THE CRUELEST DAY

If you've never worked in television, then you'll probably never quite understand it.
Oh, sure, it looks glamourous from afar, but  if you've had an up close and personal
look at it, then you'll know it's anything but that.

At the local level, there are incredibly long hours for low pay in places that will never
be considered to be on anyone's bucket list to visit. There are late nights, early mornings,
and a lot of holidays that you have to work while your friends are cooking out, unwrapping presents, and celebrating new arrivals into this world.

But no matter where you've worked in television or how much money you made or didn't
make, you're always part  of one incredible family. And no matter where you move onto
in the business or out of it, you always have that family you shared the good and bad
times with and the incredible stories that people on the outside will never quite understand
no matter how many times you tell it to them.

On Tuesday morning around 9:00 a.m., I received an email from Jim Stewart, who had
been the chief photographer at WSEE-TV in Erie, Pennsylvania when I worked there
in the early 90's, I haven't seen Jim since I left but we've kept in touch through Facebook
over the years. He informed me that Gary Drapcho, the longtime sports director at the
station, had suffered a heart attack and was on life support.

Three hours later, I got a link from him that said  Rudy Yovich, who had worked
under Drapcho at WSEE-TV, had died suddenly. Several hours later, Drapcho would
also pass away.

Our television family lost not one, but two of its members who worked together as
at the same station at the same time and  died within 24 hours of each other.
In a year that's already been incredibly bad, this was another tsunami of emotions
that's drenching all of us.

Gary Drapcho, an icon in Erie who had been at the station for almost 36 years,
was gone at 63-years-old. Rudy Yovich left us suddenly at the age of 56.

Man, this was just cruel.

When I started my career in television in 1991, they were the first people I worked
with in the business. Gary was my mentor who taught me everything I needed to know
about the job. He was a pro's pro who guided me and stuck with me when I experienced
all the growing pains that come with being new to the business. I sucked. I knew it.
I sucked. He knew it. But he encouraged me to stay after it and told me that things
would get better with repetition.

We enjoyed a lot of laughs on our long trips to cover the Browns, Steelers, and Bills
every weekend on some brutally cold and nasty days there.  There were a lot of
early mornings and late nights traveling to and from games, but we always had
a great time working together.

Other than covering sports, we had another passion in common: golf.  During the
summers, we'd hack our way around golf courses in Erie about three days a week
before heading into work.

Rudy was a very talented anchor who possessed a booming voice, a great sense
of humor, and an unbridled passion for sports. Like many brothers in family, we had
our disagreements and "moments." Going out for a beer was never in the cards. However,
I respected his work. He was a superb shooter and an entertaining on-air personality.

Anybody that's worked in television is toughened up by the devastation they cover on
a daily basis. Death has to be reported on and while people in the business aren't
immune to it, they definitely get hardened by it. But this has shaken the entire television
family its core.

People outside of Erie television stations most likely have never heard of Drapcho and
Yovich, but they know how devastating this is for everyone in our community, our
family.

It was the cruelest day.

WHEN YOUR BROTHER BEATS THE CORONAVIRUS

With all the places I've lived and worked in over the years, I figured that sooner or later, I would
know someone who'd be inflicted with the coronavirus.

I just didn't figure that someone would be my brother.

My brother, Patrick, lives in Stamford, Connecticut with his wife, Imma, and two children.
He's 58-years-old. People who know my brother would say that's he's a sweet and kind
guy who could play a mean-ass guitar. Often funny and sometimes quirky, I've never
heard him say anything bad about anybody in his life.

That life would change dramatically a few weeks ago when he came down with flu-like
symptoms. And of course, with the non-stop coverage of the coronavirus and the record
number of people infected with it, I said to myself, "Good, Lord, do not let this be the
coronavirus."

At first, it was the chills and a hellacious cough, which forced Pat to isolate himself from
the rest of the family. Then came the wicked fevers which made him sweat profusely at night.
The alarms were going off and the evil thoughts started to creep into my head. But despite
all the doom and gloom delivered by the media, I was confident, that even if he had
the coronavirus,  he would recover from it. The media will tell you that everyone who
has the disease,  doesn't have a good ending, but in reality, most do. The recovery rate is
around 98 percent.

