The Problem of Favorite Athletes

For years and years, whenever someone asked me, “Who is your favorite athlete?” I never had to hesitate. But this past year, something changed. Reflecting upon that shift has invited me to think much differently about the question and my answer.

Ask me my favorite book, movie, or album, and I’m far less certain. Dead Poets Society is always in the conversation, as is Jane Eyre—though I don’t necessarily feel compelled to revisit either. As for music, Darkness on the Edge of Town remains a classic for me, with The River close behind.

But when it came to athletes, my answer was unwavering. For years, Will Clark, the sweet-swinging left-handed first baseman for the San Francisco Giants, was unapologetically my favorite male athlete. As a lifelong baseball fan, I was always eager to explain why “Will the Thrill” held that top spot.

At the same time, Serena Williams shared the spotlight. With her 23 Grand Slam titles and singular dominance, I could never quite choose between the two of them. So I added the qualifiers “male” and “female” simply to avoid making the impossible decision. Fortunately, I have always had enough space in both my mind and my heart to hold them equally.

But something unexpected happened after the Olympic Games in Paris. Local hero Stephen Curry wore me out and wore me down. The two-time MVP brought home much more than four NBA championships. He became a central figure in the United States’ gold medal run. He had already won the American Century Championship Golf Championship, where I was lucky enough to share a few fun, pithy, and personal exchanges with him between holes. His stock just kept rising. Not only was he God’s favorite basketball player; somehow, he became mine too.

I found myself justifying my answer both to my students and to myself. Why? Part of me wanted to remain loyal to those original icons. But, #30 is everything you could want in a favorite athlete—not only on the court, but off it as well. Although we fans never really know the person behind the public image, I respect everything I have read about and learned from him as a husband, father, son, teammate, and leader. He is a man of faith and service and justice. Thank you, Steph. While I cannot support your outfit at the 2026 Met Gala, you have made the Bay Area—and sports in general—a little better. I mean it.

No one would question someone naming Curry as a favorite athlete. Serena and Will Clark are beloved too. Each is iconic in a different way. But maybe I am still in a transitional phase because, even as I crown Steph the favorite, I cannot quite let the others go.

Today, I read that Aaron Rodgers is returning to the Pittsburgh Steelers. I was thrilled to read the news.Yahoo Sports reports, 

Rodgers' return — to the NFL, the Steelers and to McCarthy — was far from guaranteed. The long-time veteran has flirted with retirement for multiple off seasons now, and there was no guarantee he would want to suit up for a 22nd NFL season.

To me, Rodgers makes football infinitely more interesting. I want to see what the 42-year-old still has left. He has never been my favorite athlete, but discussing him with my class forced me to admit something I have long believed to be true.

I told my students that Rodgers is a four-time MVP with a Super Bowl ring and a future Hall of Fame quarterback whose passer rating remains among the best in NFL history. For years, the man practically never turned the ball over—though, admittedly, last season was not exactly vintage Rodgers.

At the same time, I understand why he frustrates people. He can come across as arrogant or smug. Telling the media he was “immunized” when asked directly about the vaccine felt unconscionable. At times, it almost seems as if he courts a different kind of celebrity through darkness retreats, ayahuasca, and mysterious personal revelations, including the recently revealed wife, Brittani—with an “i.”

He is an unreliable narrator. He is problematic. And yet, I love him. I do. I eat all of it up.

Maybe it's because he is a quasi-local guy made good. I appreciate what he has done for his hometown of Chico in the aftermath of the fires. I respect his loyalty to former Cal head coach Jeff Tedford and the others who shaped him. I could go on listing both the positives and the negatives. In short, I keep him in the mix.

As this conversation unfolded in my Sports and Spirituality class, I realized something about the students sitting in front of me.

Although high school students no longer use the phrase “teacher’s pet,” they still desperately want to know whether teachers have favorites. The truth is: we do and we don’t.

Some students are very much like Steph. They are talented, but they also work relentlessly. They contribute consistently, take risks, raise the bar for everyone around them, and hold both themselves and their classmates accountable. It is hard to deny that they are MVPs.

But there are also students who are more complicated. They are gifted and unreliable. Arrogant or entitled, yet witty and thoughtful. They frustrate you one moment and completely surprise you the next.

Every spring I host my favorite guest speaker, Frank Allocco.
There are so many great kids in this class.

I love these kids too. I mean it.

A friend recently asked whether I had taught the daughter of one of our club members. I had. I coached her as well.

“She was spoiled and a real pain sometimes,” I admitted. “And I loved her. She was bright and original and always had creative takes. I hope she’s doing well.”

Maybe that is what changed my answer after all these years.

Favorite athletes are not simply the people we admire most. Sometimes they are the people we cannot stop thinking about—the ones who frustrate us, surprise us, disappoint us, inspire us, and somehow keep earning our attention anyway.

Steph Curry represents excellence in its purest form. Aaron Rodgers represents something messier and more complicated. My students, of course, are somewhere in between. I know that I am too.

Photo Credits
The Met
Aaron in PGH
8 and 30

The Geography of Relationship: A Case for GeoSports

I’m not great at remembering names. I need to see a name in writing; I need to hear it several times before it sticks. I’m not terrible with names, but I work with people who put me to shame. Whether it’s a student, parent, or alum, they are incredible at remembering names — and using them. Is this a super power? It might be. But my own-self analysis (and inadequacy) has awakened me to the fact that I remember people differently. And I am excited because a new game: GeoSports might be my place to excel.

