A Million Miles

Some people are out of touch.

If they don’t know, you can’t tell ‘em.

Other people get it.

You don’t have to explain a thing and they understand exactly what is happening.

The distance between out-of-touch and in touch sits somewhere between the seat next to me and a million miles away.

The decision to end the Broadcasting Program at the Career Center was cemented in place elsewhere. The million miles away neighborhood.

Clearly, it didn’t happen in the room where the learning and teaching happened.

That sermon is best saved for another day. (It’s not really a sermon. It’s more of a comprehensive encyclopedia of how to dismantle a highly effective career-preparation training program.) But, I digress.

Those in charge made the decision to end the program with no regard for anyone or anything else. “Let’s do whatever causes the least amount of paperwork.”

The program was never about test scores. Nor software. Nor data. Nor certifications.

It was about preparing young people to take advantage of the opportunities that are inevitably available to those who make the effort.

The program was always about building better people. Opening doors. Shining lights. Scattering seeds.

Brett was, and is, one my kids. He graduated from Happy Appy. He works for Learfield. He has applied to be part of the broadcast team for the Winston-Salem Dash, the Class-A affiliate of the Chicago White Sox.

Brett texted and asked if I was willing to reach out to the Dash on his behalf and “say something nice.”

Of course. I texted a friend.

“Hey. This is Jeffrey. I’m writing to say something nice. One of my children submitted an application. Good kid. Works hard. He is looking for an opportunity. Maybe y’all can listen to his demo a second time?”

My phone buzzed. Another Brett text.

“Mr. Griffin! I just got done with my interview with the Dash. They said they are seriously considering me for the job! Thank you!!!”

“That had nothing to do with me, Brett. That was all you. You should send a thank you note for the interview. I’m proud of you. Good luck!”

My phone buzzed again. It wasn’t Brett.

It was Jacob.

Jacob graduated a few years ago. He was a pole-vaulter in high school. He arrived in my room with a subtle streak of sarcasm and wild hair, for which I frequently had a comment about his time seemingly spent in a wind tunnel.

We got along exceptionally well.

“Mr. Griffin, this is Jacob. Thought I’d share the good news. The faculty in the Communication Department at Western has selected me to be the general manager of the campus radio station for the 2022-2023 school year.”

Jacob is an undergrad at Western Carolina. I hope he’s still pole vaulting with tall hair, but I don’t know.

“Jacob! Congratulations. That’s fantastic. Well done. I’m very proud of you. Bravo.

Remember – when you lead, some people will invariably complain.

Don’t worry about them. Do the right thing.

Thank you for sharing the good news. Congratulations.”

His response emanated not from a million miles away, but rather from the seat next to me.

“Just had to make sure the one who started me on this journey knew about it.”

Jacob gets it. Brett gets it. Thank you, boys.

The others don’t know and we can’t tell ‘em.