After a week in isolation, Pat had a virtual appointment with his primary care physician who
prescribed anti-biotics for a cough that had grown worse by the day. The doctor said he'd
call back on Thursday to check in but never did - so Pat called him to inform him the
cough hadn't gotten any better, it was actually worse, and he wanted to be tested for
COVID - 19.

The doctor tried to assure my brother  he didn't have the virus but made an appointment
for him  to get a test at one of those highly-impersonal drive through sites.

Pat took the test and was told the results wouldn't be available for five days. Five days?
That's an eternity for someone who is struggling with flu-like symptoms and wondering
if he has the coronavirus. So, Pat went back home and did what most of us have done
for the last month of this shutdown - he waited. But as he waited, his condition got worse,
with more chills,  more fevers, and more of that hellacious cough.

By last Sunday night, he couldn't wait anymore. His wife, Imma, drove him to a local
hospital where he was admitted. Because of strict hospital guidelines, Pat had to check
in by himself and stay by himself. No family members were permitted.

Imma had to drive back home not knowing what the hell would happen to her husband.
Needless to say, it was a sleepless night for her and our entire family with all kind of scary
thoughts rumbling through our heads.. I pretty much knew he had the coronavirus
but hoped it would not be a too severe case of it, and he'd recover quickly.

But there was one big problem. An x-ray revealed he had pneumonia and when I heard
about that, I just let out an "Oh, shit. That is not good." The blood test he had taken
after the x-ray confirmed he had the coronavirus. Now I was worried, real worried.

He not only had the virus, but pneumonia to go along with the asthma he's lived with
most of his life. This was not a good combination.

A few days earlier,  President Trump told the nation to "brace for the toughest week of our
lives." because there would be a lot of death. We weren't ready for this.

The doctors, well, I should say nurses, because they were the ones who administered
all the care in the first 48 hours, immediately gave my brother the anti-malaria drug,
hydroxychloroquine. President Trump has been touting the drug as a possible cure for
the virus without any facts, while the media has been bashing him incessantly for
doing it because the drug has not been proven in studies that it's effective for the virus
and could cause bad side effects.

I was all for the anti-malaria drug and happy as hell they were giving it to my brother.
Until you have a family member in that condition where you don't know how things
will turn out, don't bash the process. Would you rather have a person get worse by doing
nothing or possibly better by trying something?

One of the most frustrating and excruciating parts of the process in the early going,
was the lack of communication from hospital officials. We were hoping for something
but got virtually nothing. In this day and age of instant information, it was like everything
got disconnected and went dark.

Listen, I totally understand how hectic and chaotic the scene is at all these hospitals
around the country. Nurses are working double shifts under an incredible amount of
pressure while trying to avoid getting infected with the virus themselves.

I get that. And appreciate it.  But trying to get some information during a heightened
state of anxiety was brutal. The information wound up coming from Pat, who would
call his wife from his cell, who would then relay the news to me. However, that
was coming from him, not a medical expert, so we were totally in the dark on how
things were really going.

Pat told Imma on Wednesday morning the nurses were giving him oxygen through
a tube because his levels were low and was still receiving twice daily doses of the anti-
malaria drug which seemed to be helping. There were no fevers and the coughs were
less frequent. I actually exhaled for the first time since Sunday night.

That feeling of relief didn't last too long. Imma texted me saying Pat had been given
the experimental drug, Actemra, which I had never heard of. I immediately did what
most people do when they don't know about something: I Googled it.

I was shocked by what I read. Actemra is currently being used to treat patients with "serious
cases of COVID-19 who are marked with pneumonia." My anxiety went through the roof.
Another experimental drug? The case is now serious? Why would they be giving Pat not
one, but two experimental drugs if it wasn't serious?

We couldn't get any answers from the doctors. I wanted to know what the hell was
going on, but couldn't. I spoke with Pat and he said he was feeling better, but, again,that
was from him, not the doctors.

The doctor finally got in touch with Pat's wife on Thursday and told her that while Pat
was improving, his oxygen levels needed to get back to normal before he could think about
discharging him.

So, we waited,  And waited.