As I have written in my book, Caminos on Campus: Five Paths of Pilgrimage at the University of Notre Dame,

One of my favorite questions to ask other people is “Where are you from?”

I love to know or guess the places that have formed my friends, colleagues, political leaders, professional athletes, and even strangers. Because our country is so rich in culture, geography, landscape and opportunity, the spaces from which we hail shape us in ways unimaginable.

  The much beloved Brother Bonaventure Scully, CFX, rector of Keenan Hall from 1985-1999 had a tactic for connecting with the 300 young men who occupied the dorm he oversaw. Brother Scully was more likely to remember your hometown than your name. A good friend who lived in Keenan once quipped, “I would walk down the hall and he would say “Morristown, New Jersey! How are you today?!” 

  Brother “Bon” and I speak a common language and share a similar mindset. We begin to know people through places. Had I been one of his residents I would have said to him, “Doing alright, Baltimore! How about them Orioles?”  

Where are you from? is a good question to ask of those you encounter on campus for Notre Dame draws, beckons, invites and attracts people from far and wide. The student body is composed of men and women from all 50 states, two U.S territories, Washington DC and over 90 different countries.  

University President and founder, Father Edward Sorin believed “This college will be one of the most powerful means for doing good in this country.” His dream of building a great University for Our Lady became a reality when its doors opened in 1842. Men and women, students and faculty, Holy Cross priests, brothers and sisters alike arrived. They stayed, ministered, studied and planted roots. And, they do today with the same hopes, aspirations and an appreciation for Sorin’s vision. They arrive from Honolulu Hawaii and nearby Chicago. They come from Long Island, El Paso, Texas and Paris, France. And for some reason, I always remember this about them.

Perhaps one's home town or sacred state is lodged into my memory because of the freshman registrar aka "The Dog Book." Given that we were students ten-plus years before Facebook, this text served as our introduction to nearly 1800 classmates—through a picture of your choice marked by your name, hometown, two personal interests and intended major.

I wish I still had mine. Someone brought it with them to our 25th reunion. Thanks, Tom!

Reading where my peers came from offered context for how they might see the world and what experiences might have shaped their point of view. Whether it was Chattanooga, TN (Andy Mims) or San Diego, CA (Alex Montoya), I loved reading from whence these people came.

Furthermore, outside every room in Farley Hall hung a bulletin board handmade by the R.A. listing the names, class years, and hometowns of the women who lived there. I still remember that Molly ’95 was from Pella, Iowa. I was also surprised by how many people were familiar with my hometown of Walnut Creek, California.

This way of knowing and remembering people was not unique to my time as a student at Notre Dame. Even today, when I read about athletes, I want to know where they are from. If I follow a musician or love a band, I need to know where they were born. Places help me understand people. What is your path?

Hence when Kendall Baker of Yahoo Sports featured "GeoSports...a new daily game that combines sports history with geography" in his daily newsletter, I was intrigued. He adds, Created by Frank Michael Smith, a popular sports personality and avid Yahoo Sports AM reader, participants are invited to "Tap where it happened! The closer you are, the more points you get." 

The questions vary. Some require you to know about a venue or location where something happened. But, a good number ask you to both know and locate where a person is from. I won't say this is "money in the bank" for me, but it playing this game with my students, I have seen my skill shine.

• Home town of Aaron Judge? The Big Valley...Stockton...specifically Linden, CA. Boom!
• Kobe Bryant went straight from Lower Merion High to the NBA in 1996 in this metro area. Let's go Philly
• Manu Ginobili, picked 57th in 1999 and a four-time NBA champ, grew up in this Argentine city. My guess is Buenos Aires. Turns out it is Bahía Blanca, a city in the southwest region of the Buenos Aires Province in Argentina. Thank you, GeoSports.

I decided to share GeoSports with my class and I asked for volunteers to give it a go. The students in one of my Sports and Spirituality classes were too intimidated to stand in front of one another and make the guess. The other group had a lot of fun with it. They teased a classmate who struggled to locate Brazil. I do think it's important to be able to locate the largest Catholic country in the world...even if you don't know the name and location of Pele's hometown. My two cents.

Whether through a face or a place, a name or a number, the ways we know, recall, and remember people are ultimately about relationship. And I would argue that relationship is what we are made for. We are made for communion with one another — family, friends, strangers, all brothers and sisters in the eyes of God, the source and wellspring of all relationship. Perhaps that is why a game like GeoSports resonates so deeply: it reminds us that every person comes from somewhere, and every path can lead us a little closer to one another — and, ultimately, to God. Amen. 

Photo Credits
GeoSports
Judge
Dog Book

Tom Coyne and A Course Called Home: Living the Story

Rev. Greg Boyle, S.J. has said, “Good stories come to those who can tell them.” As a priest and a prophet, an author and an advocate, it’s hard to disagree with this renowned Jesuit. But there may be more to his insight. A recent feature on CBS Sunday Morning about the bestselling author Tom Coyne confirmed that suspicion.

Preachers and teachers, writers and speakers aren’t the only ones who receive the good stories. More often, they belong to those willing to undertake the adventure—to seize the day and actually live the story. Coyne’s latest book, A Course Called Home, makes that point beautifully.

When asked, “What’s new?” many people my age talk about their children, aging parents, a career change, summer plans, or a home remodel. As a teacher, I usually weigh in on what’s happening at school and what I’m dreaming about for June and July. And as a golf writer, one might expect Tom Coyne to speak about the latest and greatest course, memorable playing partners, developments in the game, or traditions worth preserving.mBut instead, his answer would take anyone by surprise: he bought a golf course.

