“I’m not ready.”

I said those words far too often about 13 months ago, to both my wife and my dad. No matter what age you are, a child, a teenager, 67, or a 31-year-old man – Nothing can prepare you for your mom having cancer. Nothing can prepare you for a doctor telling you that there’s nothing else they can do to save her. 

As Chuck Noland once said: “I’ve got to just keep breathing because tomorrow the sun will rise, and who knows what the tide will bring in?” 

That’s what I told myself as my mom’s lung cancer spread to her brain, as she began losing her memory, and her wits – the thing that always made her so unique. Nothing can prepare you for that first time your mom can’t remember your name, her one and only child.

That day may have even been worse than the last day. 

The things you remember 

As is the case for most sons, I owe a lot to my mom. There’s the obvious of simply bringing me into this world, but that bond goes way deeper than even that, and it isn’t always the easiest relationship to explain. When I delivered her eulogy nearly 12 months ago, I spoke about many seemingly insignificant things to some, but to me, they were everything. 

I’m admittedly biased, but I’ve never met a better cook than my mom. Her Italian roots always showed off in her cooking. When she cooked, she didn’t just cook for the room. No, she cooked for an army. It was how she showed her love. So much so that you always had to undersell the number of people who were going to be at a party to my mom, or else you could send off leftovers to every person in attendance, in volume. 

Even when my mom tried to hide it at times, her natural ability to retain information was pretty remarkable. I think that’s where my thirst for knowledge comes from, why I wonder about everything, and why I annoyingly ask my wife to play trivia just about every night. 

For her, there was love in numbers, which helped out a lot during tax season. After having to find a new tax person this year, it really made me appreciate the time and effort she put in for my family, and she never once asked for anything in return. 

I think back to her laugh. I think back to watching her hold my two young daughters and witnessing authentic joy just for her to be there. That, unfortunately, has turned into some feelings of sadness these days, especially as my four-year-old constantly talks about how much she misses grandma. 

Nothing prepares you for that. 

The Greatest Show on Turf 

In the most unlikely love story, my obsession over the game of football – it also started with my mom as well. I come from a big sports family, including my dad, who loves football, baseball, basketball, and hockey. It was sports 24/7 for me growing up. 

Between my dad and my late Uncle Jim, sports were always going to be a big part of my life growing up, but it was my mom who took a spark of interest and turned it into the thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Along with my wife’s endless support and love, they are the reason I am doing what I am today – living a dream that many wish for. 

I often get asked about my football fandom. Most people who follow me know that I am a Notre Dame fan on the college level. That’s pretty easy to figure out. 

For the NFL, I am, and have been, a fan of the Los Angeles Rams since I was eight years old. The reason for that – my mom. 

Growing up in a household with a mom who liked the Rams and a dad who rooted for the Miami Dolphins, I had a unique decision growing up right outside of Philadelphia. Even though I looked up to my dad and he was my best friend growing up, I didn’t gravitate towards the ghost of Dan Marino’s successes or hold tight to an undefeated 1972 season, something that happened 19 years before I was born. 

I was already going to be a Notre Dame fan. I didn’t need to hold onto success before my lifetime and suffer through more frustration. I didn’t know it then, but I had already hit my quota of suffering fandoms. 

Instead, a young version of myself gravitated toward the first-ever football game I remembered watching from start to finish – Super Bowl XXXIV between the St. Louis Rams and Tennessee Titans. I gravitated toward “The Greatest Show on Turf”, Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk, Isaac Bruce, Torry Holt, Grant Wistrom, and Orlando Pace, among many other childhood heroes. 

As I watched Bruce race 73 yards past the Titan defense, and Mike Jones tackling Kevin Dyson at the 1-yard line to seal the 23-16 victory, I remember looking up at my mom – a moment of pure joy and elation that we were both able to share together. That was it for me. I was hooked forever at just eight years old. I’m not sure I would have gravitated toward the game quite to that level without that team, that game, and that moment.

Looking back on the origins of that decision, it’s always a little funny to consider what started my mom’s own fandom. She wasn’t from Los Angeles or St. Louis, the two cities they have been located during my lifetime.

No, it all started because my mom thought former Rams starting quarterback Vince Ferragamo was cute back in the late 1970s-early 80s. Yes, the key to my fandom really began with my mom’s childhood crush – a strange thing to admit.

For the rest of my life, the Rams were the thing that would bond us together. Outside of our love for the Rams, my mom and I didn’t have a ton in common, but we always had that team. Even through the end of the Mike Martz era, Scott Linehan, and Steve Spagnuolo, that franchise bonded the two of us, and always created easy small talk.

I owe so much to the Greatest Show on Earth. It was an unlikely start to my childhood love and a career that I cherish so much today.

For One More Day

Aside from my love for sports, literature was another thing I gravitated toward growing up, which explains my path to journalism. There is no better way to combine those two interests into one hobby and eventually a career. I idolized sports writers like Ray Didinger and Mitch Albom growing up. Both were brilliant writers and saw the game from unique lenses.

Albom also helped a young version of myself start to really enjoy reading, as opposed to writing, which I enjoyed quite a bit more in my earlier life. We used to read several of his books while in school, including some like The Five People You Meet in Heaven and For One More Day. The latter became one of my favorite books while I was growing up. There was something refreshing about the thought of spending one last day with a person you love, and that has taken on much deeper meaning for me today.

After my mom passed away, I thought back to that book quite a bit, but for a different reason than one might expect. I would love one more day with my mom, but if I could have her for one more day, it would be for her to see my girls one last time. The truth is that my mom wasn’t perfect, but I love and miss her more than many people know. For me, that’s what love is. It is easy to love someone when everything is right and easy, but love is unconditional and imperfect. It demands depth, and loving every part of something, for me anyway.

These last 12 months haven’t been easy, but luckily, I have an incredible family who has been patient with me and given me everything I need to get through it. I’m not sure whether I will have the chance to see my mom again, but my life is now dedicated to making her as proud as I possibly can. It is about spending every second I can with my wonderful wife, my daughters, and letting them know that while I am also not perfect myself, there is not a single place that I would rather be.

While I didn’t get enough time with my mom (Lois Roberts), nobody did, I choose to remember the good – always. My career is a testament to the unconditional love that she gave me, and I just hope that if she is up there watching (if that is how that works), that she is proud and continues to root for Sean McVay, Matthew Stafford, and Puka Nacua with me as they attempt to make another Super Bowl run these next couple of months.

My mom will be remembered each and every Sunday, both for the football on TV and in memory of her famous gravy for Sunday dinner. Time won’t heal her absence, and the last year certainly is a testament to that, but the 31 years of memories are what I chose to think about the last two days.