I spoke with Pat on the cell and he sounded weak -  the virus combined with the
powerful medication does that. He let out a ear-curdling cough and I was like, "Is
he really getting better?"

But he was. I spoke with him on Friday morning and he had more energy in his voice
and humor in his dialogue. The old Pat was coming back. I felt good about the path
he was on and was hoping he'd be out of the hospital by early next week.

Late Saturday night, I got a big surprise.

"Pat is coming home!!!!"  Imma texted me. I was elated. We all were. Six days
after entering the hospital to be treated for the coronavirus, Pat was going home.

When he got there, he was greeted by his two kids, whom he couldn't even hug because
of social distancing guidelines. But Ava, his 17-year-old daughter, put a big smile on
his face by baking him a cake that said, "Kicking COVID's Ass" - ah, what a beautiful thing.

Pat has to stay isolated as he continues his recovery.  He is still not 100 percent but
we are incredibly thankful that he is back home instead of becoming another bad
statistic during this dreadful time.

We are forever grateful for the job the nurses did while giving him round-the-clock care.
They were simply amazing

My brother Pat was very lucky. He's knows it and we know it.  We have definitely something
to be happy about on this Easter Sunday.

FLIP KEEPS ON TRUCKING DURING AMERICA'S TOUGH TIMES

As much of the world has slowed to a crawl because of the coronavirus pandemic, Eric "Flip"
Fors, is rolling across the country on 18 wheels. While the government has ordered America to
stay at home to do its work, Flip is driving a big rig on the open roads trying to get to places you've never heard of.

Flip is a trucker and during these unprecedented and fragile times in global history, he is
delivering food supplies to stores in dire need of them.

"We as truckers take pride in keeping the supply chain moving," Flip said. "We all have friends
and families at home who still have to go to the store to buy things, so we have to work to keep
those shelves stocked. Daily life has changed, but it hasn't stopped," he added.

Flip's life changed in a very big way several years ago when he gave up a long and
distinguished career as a television producer to become a trucker. In his previous job, Flip
lived for breaking news, the kind that impacted the lives of people in the community and
ones that didn't get rinsed out quickly in the 24-hour news cycle. Now, he watches how
the media covers a world-wide pandemic from afar while making sure shelves are full
with supplies close to your home.

"When I did decide on becoming a driver, one of the things I found most attractive and
satisfying about it was how there was such a tangible connection between the job and being
a vital part of keeping the economy moving," Flip said. "Being an important link in the
supply chain, that continues to be very satisfying, so the current emphasis on our industry
is not lost on me," he stated.

Based in Atlanta, Flip has made deliveries to as far away as Binghamton, New York.
The social distancing mandates are pretty easy to abide by and he's steadfast in cleaning
the cab area of his truck with a plethora of sanitizers. And of course, washing his hands
thoroughly after every delivery is a must. Flip shares the road with other big rigs headed to all
points on the map, but things are definitely different.

"As you might expect, roads have been much easier to navigate with civilian, everyday
drivers staying off the roads," said the former swimmer at the University of Georgia.
"I'd say traffic is probably down 25%.  There are a lot fewer wrecks out there as well,
to be honest."

Flip, who worked at television stations in cities like Fort Myers, Louisville, and Atlanta,
has an affable personality which makes him a magnet for friends. However, there aren't
many people to meet on the road, just the brotherhood of truckers doing the best they can under
trying circumstances.

"I would say the bond is as strong as ever," said Flip, who is also an avid tennis player
who possesses a legendary forehand that's well-known around the courts of Atlanta.
"We know we have a job to do and understand how critical it is to keep America moving
during this difficult time. We try to keep our social distance at truck stops and restaurants."

If he was carrying loads of toilet paper, Flip  might be the most popular man in America
right now, but he loves doing his work in relative anonymity,  delivering a lot of
the products we need to keep our lives fluid during these tough and surreal times.

Flip, we thank you for what you're doing!

REMEMBERING CHRIS DOLEMAN

Early Wednesday morning, I was scrolling through the tsunami of stories on social media
as I sipped on a piping hot cup of coffee.  Most of them were either tributes to the late Kobe
Bryant or the investigation into the helicopter crash that took the life of the NBA legend
as well as eight other people, including Bryant's 13-year-old daughter, Gianna.