I remember reading about this on social media. I scratched my head, wondering how that would work. Knowing Tom, I figured this would find its way to pen and paper. I wanted to know what the story might be. I will read the book to find out. However, I am just as interested in why he did it—and that’s the story explored by the team at CBS Sunday Morning. It, too, is a story worth telling.

While Rolling Green Golf Club in Springfield, PA is his true home course, Sullivan County Golf Club—located in the Catskill Mountains of New York—now shares that title.

Over time, the course, built in 1925, had fallen into disrepair, with deteriorating facilities and declining use. This public nine-hole course was on the brink of closure when the groundskeeper, Sean Smith—who happens to be a fan of Tom Coyne’s writing and, dare I say, his ethos—entered the story.

Coyne visits out of curiosity, but he ends up buying the course and taking responsibility for restoring it—learning the hands-on work of maintaining fairways, greens, and community ties. Unbelievable. Yet believable.

As I watched, I couldn't help but think Tom was the ideal protagonist for this story. For one, the bathroom can’t be all different than those in Fisher Hall—the now extinct dorm where he lived at Notre Dame. Second, his platform is ever growing. To see Bill Murray and Jason Kelce standing in support  of this unlikely venture only reinforces the reach of his voice and the resonance of his vision.

But it’s Tom’s beliefs, his values, and yes—his ethos that make it all work. Early on, he insists, "we need all kinds of courses," a point he makes even more forcefully in A Course Called America. He is openly critical of the exclusivity that often defines American golf. Why, he asks, do we hold the most exclusive courses in such high regard? In Scotland, where the game was born, the best courses are accessible to all.

It’s fair to say that Sullivan County Golf Club is accessible to anyone who can get there—at least for now. As Coyne puts it, “We couldn’t be less stuffy. We’re not fussy. You don’t have to get dressed up. Bring your dog and show up.”

At one point, he reflects, “I’ve been consuming golf my whole life—but what if I got on the side of actually providing golf? That would be different.” So he did. He ran the course for a full year.

To me, that’s the real question—the kind of question someone who truly lives stories asks of themselves and of others. Since encountering Coyne’s words, I’ve found myself thinking more carefully about what I consume—and, more importantly, what I offer.

This isn’t just a cool story. It’s more than a good one, too. In fact, it serves as a reminder that some obstacles, when repurposed, can become more than a source of connection—they can be signs of God’s grace.

“I recognized a kindred sort of golf sicko, like myself—so we bonded on that level. There was also a connection in that Sean is sober, and I am sober. I think people who have gone down that path and know what that experience is like share a meaningful understanding.”

Hearing Tom Coyne and Sean share their story, I’m reminded that transformation isn’t a single moment. Rather, it is unfolding and ongoing—and it applies to much more than a run-down golf course.

When asked if he would do it again, Coyne doesn’t hesitate or flounder: “Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent—and for one simple reason: the people it has brought into my life. This was something where I had to be part of a team that wanted to make something good in the world. What a gift.”

It sounds like the recipe for a great story. Thank you, Tom. I can’t wait to read the one you put into writing, too.

Photo Credits
Tom
Book Cover

What the NFL Draft Costs and Asks of Us

The NFL Draft is a three-day event where the 32 teams of the National Football League select the best college players to build their futures. It asks nothing of us. And yet, what it is—and what it has cost—is worth serious consideration.

The 2026 NFL draft took place in Pittsburgh, PA. The commissioner Roger Goodell told fans that the Iron City set a new attendance record. Around 320,000 people showed up for the first night alone, and hundreds of thousands more attended across multiple days. Over 700,000 people were expected to descend upon this great sports town—which is home to roughly 300,000 people. In light of such logistics, Pittsburgh public schools moved from in person to remote learning Wednesday—Friday April 22-24. In short, this increasingly popular football festival is redirecting the path and process of American education. I would also like to call into question what this reveals about us as fans and as a society.

I’m a football fan, but I have no interest in attending the NFL Draft. While you may feel part of a “moment,” the experience is largely the same sequence repeated: a pick is announced, a player embraces family, walks the stage, and puts on a new team’s hat or jersey. You might see highlights, but not performance. And you’ll see this play out again and again over seven rounds.

This is very different from the live events we covet. At a concert or a game, something unfolds in real time—unpredictable, unscripted, alive. At the draft, there is no play, no competition, no moment of athletic brilliance. We’re not watching something happen; we’re watching a decision about what might happen.

I understand the appeal—the crowd, the shared anticipation, the hope for a team’s future. But as a live event, it leaves me cold. It celebrates projection over performance—and notably, it centers only male athletes, with no comparable stage for women’s professional talent.

While the NFL Draft asks nothing of us, it quietly rearranges quite a bit. Schools adjust. Cities bend. Resources shift. I understand the logistical challenges students might face getting to school given the crowds, but the deeper question remains: What is more important?

When I presented this story to my seniors, several admitted what many already know but rarely say out loud—that their education, what they actually learn and retain, is not the same when they are remote as when they are physically present. One student noted that the social interaction of school is ssential to both his learning and his well-being. School is not simply the transmission of information—it is formation, relationship, and more.

We already pause regularly: for holidays, for rest, for professional development. Those interruptions serve a purpose. But redirecting education to accommodate the NFL Draft however popular, signals something different. It suggests that what is foundational can be made flexible, even secondary, in the face of spectacle.

