This passage, along with a handful more (posting soon), introduces the other ‘Sota Boys in my life that I share most of the moments I photograph and write about. Each of the ‘Sota Boys have key characteristics and strengths that I admire, learn, and implement. You’ve learned about the importance of confidence with Jake, now it’s time to move the spotlight to another. I raise my glass to my giant friend, Matt. Here’s my story of our beginnings and what he brings to the table:
8th Grade study hall. Man, the memories…
As I was busy “studying”, Mrs. Carlson’s phone rang. That really only meant one thing: Mr. Burquest (our school principal) is requesting some unlucky pimple boiled classmate to pay him a visit. This visit won’t be good; they’ll inevitably hear the riot act of impending doom that’ll have three syllables and end in “ion”.
Detention. Suspension. Oh Me Ohhhh My!!!! (doom gong chime)
The entire class was on pins and needles…Who was it going to be?!?!?!
“Chad, Mr. Burquest wants to speak with you…
The class erupted with “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!!”
Meanwhile, in disbelief, I pinched myself thinking, “This can’t be. I’ve never had a detention before. Is this a dream? WHAT DID I DOOOO?!?”
My face, now to the hue of the seven red zits on my face, gloomily looked down. I got up slowly to the classroom overflowing in boisterous laughter. The walk was shameful to say the least.
As I walked past each classroom to the doom chamber, all the bad eggs from other classrooms sat on the floor jeering at me. They knew what was up; they had seen and walked it countless times before. This trail of death lead me to the small lobby outside his office. The wait, although probably only a minute long, seemed like an eternity as I uncomfortably sat on the little, brown chair next to his doom room. The screech from his door opening put me at attention in an instant. “Come on in, Chad.” It was time to meet my maker…
“Hey, have a seat… (I quickly took a seat)
“Based on your track record…. (my track record – I didn’t think I had a record except for one in the 600 yd dash)
“We’re going to have another kid visit in a couple days… (what the – you’re replacing me?!?!?!)
“AHEM!!!! AGHEM!!!! Sorry, that’s the phlegm talking…” (okay something’s not right…typically when he brings up phlegm, he’s in a good mood)
“We’d like you to show him around, you know…AGHEM!!!!…Be an ambassador of your class and our school” (WHEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
“Yeah, no problem Mr. B,” (I casually responded as if my life didn’t flash before my eyes)
“Great! His name is, Matt. Like you, he enjoys playing sports and the outdoors. AGHEM!!!! AGHEM!!! AGHEM!!!! Come over to my office after lunch…AGHEM…on Friday. He’ll be in by then.”
“Sounds good!”
The time came. In front of me was a pale, blonde, blue-eyed giant clad in a green, long sleeved polo and jeans with an extended arm towards me. “Hi, I’m Matt.” We went through the whole introduction and walked to my next class, which also happens to be the best class: Gym! On the way we found out that we played each other a few times in traveling basketball a couple months prior. Obviously he was an athlete. What wasn’t obvious was how natural it was to him…
It was flag football day. Time to channel my inner Barry Sanders and juke even the turf! I was chosen captain, so I had to take, Matt, who towered over the rest of us. After we selected teams I asked him what position he wanted to play.
“Eh, QB is fine.”
“Works for me,” I replied meanwhile thinking to myself, “Okay, the kid wants to play the one position where all the pressure is placed. He must have had his Wheaties this morning.”
Side note: Eighth graders handling a regulation sized football is entertaining. Some are fully developed and can actually throw a semi-decent spiral. Most of us, though, hadn’t hit our growth spurt and more so just shot-put the ball forward. Matt, although a giant amongst us, wasn’t fully developed. Those types are in the small minority of boys who are in the mold of clumsy where their “minds need to catch up to their bodies.”
Matt was different. At first snap, he grabbed the ball like Brady (minus the deflategate), dropped back like Marino, and threw the tightest bullet all of us had ever seen – you could hear the laces sizzling as they cut the air. The ball hit his receiver, in stride, between the numbers and sprung off his chest like he had been pelted by a 25 cent vending machine rubber ball. The receiver never had a chance commanding that ball into submission. It was untamable.
There wasn’t a jaw that didn’t drop in awe of the spectacle our eyes just witnessed. I’d be a liar to say I wasn’t hopeful he’d be joining our class the following fall. The kid could ball.
Thankfully he enrolled.