Seemingly buried through the heartbreaking stories was a headline that caught my eye and
knocked a little wind out of my stomach.

Hall of Famer Doleman dead at the age of 58

I clicked on the link and winced. Chris Doleman, a defensive force and football legend, had
died after a two-year battle with brain cancer. Doleman wasn't a global icon like Kobe but he
accomplished things most NFL players can only dream of.

The York, Pennsylvania native was an eight-time Pro Bowl defensive end in his 15-year career
with Minnesota, San Francisco, and Atlanta. He recorded 150.5 career sacks, which ranks as fifth-best all-time and in 1989, Doleman registered an incredible 21 sacks for the Vikings.

I soaked up pretty much everything Doleman did as a player, but knew very little about him as
a person. Unlike Kobe, who played under the bright lights of Los Angeles, Doleman spent 10
years of his career playing in Minnesota, where few athletes become household names, even
those who were as dominant a player as Doleman was.

The dearth of personal information I had on Doleman changed in 2003. We were part of
a team that broadcasted games in the south for an upstart football network. With both of us
based in Atlanta, we hit the road together for games in towns that were off the beaten path like
Boone, North Carolina, Florence, South Carolina, and Martin, Tennessee - not exactly places
that would make anybody's bucket list to visit.

At 6'5" and nearly 300 pounds, Doleman was a mountain of man with a perma-look on
his face that said, "Don't mess with me with any kind of your bullshit." That probably came
from trying to survive in a viscous sport that saw him miss only two games because of injury
in his 15-year career.  I took him for a bad ass - and he was. But behind his NFL persona
was a person who was so incredibly humble, kind, and one that was just soaking in great
character.

Doleman wasn't a "hey, look at me"-guy when he played. There were no sack dances, no chest
thumps, or never-ending searches for the camera. Chris Doleman was old-school. He just
destroyed guys and went back to the huddle to get ready for the next play. And that's exactly
how he was when we worked together nearly every weekend for three months. As much as
I inquired about his career, his opponents, and his style, Doleman never wanted to talk about
himself - unless it had to do with his golf game.

Doleman loved golf. Every time we were scheduled to work a football game together,
Doleman always said to me, "make sure you bring your clubs." We would leave early Friday
morning and be on a course by noon. Doleman was hooked on golf and the big man
could hit it a country mile. Think Happy Gilmore without the run up to the ball.  He would
rain all over my drives with his 330 -yard pokes without much effort. And Doleman had a
decent short game for a man of his great size.

Doleman's passion to analyze college football games few people cared about didn't match
his obsession with golf. He was a thoughtful, well-spoken man, who knew the game of
football inside and out, but talking about the sport on television was something  that was more
of a hobby to Doleman. I can guarantee you he didn't spend a lot time thinking about
working games for a major network. To Doleman, if it happened, it happened. No biggie.

What was important to Doleman was making the Pro Football Hall of Fame. His incredible
numbers were more than enough to achieve immortality in Canton. But for all his great
success on the field, Doleman didn't achieve anywhere close to Kobe-like superstar status
when he played. Perhaps that was because nobody actually heard Doleman talk or say
anything. I reckon  that unless you lived in Minnesota, you probably didn't even know
what Doleman looked like.

He often lamented to me that maybe he should have been more outgoing, but at the same
time, he despised all those players who were self-promoters to the media and beyond.

That just wasn't Doleman. He was just too proud and too humble to do any of that me, me,
me stuff.

Doleman fell short of making the Hall of Fame in his first year of eligibility and he wasn't
happy about it.. "Paul," he said. "I don't want to make it when I'm old and gray. I want to
still be young enough to enjoy it."

In 2012, Doleman made the Hall of Fame at the age of 50 - plenty of time to enjoy football
immortality. Or so I thought.  Doleman was diagnosed with brain cancer in 2018 at the age
of 56, the number he wore when he played.

Two years later - Doleman is gone.

It's sadly ironic that Doleman died during a week when the world is mourning Kobe Bryant.
He was almost always overshadowed and not really recognized for the unbelievable player
he was during his football career. Today, the article about his death sat beneath an
avalanche of tributes to Kobe Bryant.