And that should give us pause and consider: an important question. The text book for Sports and Spirituality, On the Eighth Day: Toward a Catholic Theology of Sport—the required text for Sports and Spirituality posits two essential questions for readers and students to consider. 

First, with the combined occurrences of a global pandemic, ongoing wars, gun violence, and an unsettledness in Western society, should we even be playing sport, let alone writing books about it? Amidst the martyrdom of unprecedented numbers of Christians in the twentieth and twenty-first century world, is sport not too frivolous for Christians to really care about? Johnston sums up this critical introspection about the value of sport with his first question: “What the hell are they doing?” That is, should we be affording so much time to sport, especially when it does not always support human communities?  

In theological terms, we can speak about sport as sinful in many ways, or as a part of our fallen world. Whereas Catholics have often critiqued the sin of sport in its bodily injuries, over-commercialization, and physical violence, sport sociology analyzes more specifically deeper problems of sport. Forms of discrimination (e.g., race and gender), systemic issues (tied to globalization, sport systems, labor migration), and the use of human performance drugs are topics that require careful research and cry out for justice and righteousness. These issues cause Johnston to question, “What the hell are they doing?”

I know I am a teacher so I have my bias. I think education is not to be undervalued. Ever. I think it can and should be made a priority for all. Sadly, I think Johnston's question is relevant. And for what it's worth, I'd like to add one: Why can't the draft be on Saturday or Sunday?!

If you would like to talk more about this topic, consider the following:

1. Last year's host city, Green Bay cancelled class entirely. My students do want to know if those days were added on as snow days.
2. Many times, the men drafted do not become the athletes they were projected to be. Sometimes, the draft is dead wrong—Niners know this as much as any team.
3. How much does the average attendee at the draft spend to be part of the event?
4. My students and I talked about how hosting the draft and taking time off of school is similar and different to when our school was not open on the day of the San Francisco Giants' victory parade. NB: many teachers are still upset about that...

Photo Credits
Mendoza Moment
32 picks
Draft City

Remembering and Celebrating, Sister Kathy Lang, CSJ and Her Crown Jewel

On April 18, 2026, I returned to my alma mater for the Memorial of Sister Kathy Lang, CSJ. A Sister of Saint Joseph of Carondelet for 70 years, she served 26 of those years as principal and as the first president of Carondelet High School in Concord, California. It was a gift to gather for Mass, a shared meal, and a storytelling session honoring such an extraordinary leader. I sat with classmates, former teachers, alumnae, and parents representing five different decades.

As I reflected on Sister Kathy’s life and legacy, two words stayed with me—words that captured what she believed Carondelet to be and what we, as alumnae, were made to feel: crown and jewel. Let me explain...

When my friends and classmates got word of Sister Kathy's passing on January 25, 2026, we shared a slew of text messages —each one echoing the same sense of loss, gratitude, and appreciation for her many gifts. More importantly, the messages were consistent. "She was a caring and strong presence" and "She set a great example as a female leader." One friend wrote, "It's impressive how she knew something about every student and knew them by name." Sister Kathy's qualities then and now were never taken for granted. Her memory is indeed a blessing.

My memories of Sister Kathy are many—and blessed. She had the most piercing, beautiful blue eyes. She listened with them and was ever present on campus. She also had a lovely speaking voice, and I give her great credit for never raising it—even when she needed to. Perhaps that was her superpower: when things got heated, Sister Kathy remained calm. Temperatures might rise, but her voice stayed low. I graduated in 1992, long before chemical peels or Hydrafacials were commonplace. Otherwise, you might have thought she indulged—her skin was that radiant. She smiled often. But Sister Kathy was firm and she also kept a professional distance. She was not one to be fooled. 

Her obituary states that "Being a San Franciscan was an important piece of her identity." In her poignant eulogy tribute, former CHS teacher, Elizabeth Clemente-House recalled how much Sister Kathy loved to tell people she was from "The City." She was a proud graduate of St. Cecilia's and Star of the Sea Academy.

I have always held onto that detail because my mom is no different. A San Francisco native, she, too, attended “Star”—a connection they both recognized in one another. There was an unspoken understanding between them, rooted in a shared formation in the same sacred place. Both my mom and Sister Kathy carried a deep love for Stella Maris.

I have no doubt this is a key reason my mom enjoyed her tenure as the Parent's Guild president. In that role she worked with Sister Kathy, and my mom was the one to tell me how much Sister Kathy loved Carondelet. "Anne, she believes it is the crown jewel of all their schools." I never forgot those words. 

Toward the end of  my senior year, my parents invited Sister Kathy and her great friend, Sister Eleanor to our home for dinner. My Dad, whom Sister E always called "Stan the Man," attended public school and was not as familiar with religious sisters. I know at the conclusion of that evening he was a little surprised by these deeply progressive female leaders. Meanwhile, my mom loved every minute of it.

Sister Kathy and Sister Eleanor who never wore the habit made a habit of walking after school. Together, they would get outside, exercise and converse with others in the community. Thinking about that now, I am certain it was part of their ministry. They met others where they were. It sounds a whole lot like Pope Francis' Theology of Encounter to me. I'd like to think Sister Eleanor and Sister Kathy walked with God—and God with them. 

The Celebration of Life for Sister Kathy made me aware of her great gift for fundraising. On some level, I wasn't surprised to hear that confirmation. Today, Carondelet—ever a beautiful campus—has new and outstanding facilities. But as someone whose athletic interests were given great opportunity at CHS, I see the as the Carondelet Athletics Complex crown jewel of her fundraising efforts. 

