In Jermaine I Trust

If you know, you know. If you don’t, well… listen here.

In the world of college and professional athletics – high school, too, while we’re at it – the most stressful, often ignorantly-contested, undervalued game day responsibility falls on the shoulders of the individual tasked with playing the music.

I wouldn’t take that job for love nor money nor an endless supply of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.

That job bites. It S.U.C.K.S. Everybody has an opinion about what to play when.

I feel badly for anybody who unknowingly steps into the pit of despair and disappointment that surrounds the computer screen, dotted with titles of our favorite rock anthems and fan sing-a-longs. For those that enter the realm with a glint of familiarity, I can only surmise they need the money. Nobody does it for fun. Nobody.

Time for a collective, “bless their heart.”

Back to the aforementioned “nobody.” He/she/him/her/they/it/whomever/nobody stays in that position very long. Too much criticism. Too little appreciation.

I was gearing up for another game behind the microphone for the Winston-Salem Dash. “Jeffrey, this is Jermaine. He’s gonna do the music.” And I’m thinking, “we’ll see…”

Oh. My. Goodness.

Little did I know I would soon discover the man to my left was (IS,) without question, one of the finest human beings I have ever known.

We don’t have a million adventures to recall. He grew up down the street from Larry Bird’s house in French Lick, Indiana. I’m a Winston-Salem boy. We didn’t go to the same school. We didn’t sit on the same church pew. He has this weird affinity for Colorado. I like Thomasville and Rural Hall. It took me the better part of a baseball season to learn his last name.

In the days since… Jermaine has become a trusted friend. He is a devoted husband. A yearly candidate for Father Of the Year honors. Mr. Williams is a gifted college administrator.

He patiently endures my ramblings and dissertations on all things. He sends cases of “Big Red” to keep me occupied and out of trouble. In the aftermath of the George Floyd travesty, he prayed for his children. And, mine. He introduced me to Duck Donuts. We shared tears of joy when Indiana won the national championship in football.

He’s smart. He’s articulate. He not nearly as beautiful as his wife and children. But, I digress.

Jermaine and I spent one summer watching minor league baseball from the same window. Maybe, it was two summers. I don’t remember. It’s run together.

Here’s what you need to know… my life is better because Jemaine has been a part of the journey. He is good for my soul. The sound of his voice puts me at ease.

Together, we haven’t done all that much. He allowed me to push the buttons on the scoreboard at a UNCG soccer game. That was fun. Other than that, all we’ve done is swap stories and share life.

Ours is a friendship based on kindred spirits, like minds and a deep, abiding respect for the other.

Sometimes, that’s enough. I trust Jermaine in all things. Especially, with knowing whether to play “Y.M.C.A.” or “Sweet Caroline.”

Jermaine Williams. He’s the one. In Jermaine I trust.