That is just kind of sad all the way around. Damn, life just ain't fair.

I'm going to miss you big fella. Rest in Peace.

FROM TV PRODUCER TO TRUCKER? THAT'S A BIG 10-4!

As a television producer, Flip Fors went into every show knowing he'd probably have to
change things up on the fly. Breaking news, reporters missing slots, and satellite feeds
dropping just before hit times are just a few things that can throw off the most meticulously
planned shows, leaving him to carry the load and make a seamless transition to normalcy
while trying to put out fires in the control booth.

Now, after nearly 20 years in broadcast news,  Flip has changed things up on the fly in a big way.
He left the organized chaos world of television and is settling into his new profession - a truck driver.

"I had always been intrigued by truck driving. When I worked in my last job. I would see truck drivers out on the road and say to myself, 'Wow, I'm driving seven or eight hours for a one or
two-hour meeting,' Flip said while en route to delivering a load to Fort Myers, Florida where he
once worked as a producer for WBBH-TV.  "Then I'd have to drive back another seven, eight hours not really getting anything done. "But these truckers are in their office right now," he said. "And what
I love about it is how we are directly impacting the economy by delivering all of the amazing
products that people buy every single day."

It's not everyday someone in television winds up as a professional truck driver. Flip might actually
be the first in broadcast history to go from senior producer to a rookie driver of a big rig.
There was shock and awe when Flip told many of his friends of his highly-unusual ambition, but
getting Kristin, his wife of 15 years, on board with it was somewhat of a challenge.

"Well, it was a huge shock to my wife when I initially told her that I was considering it, " Flip said.
"I explained that I had researched it and had actually been thinking about it for a while, so it just
wasn't "on a lark." I laid out my case and she was impressed and basically said I should go for it,"
he said.

The Atlanta, Georgia resident who has a 14-yearold daughter named Grace, went for it
shortly after being laid off from The Dairy Alliance, a milk company where he worked as a  communications director. Out of television and out of work, Flip saw a world of opportunities in
front of him and threw caution to the wind, setting out to do what he wanted to do.

"I realized I had the chance to reinvent myself," Flip said. "I didn't have to be 'Flip' the TV guy

or Eric the dairy communications guy. For the next chapter of this wonderful life, who did I
want to be?" he said. "I did research on high in-demand careers, their training, and their long-term
financial opportunities. I attacked it and put my plans into motion to get my CDL and work
with a trucking company." Flip said.

Flip isn't afraid of the grind that goes with being a trucker - after all, he gained mental toughness
as a  swimmer at the University of Georgia and knew how to endure the pain that
accompanies 10,000 yard workouts at 5:30 in the morning. He went all in and signed up for
trucking school where he passed his exam on the first try.

"Training was pretty darn tough, but it was a lot of fun," he said. "You're getting to drive and
maneuver a massive 20-ton vehicle - it can be up to 40 tons if the trailer is full. "That's a lot
of pressure and responsibility. During school, you're basically re-wiring your brain to understand
that the trailer will go in the exact opposite direction that the wheel is turned because it's
articulating on the pivoting fifth wheel on of the back of the tractor, " Flip explained.

Flip, who made stops in Macon, Ga., Fort Myers Fla., Louisville, Ky., and Atlanta, Ga., during
his career in television, will now be criss-crossing the country carrying loads to some cities he's
never even heard of.  But Flip doesn't mind and certainly doesn't care what you think of his new profession.

"I will say this right now - despite any preconceptions that you might have, truck driving is a real
skill set and the behind-the-wheels people are valued professionals," Flip added.

Flip is still in the training program and hopes to get his own rig by next year. He's already
picked out the color of it and knows exactly how he's going to brand it.

"I'm hoping to to have a nice dark blue one like my training partner has. They're good-looking
rigs. " Flip said. "I'm going to paint a dolphin like Flipper jumping through a flaming hoop or
possibly a giant Georgia Bulldog on the side."

10-4, good buddy. 10-4.


.

LIFTING OFF WITH ANNE McCLAIN

I gave up cheering for professional sports teams when I was 16-years-old. I just felt the

time and energy rooting for jerseys could be better served in another capacity. I truly
respected the athleticism and accomplishments of the players, but the wins and losses
didn't matter much to me, mainly because, well, they were not my wins and losses.