It is a six-acre, modern sports facility located in nearby Walnut Creek that serves as the primary home for many of the school’s outdoor athletic programs. It was developed to give Carondelet student-athletes a true “home field,” replacing decades of off-site practices and competitions.

Acquired in 2015, Carondelet was forward thinking in securing this place and space. Though she was retired, this sports gem would have never been possible without Sister Kathy's vision, foundation and prior success in fundraising.

I have taught at St. Ignatius College Preparatory in “The City” for 20 years now. When I interviewed for the position, the school’s president, Father Tony Sauer, SJ, asked where I had gone to high school. When I told him “Carondelet,” he smiled.“Ah.Then you know Sister Kathy Lang.”

“She was my principal,” I replied.

He laughed, then added, “I took her to a dance her first year of college. She left for the convent after that. My loss was the Sisters’ gain.”

I’ve never forgotten that story. Both Sister Kathy and Father Tony gave their lives in service to countless young men and women in Catholic education. They both had great social capital, power and poise. Still, there is a distinction in their styles that I’ve come to appreciate.

So many graduates of S.I. speak of it as the crown jewel of Bay Area schools—I know Tony felt that way. I’m genuinely glad they do, and I’m often amused by how eager they are to make sure others know it. People frequently ask if I went to St. Ignatius as well.

I never have to hesitate. I didn’t—and I’ve never felt badly about that. Why? Because I went to Carondelet High School. Under Sister Kathy’s leadership, and guided by her conviction, I came to understand that I was already part of something extraordinary. Like her, it wasn’t flashy or bold. It was a quiet confidence.

I have also always felt connected to De La Salle High School, even when others don’t fully understand the relationship between the two schools. Sister Kathy’s leadership extended beyond 800 young women; she collaborated with the Christian Brothers and helped shape a shared vision that included nearly 900 young men as well. Two jewels for the price of one. Lucky Cougars, lucky Spartans.

I remain deeply proud that my diploma, my yearbooks, and my experience all trace back to 1133 Winton Drive. Thank you, Sister Kathy for your commitment to Carondelet. The love and vision you shared as principal and president lives on. It shines so brightly.

Photo Credits
Principals
purple
Memorial Service

From "You Suck" to "Thank You"—How We Fans Show Signs of Respect

There’s a telling line in the documentary Nine Innings from Ground Zero. Curt Schilling, reflecting on pitching in Yankee Stadium during the 2001 World Series, said: “If they boo you as a visiting player, that just means you don’t suck.”

In other words, to be jeered by New York fans is, in its own way, a sign of respect. You matter. You’re dangerous. You’re worth the noise.

Sometimes we show respect in strange ways. And two recent events in baseball have given me pause to think a little more about how we show respect and why it matters. 

In Major League Baseball, April 15 is Jackie Robinson Day. It's not just tax day, it's a day to honor Robinson's 1947 debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers. 4/15 is a day when MLB's color barrier was broken. However, it's worth noting that Robinson's career was not always marked by signs of respect. He endured hostility in the form of racist remarks, derogatory slurs and taunting. The abuse he endured was, tragically, a backhanded acknowledgment of his impact. He is an American hero—a man that children still learn about and study in school and beyond. 

Baseball—the American pastime—has made meaningful efforts to reckon with its past. For example, statistics from the Negro Leagues are now officially included in the Major League Baseball historical record and recognized by the Baseball Hall of Fame. On Jackie Robinson Day, all players, coaches, and on-field staff wear Robinson’s number, 42—the only number permanently retired across MLB. The result is a powerful, league-wide visual tribute in every stadium at once. Optics matter. At the ballpark, fans watch video tributes and hear stories that highlight Robinson’s impact and enduring example. These efforts help ensure that Jackie Robinson Day is not just commemorated, but truly honored. To me, respect never goes out of style.

But what got me thinking about respect was a comment from one of my seniors. His “Sports in the News” presentation featured the Tigers’ closer, Kenley Jansen, who recorded his 479th career save on April 14. Jonah walked into class and said, “I should have featured Jackie Robinson on Jackie Robinson Day.” I assured him it wasn’t a problem; I had created a slide honoring Rachel Robinson, Jackie’s wife, who is 103 years old.

Then I added, “And for what it’s worth, I hate Kenley Jansen.”

My student looked at me quizzically.

“He played for the Dodgers, right? Put a whole lot of hurt on the Giants.”

He smiled.

“My hatred,” I added, “is a sign of respect.”

He understood.

Congratulations are certainly in order for Jansen—he is now number three on the all-time save list, behind Mariano Rivera (the last #42 in MLB)  and Trevor Hoffman. But this Giants fan can't forget who benefitted from this milestone: those pesky Dodgers! Hey! loyalty and fandom don’t go out of style either.

Regular readers of this blog know that an important part of my summer is my annual pilgrimage to South Lake Tahoe for the American Century Championship golf tournament. It features athletes, actors, news anchors, and musicians—perhaps they should add a “C” for “celebrity” to their official billing.

One time, I was sitting beside a green when former Phillie and National outfielder Jayson Werth walked by. We made eye contact.

“I hated you when you were with the Phillies,” I told him.

“You a Mets fan?” he asked.

“No—I’m a Giants fan. You always put the hurt on.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate the hatred.”

We both laughed. The respect was obvious.