The next four years at our tiny, private school were nothing shy of epic. Our school was the laughing stock of our basketball conference. Matt and I were the varsity team’s 9th grade representatives (even through the years of being a doormat team, this probably was the first time in school history this had ever happened). I’ll never forget the first team-huddle at practice. While we were all sucking wind from 15 minutes of ladders, Coach Wall ended the huddle by saying we’d win conference that season. Our gasping mouths snidely smiled with a look of disbelief.
That was until our first game when Matt stepped on the floor. Give him the rock in the half court and he’ll let it rain from beyond the arc. Give him the rock in transition and he’ll go NBA Jam style. Although I made a miraculous rainbow buzzer beater to put us in first place over the top player on the team that held first place at the time, the season’s success was because of Matt. We went on to win conference that year. We went 27-2 the following year.
The next two years were when Matt really took the spotlight. I was the Gary Payton. He was the Shawn Kemp (yeah, there was a reason why I also chose that duo when I referenced NBA Jam). I was defense and dimes. Matt simply was the “Reign Man” – clearly in more ways than one.
There was only one time where I, the point guard, reined him in. It was during practice our junior year. He went up for an uncontested two handed dunk. I came out of nowhere and timed my jump about a half second before he took flight (he was 6 inches taller with wingspan that could hug the moon). And liftoff…Before I could blink, he was at eye level. With an outstretched arm I aimed my hand ahead of the ball’s flight path he was securely grasping with both hands. In an instant, the ball struck my hand with hulk force. Instead of getting blown away, my hand somehow hung tight like Spidey’s grasp and pushed down in attempt to break trajectory. It somehow worked as he came crashing down with the ball still in both hands. Another jaw dropping moment. Practice was paused. The gym was silent.
Until he married his beautiful wife, Ashley, this may have been the only time he was reined in.
He went on to play Division 1 basketball out of the state, playing in the Big Dance his freshman year of college (saying something considering he graduated in our class of just 36). After graduating, he went to play pro ball out in Australia. Throughout those years, he managed to come home a couple times a year.
I was fortunate to remain on his short list of friends to make an annual trip at his family cabin 4 hours north of the Cities. That’s really where we could, and still to this day, be guys. Remember when I mentioned reining in Matt?
Yeah, he’s untamable. Sit in a 4 hour car ride and you’ll catch that “drift”. Go fishing with him and he’ll want to move as soon as we start crushing the fish. Go grouse hunting with him and he’ll veer waaaay off the imaginary walking line because he heard something. Go bow hunting with him and he’ll make more noise than a chainsaw while getting up his tree.
It’s confounding to be honest. When I try to bring some “rationale” to the table, he’ll just tell me to, “Chill, ya stubborn German.” As much as I’ve gotten frustrated by it, he’s typically right. No matter how well-read and geared up I am for the game and fish we pursue, Matt always pulls the rabbits (yes plural) out of the hat.
He’s typically not prepared.
Coming from a family of ten – of which eight are boys – I can understand why. If one of them had a new pair of basketball shorts they just bought, the other brother would be somehow sporting them in a couple weeks. It didn’t matter what it was. The motto: take what you can, make the most of it, and be happy.
Hell, the standard scene at the cabin is seeing him scrounge in the back corner of the storage barn and pull out an old rod and reel that had been collecting dust since ’87, four lures with rusted hooks, and a half broken float. When the rest of us see what he’s working with, we place bets when his “like-new” rod will snap in two. Twenty minutes into fishing and the whole boat knows what just happened. The boat will begin to shake at a repetitious beat. Turning around, we all see the giant sprawled out in laughter and realize the boat was shaking to the beat of his chuckles. He’s humored not because his rod had just snapped two pieces. It’s because of the 14” slab crappie he cups out of the water with his net sized hands that somehow remained on the line. Despite the once 6’ 6” rod now becoming a modified ice fishing rod of 29”, he’ll still continue fishing as if nothing happened at all. Twelve minutes later he’s lost the third out of the four rusted lures. It doesn’t matter, though – he has one more lure. He’ll somehow make it last the rest of the weekend and out-fish the rest of the boat.
He pulls it off with his shoddy, one pin sight on his bow in the tamaracks. He pulls it off with his shotty fixed with a full choke in the grouse woods. It doesn’t matter what circumstance he faces.
What makes Matt, Matt, isn’t that he relies entirely on his God-given talents. Rather, he makes the most out of what is given to him. Doubt him all you want.
With his net-sized hands he’ll laughingly show you. Opportunity.
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