NYC, but married a woman in Bridgeport and does his work from her mother's home. He's always looking for a way to give back to the community and to unite professionals in the area that care about holding high standards for all kids.

He wondered about my job and I told him about coming to Connecticut for the Writing Project and the attraction of Bassick High School and Bridgeport Public Schools. He told me he had the same vision and that, for a year or two, he coached football at Bassick. I tell him about the boys, Chitunga, and how he played football. He suddenly lights up, "I knew a Chitunga once, but he was just a middle school kid kid. He was on my team. It couldn't be the same kid, could it?"

It was. It is.

The father and I sat in the parking lot of Donnarumma Hall and talked for 2 hours about this kid...my kid...our kids. He was mentoring Chitunga at the same time I began my high needs school work at Bassick. After he left coaching he always wondered what happened to this little runt that he thought had so much potential. In fact, he laid awake at night wondering what became of Chitunga's story. I was able to fill it in.

I showed a picture of Chitunga taken over the weekend and during a Humans of New York campaign conducted at LeMoyne. He says, "That's the kid. It doesn't surprise me at all, and I'm so glad this big world is becoming so small right now."

Last night, Chitunga and I took a walk around Stratford and hiked past the green, by many colleagues' homes and had dinner at the Whiskey Barrel. I gave him the evening to talk to me and offered the open ended question, "How do you explain your universe? How did you come to be?" and I just listened, except for sharing with him the story of meeting his coach. Chitunga remembered him, but was surprised the coach would remember him, a dread-locked punk who acted out and rebelled all the time. Teachers talked him into trying out for the team.

He did, and he played for four years. He makes an impression wherever he goes and I am simply thankful to have him in my world. "Everyone and EY calls me Crandall, dad." He told me last night. "They don't even know my name is Chitunga."

It was sort of a Great Whatever day. I take them when they come.

Stories beget stories.