Respect doesn’t always arrive as celebration. Sometimes it comes as resistance, as noise, even as rejection. But underneath it is recognition.

And maybe the question worth asking is this: Are we paying attention to the ways respect shows up—even when it doesn’t look the way we expect?

Photo Credits
Jansen
42
Boo

Jo Adell: Living in the Fifth Dimension of Sport

After reading "Rowing for the Lives" (America Magazine) and "How the Sports Stadium Went Luxe" (The New Yorker) my seniors in Sports and Spirituality my seniors in Sports and Spirituality were asked to answer the question: What are sports for? Is sport a pathway to meaning or a product to sell?

Upon reading these, they made convincing arguments on both sides. Some argued that athletics exist for the formation of character and the creation of opportunity for all. Others leaned toward a more public reality: today, sports are a business, and games are primarily a form of entertainment.

Both claims hold weight. But I wonder if they are incomplete. Because every so often, something happens in sport that doesn’t quite fit either category. It’s not reducible to character formation, and it’s not captured fully by entertainment value. It interrupts the game. It lingers. It feels—if only for a moment, like something more.

Angels outfielder Jo Adell added that kind of variable to our conversation—and it’s not just what he did, but how he did it.

According to Yahoo! sports, Adell "etched his name in the history books on Saturday night in Anaheim, robbing three home runs in a 1-0 win over the Mariners" 

This one man had three robberies. Check them out. for yourself: 

1. Top of the first, off the bat of Cal Raleigh.
2. Top of the eighth, off the bat of Josh Naylor.
3. Top of the ninth, off the bat of J.P. Crawford.

Kendall Baker writes,

There have been over 70,000 MLB games played in the wild card era (since 1995), and this was the first to feature three total home run robberies, much less three by the same player.  

While the first two robberies were spectacular in their own right, the third is the one everybody's talking about because this is where Adell ended up after making the grab… 

Adell's ninth-inning leap into the right field corner took him all the way over the fence into the stands. The Mariners challenged to see if it might still count as a home run, but the call was confirmed because he made the catch before falling out of play. That's in accordance with MLB's rules (page 148), but should it be? If you fail to keep the ball from going over the fence, did you really rob the home run? What do you think?"

What do I think? His spectacular defense is not simply about character formation, the cultivation of virtue, or creating community. Yes, Adell jerseys may increase and the Angels’ social media is lighting up—but something more is happening here. This moment resists our categories. It is more than an either/or proposition, and even more than a both/and.

Perhaps it is akin to the “fifth dimension” described in A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

In the novel, a tesseract allows a person to move from one place to another not by traveling the distance in between, but by folding space itself. What seems far apart suddenly touches. The impossible becomes immediate. But here’s the deeper truth: the characters cannot access this kind of movement through knowledge or power alone—it is love that makes the journey possible.

Adell’s performance feels something like that. In three separate moments, he collapses what should have been inevitable into something altogether different. He bends expectation. He interrupts outcome. He brings together what should not meet: the certainty of the ball leaving the park and the sudden, almost disorienting reality of an out recorded.

For a moment, the game is no longer just business or formation. It becomes something that pulls us out of the ordinary experience of sport and reminds us why we watch in the first place. Not just to be entertained, and not only to be formed, but to witness moments that feel, however briefly, like they transcend the limits of the game itself. And, it's so good, it's something I have to share. I told my Dad to watch it on YouTube. I texted it to my friend Anthony. I said to my friends Bob and Mike—long time Angels fans, "I hope one of you will wear an Adell jersey soon." Connection.

The San Francisco Giants hosted MLB's Opening Night on Wednesday March 25. Opening Day was two days later on Friday, March 27 (yes dividing them up is a shrewd business opportunity).For those students not at the ballpark, I shared this picture. 

St. Louis Cardinals player Nathan Church makes a spectacular leaping catch at the
wall to rob a home run during a game at Busch Stadium on March 26, 2026. 

I said how excited I was for a new season of baseball because it always brings promise and possibility. I told them that last year, I saw one of the greatest catches of all time. I hit play and shared Denzel' Clarke's amazing feat. I reminded them of the language of baseball. I said that's one incredible "web gem." And then I asked the question "What will this season bring?"

I wasn't sure what we saw last year could be outdone. Just when we think inspiration or amazement is in short supply, I'm proven wrong. This is what it means to live in the Fifth Dimension. This is what we love baseball, and basketball, a golf, and music and so much more.
A whole lot in this life is scripted, but Jo Adell reminded me—convincingly—that it's not nor should it be.

Photo Credits
Jo Adell
STL

No Secret Handshake, Just a Headset—Thoughts on the NFL Head Coaches Group Photo

Membership has its privileges—but none of these men carry a common card. There’s no secret handshake, no initiation ceremony, no shared letters stitched across a jacket. They don’t wear the same colors to work, yet to do their job, they all don the same headset.

They are beloved and belittled, celebrated and second-guessed. Many are household names and hometown heroes. In fact, you might know more about them than your state senator, your local congressperson, or even your governor. You could likely pick them out of a crowd—and gladly would.

Who makes up this coveted crew? The 32 head coaches of the NFL for the 2026–2027 season and I love the annual tradition of their group photo.

The “class photo” began informally—just a group of coaches gathering during their annual meetings. But the image reveals something deeper. These men know one another. They’ve crossed paths for years—playing, coaching, competing, collaborating across the league’s 32 organizations. The circle is small, and it changes quickly. After all, the NFL can just as easily stand for “Not For Long.” This year alone, new faces have already stepped into the frame. And that’s part of what makes the photo meaningful.

