A statement has rung in my head, like the loudest of bells, every day for the past two years…
Let’s get better today!
This one simple sentence sends me back to a time when I could hear it from the original orator…
My trainer.
A six-foot-three, 300-pound, teddy bear of a man. The unripe age of 28. A former football player. Competitive powerlifter. Soon to be married.
More importantly, a mentor. A friend. A brother. A lighthouse in the darkness.
His name was James.
He never failed to put a smile on your face, even at 5:30 in the morning.
He always made an effort to make you smile, laugh, and enjoy the process.
He cared so deeply about every one of his athletes, like he was personally responsible for each of our successes.
He had a special talent for making you feel seen, understood, and great at what you were doing. Even when you were struggling, he was there to lift you up with something nice to say. Something…well, something powerful.
Unfortunately, I only had the privilege of training with him for 3-4 short months. But he became so important so quickly.
I looked forward to seeing him every morning. Training with him. Talking to him. Having him be a part of my journey, my process, my endeavors. And not only me, but 100s of other athletes.
I looked up to him like a brother and friend. Like a wise confidant and producer of growth.
He was one of those special people who made an incredible impact in a short time on this earth.
His smile. His philosophy. His heart. His laugh. His presence…
He left us on May 24th, 2023. Exactly two years ago today.
My girlfriend, brother, and I were in Chicago for the National Championships. We were walking out of the hotel to get something to eat when my girlfriend got a phone call from her brother.
Then, a shriek.
The sound of her cry still echoes in my head.
I immediately asked her what was wrong, what happened, and she told me…
“James is gone.”
I was confused. I didn’t understand what she was talking about, and then she repeated herself, and it hit me…
He had taken his own life.
My eyes glazed over. My body went cold, but my head was foggy and warm. I was trying to wrap my head around it all.
We had only left a few days earlier, and he looked me in the eyes to say goodbye…little did I know it would be the last time.
Thinking back on it, the way he said goodbye was different from the other times.
That moment still eats away at me to this day.
That day, a piece of us, his athletes, disappeared. A piece of all of us went with him, because a piece of us was him. He molded us, taught us, mentored us, coached us, and loved us like family.
I didn’t necessarily want to ever write about this publicly because I am not the type to exploit everything for views.
However, I feel there are important lessons in the way he lived. The way he carried himself. The way he cared.
He wouldn’t let you fail. Always showing up for you. If you failed on one rep, he encouraged you to go again. It wasn’t an environment of great threat, it was one of solitude. He turned the chaos into calm and showed you how powerful you really were. Even when you felt you were the most powerless piece of dirt on this planet.
He always kept it entertaining. He would quiz us while we were training. Make us laugh. Forget about the stuff going on in our lives. It was as if, as soon as we walked through that door, we were teleported into an alternate universe of enjoyment—even when it was painful, stressful, or you felt weak. It didn’t matter, you wanted to give everything you had just to give him half of what he was giving you.
Every single morning, without fail, he would look at me and say, “Let’s get better today.”
Not a single day was missed. That was his trademarked line. His energy was contagious through that line and that line alone.
His conviction infected me with drive, motivation, and a will to win. Not that I, or the other athletes, didn’t have that before. But he made it easy. He took the pressure of performance and transformed it into a deeper love of the process.
I think about him every day.
I think about how he carried himself. But I still can’t replicate it. He was a natural.
A beautiful soul.
A caring soul.
A lost soul…
That’s the hardest one to swallow—the loss.
Knowing now that he was in pain, his mind, his heart, his eyes…it bothers me.
And, please don’t take this as me trying to make this about myself, it is not. It never has been and never will be, nor do I want it to be. I am just doing my best to paint the picture of an amazing man to you.
The reason I am writing about James is because, many of you have gone through the same thing.
It doesn’t matter how it happened, it just matters that they are gone. The space they occupied. The smiles they brought to many faces. The laughs they conjured up from others’ bellies. The impact they made.
That’s the unfillable void.
It’s a black hole.
A wound that can’t be plugged.
A terrible nightmare that won’t end.
A phone that keeps ringing, but no one ever picks up.
You can’t leave a message.
You can’t drop by their house.
You can’t walk through the door to train with them again.
All you can do is look up and hope that God is taking care of them.
That’s why I call it my Advisory of Angels—James is one of them. So, the only way I can talk to him now is to look up, smile, and tell him…
“What do ya say, let’s get better today?!”
So, I will leave you with the same statement, with the same energy he would give all of us…
Let’s get better today!
Curiosity
P.S. James, I love you, brother. Your legacy will last forever in the hearts and minds of the many athletes and individuals you touched. Your infectious smile and laugh will echo through the halls of eternity. Miss you always.