“The First Steps: Hiding Places and Honest Farewells”

Chapter 1:

Under the Stairs Theme: Fear, Wonder, and the Hidden Greatness Within

It was just supposed to be a joke.

I was six years old, maybe younger—armed with the mischief of a kid who thought being funny meant being fearless. Tim and Rodney Blystone, two teenage boys from Pittsburgh, were living with us and babysitting me that day. Older, cooler, and way out of my league in both age and social standing.

And I, being a boy of impulse and curiosity, did the unthinkable: I sprinted past them, threw up the double bird—middle fingers blazing—and laughed as I ran away.

This isn’t just a story about a prank. It’s about the first time I realized that our actions—no matter how small or silly—can ripple out far beyond what we imagined.

I didn’t even know what the gesture meant, not really. But I knew it was bad. And as soon as I did it, I felt a jolt of fear so strong, it stopped the giggles cold in my chest.

They were chasing me—I just knew it. I panicked. I didn’t run up the stairs like in the movies. I did something better: I vanished.

At the base of the staircase my father had built in our century-old home, there was an opening beneath the first step. A little crawlspace only a kid could slide into. I dropped to the ground and scooted under it like a wild animal finding cover.

And I stayed there.

Lying under that stair was my first lesson in hiding from the things we fear. From consequences. From confrontation. But also, from connection.

The wood felt cool against my skin. I laid still. Slowed my breath. Eyes wide open in the dark. My heart eventually slowed, and somewhere between shame and survival…

I fell asleep.

That silence—the kind that comes from being small, alone, and hidden—would follow me through life. Not just the fear, but the power of disappearing. Of thinking I could escape my own decisions if I just waited long enough.

But when I crawled back out, hours later, hungry and disoriented, expecting the world to have moved on, I was met by a scene I hadn’t imagined.

Flashing lights.

My parents’ panicked faces.

Police officers.

Tim and Rodney pacing and pointing and wide-eyed in disbelief as I emerged from under the stairs like a groundhog in the spring.

They had been looking for me for hours.

My parents had returned to a house filled with panic. The Blystone boys couldn’t find me. They thought I’d run away. Or been taken. They called the police. Neighbors searched the streets. All while I slept—oblivious to the storm I had created.

I didn’t just disappear.

I caused a crisis.

That was the first time I saw how easily fear can grow in silence. How small acts ripple into big consequences. And how unaware I could be of the effect I had on others. But it also taught me something else:

Sometimes, you come out from hiding not to punishment, but to love. To people who were searching for you—not to scold you, but to bring you back.

And maybe the greatness in us doesn’t grow in the moments we feel brave. Maybe it grows in the moments we crawl out of hiding— into the arms of people who never stopped looking.

Chapter 2:

The Last Bet Theme: Letting Go of Control

From the moment Bella Love took her first breath, I was coaching.

Not in the pushy, sideline-screaming kind of way—but in the quiet way a father does when he believes in something deeply. I had poured my whole life into her—not out of pride, but out of love. Pure love, guided by everything I had ever learned from the greats.

From Ken Ravizza and Heads-Up Baseball, to the flow state studies of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. From Michael Jordan’s mindset to Nolan Ryan’s discipline. From the Bible to Tony Robbins. From Wayne Dyer to the Gospel of Thomas. I didn’t hold anything back. If there was greatness in the world, I wanted to pass it on to her.

This story isn’t about coaching. It’s about identity. And how sometimes, the people we love most don’t need us to shape them—they need us to step aside so they can shape themselves.

Bella’s journey was like a perfect progression.

First came gymnastics. I still remember the moment she scored a perfect 10 on the uneven bars. I didn’t breathe while she was on that apparatus, and I didn’t stop crying when she stuck the landing. It was a picture of beauty, power, and grace.

Then came Kendama. What started as a fun challenge became a small obsession. She got good. Like, scary good. The kind of good where I stopped “letting her win” because I actually couldn’t beat her anymore.

And then came bowling.

She stepped onto the lanes like she belonged there. Confident. Focused. Driven. I remember one night, we were betting—something we’d done since she was a kid. First it was quarters. Then it became dollars. And then… I bet her my iPhone.

She won it.

That was the last bet I ever made with her.

She would go on to become a two-time Junior Team USA Development member. A Junior Gold National Champion. A bowler with fire in her eyes and world-class ambition in her heart.

And I was right there beside her. Coaching. Guiding. Offering advice. Filming practices. Analyzing shot angles. Discussing grip pressures. Always searching for that one more insight that might help her level up.

Until one day, she looked at me with those same fire-lit eyes and said:

“Dad, I don’t want you to coach me anymore. I just want you to be my dad.”

I wasn’t prepared for that. I thought I was helping. I thought I was being her dad. But she didn’t need a coach anymore. She needed something deeper: a safe place. A dad who wasn’t analyzing her—just loving her.

I nodded, but inside, I broke.

And that’s when I had to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Let go.

I sat with that silence—the same kind I felt under the stairs when I was six. Only this time, it wasn’t hiding I had to do—it was surrender. I had to sit with the ache of being unneeded, and find the strength to still show up. Not as a strategist. Not as a fixer. Just… as her father.

It took me weeks to fully accept it. Maybe months. Maybe I’m still working on it.

But what I saw once I let go…

That’s when I started to witness her becoming.

Her game grew sharper. Her independence deepened. Her joy expanded. She started coaching herself—and leading others. Traveling. Dreaming out loud. And suddenly, I wasn’t watching my athlete anymore.

I was watching a champion emerge from her own heart.

Looking back, there were always signs this would come. The way she asked “Why?” after every cue I gave her. The way she picked up my books and highlighted her own quotes. The way she competed like her spirit was guiding her—not my words.

She’d been preparing to lead herself for a long time. I just hadn’t seen it.

One day, she’ll coach others. Not because I coached her, but because she lived it. She’ll speak on stages. She’ll inspire kids with stories I’ve never heard and lessons I never taught. And maybe—just maybe—she’ll look out at the crowd and say:

“My dad believed in me. And the best thing he ever did… was let me go.”

(Chapters 3–5 will continue in a future message.)