For a brief moment, rivals stand shoulder to shoulder. Competitors pause. The noise quiets. And the role they share matters more than the differences that divide them. You get the sense that each one knows just how rare—and how fragile—his place is. Again, it’s a simple photo. But it offers a subtle lesson and begs us to consider: What if our communities did the same

What if we made space, even briefly, to recognize those who lead—imperfectly, publicly, and under constant scrutiny? Not to ignore disagreements, but to remember the weight of responsibility they carry. Not to erase differences, but to acknowledge a shared commitment to something larger than themselves.

I encourage organizations and institutions to do the same. Make the effort to take a group photo. Help people understand they are part of something much bigger. In making this an annual tradition, others begin to notice both the pillars and the newcomers—the ones just finding their footing and the ones who have carried the weight for years. Some arrive young; others grow old in the work. It’s special. It’s meaningful. And yes, it can even be fun.

LOVED this class: RS 300

And by fun, what I mean is the analysis and sheer color commentary that this photo sparks. I've probably watched at least 10 Instagram reels on this topic. Sports talk pundits take no mercy on the strong personalities, their size and shape, the fitness and facial expressions of this group. From Kubiak's calf muscle, to John Harbaugh's cut off white socks inside his loafers, not to mention Mike Vrabel taking over both arm rests, I laughed and looked again. Yes, Kyle Shanahan does look as though he is dressed to be in the south of France. And this year, the group includes two sets of brothers: John and Jim Harbaugh as well as Matt and Mike LaFleur. The newest sibling, Mike LaFleur, the head coach of the Arizona Cardinals is 6'1".  However, according to Pat MacAfee, Mike makes the coach to his right— John Brady look 6'9." (They love his Rolex, too). Very true.

If you count closely, you’ll notice only 30 men standing and smiling. Cleveland Browns head coach Todd Monken is missing—he was getting a haircut. Ironically, it was for the photo, but it was taken 20 minutes early, and he missed it. He later “joked he has plenty of incentive for not going one-and-done, so he can make his first appearance in the photo next year.”

I love this photo for multiple reasons. My Grandmother sent us Easter outfits so my mom scheduled a photo shoot. I decided to cut my sister's bangs to help her get ready.
I love that my mom decided to keep the photo shoot.

Whether it's this year, next year or ten years from now, a simple snapshot becomes something more. It tells a story of belonging and change, of continuity and calling. Faces come and go, but the mission endures and the goal for these men remains the same. #Lombardi

My favorite movie is "Dead Poets Society." In one scene Robin Williams, Mr. Keating their English teacher and an alum of the school takes his class into the hallway to look at the photographs that litter the walls of Welton Academy. The images—they're black and white. Many are faded. They are familiar and yet they are different. 

Keating zooms in and begs his students to do the same. He says, 

They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see, gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. You hear it?... Carpe... Hear it?... Carpe. Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.

I think this is the role of a coach, of a teacher, a school administrator—most leaders! make your life and especially of those you serve: extraordinary.

The tradition of a group photo captures more than a moment in time. It’s a reminder that no one stands alone, and that every role, however brief, is part of something lasting.

Photo Credits
Insta Photo of Head Coaches
Classic Photo

Two Assists for One Goal

My sister is great at telling jokes. She has a penchant for remembering them (half the battle!). She can reference a good one easily. Her delivery is outstanding and her timing is impeccable. As a primary school educator, it's a handy tool in the tool box. My gift? This should not come as a surprise: finding a good metaphor for sports and spirituality.

Most of my analogies are straightforward and speak for themselves. One need not be a devoted sports fan or deeply spiritual to understand and appreciate them. Others are more specialized, shaped for a particular audience. Some come easily, but not all. From time to time, I have to let a metaphor cook—or bake—churning it over until something settles into place. The core ingredient is there, but something is still missing. Such is the case with the assist—but in this instance, I mean the assist in hockey.

I have written about the assist and its significance. As written in Remembering Fr. Ted Hesburgh for A Lifelong Assist

An assist is credited to a player who makes a pass or play that directly leads to a goal or basket. It is a vital component of many team sports, including basketball, soccer, lacrosse, and field hockey. It shows how teamwork—not just scoring—helps a team succeed. 

The assist is one of the more selfless stats in all of sports. You have to think of your teammates and have a wider vision of who they are and where they are in order to get one. The assist makes scoring and winning happen; without one you have a lot of "I"s in that team. As a way of teaching its importance, UNC's Hall of Fame coach, Dean Smith "drummed into his players that, after scoring, each should point at the teammate who made the basket possible." 

I started to think of how the world might be different if we all recognized the person who gives us an assist. Too often, assists go unnoticed (which is why Coach Smith's innovation is so thoughtful and poignant).

However, in hockey, an assist is a bit more generous and structured than in other sports.  Up to two players can get assists on a single goal. In fact, a goal can have: a primary assist (last player to pass the puck) and a secondary assist (the player who passed it before that). The hockey assist depends on continuous team possession. Ultimately it rewards build-up play, not just the final pass! Talk about a wider vision.

I have let this facet of hockey marinate in my mind for some time. And I'm glad I did as I found a meaningful analog.

My mom has been in a skilled nursing facility since February 6, 2026. Since her diagnosis with ovarian cancer she has struggled in the hospital and at home. She lost so much strength and is in need of daily physical therapy and greater medical care than we could provide at home. The drawback is that the days and nights can get long and lonely.

