Friday, February 25, 2022

A substitute... Make memories...

 Today you get a break from me!  This morning, when I opened the Kansas City Star to read.. there was, front page of the sports... an article with a local (Liberty North High School) connection. And, my opine, hopefully a connection with the basic themes of checkenginelight:  Struggle.  Perseverance. Humor, within struggle.  Memories.  Warning, it's a tear jerker. God Bless them both, father and son.


A 54-year-old high school basketball coach stood on the floor of the Liberty North Fieldhouse this week, a setting in which he has watched hundreds of games, knowing his doctors believe this visit could be his last.

Rob James, a lawyer-turned-coach, has been an assistant at Liberty North for a decade now, but last week, head coach Cy Musser informed him of a change in plans. James would slide two feet to his left and occupy the chair of the head coach for one night.

His son's final game...   and maybe his too.

“That,” James said, with an emphasis, “was an emotional discussion.”

Last summer, doctors put a timeline on James’ life. Told cancer offered him only 12-18 months left, James set a goal — to live long enough to see his son, Quinton, graduate high school.

Well, he had two goals, actually.

The graduation. And he wanted to make memories along the way. The latter has become a rallying cry of sorts. If you’re around him for a few minutes, you’re bound to hear him say it at least once, probably more.

Make memories.

He got a pretty good one this week.

Quinton scored a career-high 10 points in Liberty North’s win Tuesday against Lee’s Summit North, complete with a play in the fourth quarter drawn up especially for him to reach double digits for the first time in his career.

In his last home game.

With his father as head coach.

“My dad, he deserved that moment,” Quinton said. “But this is going to be something that I’ll never forget, either.”

Two years ago, after feeling pain in his right buttock, James was diagnosed with undifferentiated pleomorphic sarcoma, a rare form of cancer that originates in soft tissue. For the ensuing 24 months, life has entailed a never-ending cycle of chemotherapy treatments as he fights to beat a disease he’s told is incurable.

He insists on enjoying the ride.

The journey began with a buttockectomy, which is exactly what it sounds like, a removal of soft tissue in the gluteus maximus, to which he now says, “I’m literally half-assing my way through life.” The cancer has affected his physical appearance — through chemotherapy, his dark brown hair gave way to a shiny, bald head — but not the demeanor his friends say make him the most positive person they’ve met.

While running a one-man law firm 15 years ago, he took a side job as a high school assistant basketball coach so he could better influence kids. He’s a romantic in that way. An eternal optimistic. And as his family already knew, someone who will try to find the good in everything.

Even a death sentence.

“If you don’t smile about some of this stuff,” he said, “it will send you over the edge.”

But it’s tested him. During his first treatment, which arrived at the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, he developed an infection that required two procedures and placed him in the hospital for six nights. Subsequent treatments have entailed a drug known as “The Red Devil” for its rich red color and its side effects, and James has experienced complete exhaustion. One morning, changing the batteries in a thermostat prompted a two-hour nap.

The cancer has metastasized to James’ right lung. After treatments last year shrunk a tumor there last summer, a recent scan showed slight growth.

But there’s one thing he still rarely misses.

Practice.

He attends almost every day at the high school, even if on some afternoons he needs to sit on a stool and just watch.

“It’s two hours with my son,” he said. “And the other part is you want to set an example to these kids that you can’t let stuff stop you.

“My dad always told me to show up and do the work. So I try to show up and do the work.”

On the day James learned of his prognosis —the day he heard “12 to 18 months” — he first thought of his 18-year-old son and two step-children, in their mid-20s. He spent the car ride home not in mourning but rehearsing a speech for how he’d tell them. When it came time, he fell silent. The words wouldn’t come.

Quinton spends his day trying to distract himself from the reality of it all, but in quiet moments, it consumes his thoughts. He doesn’t know how many memories he and his father have left to make.

One of their most special — his father’s one-night promotion — arrived this week, though the idea came to Musser, Liberty North’s head coach, months earlier. Musser informed the team of his plans Monday. Although he struggled to get through the speech, he did say this:

“(James) has shown up for us every single day, whether he felt good or not. I hope we make sure we show up for him.”

Musser moved up senior night on the schedule so that Tuesday evening would belong to James.

Instead, it belonged to a father and son.

Earlier in the day, teammates had been encouraging Quinton, a point guard, to shoot the ball more, a plea that, frankly, his mom has been telling him all year. Get yours, his teammates said.

He finally took it to heart. What better time?

Quinton opened with a three.

Then another.

Then a bucket.

Then Musser, who had tried to stay in the background for most of the night, suggested one play call. Liberty North executed it flawlessly, and Quinton buried an open layup for a new career-high.

With a double-digit lead in the final minutes, Liberty North emptied its bench. For nearly a decade, James has stuck out his hand, on the receiving end of high-fives from hundreds of players.

On Tuesday, his senior point guard walked straight toward him. James opened his arms for a hug. Quinton wrapped his arms around him and placed his chin on his father’s shoulder.

“It seemed to go so quickly that I’m glad I got the picture to hold onto it,” James said.

The next day, he opened his iPhone and set its lock screen and wallpaper image for the first time in his life.

The hug with his son.

A memory made.


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