It has been humbling to see how family and friends have reached out—with phone calls, text messages, cards, gift cards, and so many acts of service and love. Although my mom hasn’t been very active, visitors seem to restore her energy. Just last week, I reached out to a beloved neighbor, Josie from my parents’ old neighborhood, and her visit lifted my mom’s spirits in a beautiful way. She brought with her another neighbor, Jackie. The three of them had lunch together just one year earlier!

Two days later, another former neighbor, Marie, came to see my mom. She stayed for over an hour. My mom was deeply touched. "We laughed so much! We had so much to talk about. We share great memories from those days in Walnut Creek."

Marie was my brother's confirmation sponsor. When I got my acceptance letter into Notre Dame she came to our house with flowers. It made me sad that we had lost touch over the years but grateful for all we have shared.

I sent a text message to Josie thanking her for reaching out to Marie. She said "I can't take credit for that. Jackie is in better contact with Marie. She notified her." 

And there you have it: two assists for one goal. Josie brought Jackie and Jackie brought Marie. All get credit for showing up, but one is not necessarily independent of the other.

I take heart in this metaphor. All is connected. None of us stand alone. It’s important to recognize those who make the assist—the quiet contributors whose presence makes something greater possible. Whether in basketball or hockey, may we celebrate the good that comes from a wider vision and a deep commitment to one another.

And please continue to pray for my mom, her caregivers and her visitors!

Photo Credits
The Assist

A Coach, an Oscar, and the Children We Must Remember—Thank you Steve Kerr

I remember when Oscar parties rivaled the very best Super Bowl gatherings. Friends would dress up as their favorite actors, and the food went far beyond the usual party fare. Drinks and dishes were cleverly inspired by the nominees for Best Picture, Best Director, and more. In fact, my colleagues and I often used the Academy Awards as a cultural touchstone in the classroom—a shared experience that connected students to the broader world of film and storytelling. Times have changed.

I asked my class if anyone tuned in and all of two seniors raised their hands. I admitted that I too missed out. I didn't see most of the movies and I didn't even know much about who or what was up for best of anything. That is until I found out that Steve Kerr, the head coach of the Golden State Warriors won an Oscar.

As written on ESPN,

Kerr was one of the executive producers for "All the Empty Rooms," which won the Oscar for documentary short.

The 35-minute film chronicles how broadcast journalist Steve Hartman and photographer Lou Bopp told the stories of families who have memorialized the bedrooms of children killed in mass shootings. Kerr -- whose father, then the president of American University in Beirut, was shot and killed in 1984 -- has long spoken out about a need for common-sense gun regulation.

"I didn't have anything to do with the making of the film," Kerr said Monday. "But I am very proud to be associated with it."

"They called me about a year ago and asked if I would like to be an executive producer, which meant basically put my name on it and help promote it," Kerr said. And then after watching the film, I was just blown away by how beautiful it was and poignant it was. It was an easy decision."

I don't know if I would have heard about this film if it were not for sports and my love of Coach Kerr, but I am grateful I did.

I told my students about the short film and how I came to find out about it. Thank you, to KNBR—my morning sports talk radio station. I admitted that I didn't know if I was going to watch "All the Empty Rooms." I didn't know if I could. I wish had for I would have shared some of why I think it's important for them and for all of America to see. 

Steve Hartman was first assigned to report on a school shooting in 1997. Since he began, school shootings have increased from 17 to 132 per year. 

In the 33 minute film (available on Netflix), he said,  

for years I had been doing essays at the end of every school shooting week. Maybe it was a hero or the country coming together. Whatever it was, they were looking for some kind of positive message.  

I did so many of these essays that I felt like I was repeating myself. In fact, I was using the same lines in the stories. And I saw that America was moving on from each school shooting"quicker and quicker every time. 

I recalled  some of the tropes I have heard in times of tragedy. "Everything happens for a reason" or thinking back to law of attraction as promised by "The Secret" According to that best seller, your thoughts attract corresponding outcomes—positive thoughts supposedly bring positive experiences, while negative thoughts attract negative ones. Those ring hollow. I recommend "The Book of Job" instead.

I burst into tears in under one minute of viewing this film. I listened in total awe of the parents recalling memories of their children. I looked is sadness as they welcomed Hartman and Bopp into the sacred space of their late son or daughter's room. Hartman and Bopp navigate that journey with utter grace. 

Hartman caught my attention when he suggested that the media may bear some of the responsibility. He said, "I feel like the media is to blame a little bit for some of this. Or, at least its worth exploring. In the beginning, especially, it was just so overdone. And, the shooters were mentioned way too much. What we need to talk about is the child who is not here anymore." And there you have it. The name of this short film and the reason why it's so moving.

He said, "I wish we could transport all Americans to stand in one of those bedrooms for just a few minutes. We'd be a different America." 

Hartman speaks about solidarity. So does Greg Boyle, SJ—the founder of Homeboy Industries. Father Boyle has said that "nothing stops a bullet like a job." He's right. And maybe a bedroom could too.

His concludes with the message: 

I want the project to remind people that these were our children.

I want the project to remind people that these were your children.

These could be your children.

Thank you Steve Hartman and Lou Bopp. And thank you Steve Kerr, for your support of "All the Empty Rooms." That was your father. I don't need to see his room—or rather, his classroom. It is one you have already shown us. 

Photo Credits
Hair Ties