And during my career playing and covering sports, I wasn't much into hero worshipping.
I was of the belief that big stars put their pants on just like everyone else: one leg at a time. 

I have met Michael, interviewed Lebron one-on-one, and shared a scene with Kevin Costner

in the movie, "Bull Durham" - and never thought it was a big deal. I've only had one, "Holy

Sh%t, OMG" moment in the presence of another person when I had a chance meeting with
Ted Williams in the batting cages at the spring training home of the Boston Red Sox where
I was a minor-league catcher. 

In the spring of 1988, the greatest hitter who has ever lived was giving me one-on-one instruction
on the art of hitting. At 6'4", Williams was a towering man with a booming voice. I said to
myself, "This has to be God in disguise." Williams talked to me for about 15 minutes and
I'm not sure I remembered a thing he had to say. I was in awe of him. But it wasn't just

the Hall of Fame accomplishments that moved me. The man was a true American hero, having
served not one but two tours of duty in the military. I vividly remembered a picture of him
in his fighter plane and it blitzed through my mind when he was talking to me. Williams flew
39 missions in the Korean War. Incredible.

Some 30 years later, I experienced that same feeling of awe. Last June, I was assigned
to produce a feature on astronaut Anne McClain at NASA in Houston. First of all, being
at the space center was akin to being on the hallowed grounds of  old Yankee Stadium.
It wreaked of history and there was little doubt it was truly something special.

When I was doing my research on McClain, I had several, "Holy Sh%t, OMG" moments.
Her lists of accomplishments were beyond incredible.

*West Point graduate earning a degree in mechanical engineering.
*University of Bath (United Kingdom) Master's degree in aerospace engineering.
*Master's degree in international security from the University of Bristol (UK)
*Played for USA Rugby, a national team.

But the part that made my jaw drop was this:

McClain qualified to be a Kiowa Warrior helicopter pilot and was deployed to the Gulf
where she flew 1600 hours and 216 combat missions during Operation Iraqi Freedom.

216 combat missions!

Are. You. Kidding. Me?

I have tremendous respect for anyone who spends a day in battle, much less 216 combat
missions flying an attack helicopter. Absolutely amazing.

After her service in Iraq and qualifying as a flight instructor, McClain beat out 8,000 other
candidates for a spot in  NASA's astronaut training program which she completed in 2015.

Yes, there are high-achievers, and then there is Anne McClain.

I thought about her incredible background when I spoke with her on the deck of the training
pool at NASA. In many ways, it was like listening to Ted Williams talk about hitting. She, like
Williams, is an American hero - someone who served the country by fighting in a real war.
To me, it doesn't get much bigger than that. It was an honor to talk with her, especially when
she was wearing her astronaut suit and helmet.

I mean, how many times, do you get to interview an astronaut in their space suit on the
deck at the NASA Space Center? I knew how lucky I was in the moment.

And I was in awe of Anne McClain.

McClain lifted off from Russia with two other astronauts last December. It fulfilled a dream
for McClain, who said she wanted to be an astronaut since she was 4-years-old. Talk about
knowing what you want and getting after it. She outlined everything she had to do to get in
position to be an astronaut and accomplished them all.

I've been following McClain's mission at the International Space Station which ends in June.
The pictures are truly incredible, the accomplishment - even greater.

I faced a dilemma before that trip to Houston. I had the chance to go to North Carolina to
attend the 30th anniversary of "Bull Durham", the movie that became an important part of my
life and the people who were going to be there were pretty special to me.

But I felt going to NASA to interview an astronaut was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Re-hashing all the memories from the movie could wait for another time.

I made the right decision. Anne McClain is a true American hero and there just aren't very
many of them in our society today.

DEAR IRONMAN: DROP THE 'SPECIAL NEEDS' BAGS

Dear Ironman:

I've thoroughly enjoyed the five Ironman events I've completed. From Boulder to Lake
Placid to Mont-Tremblant,  the events were well-organized and well-run, making for a truly
memorable experience.

There's not much you can do about the pain one endures over the course of an 140-mile event,
but when it's all said and done, there is nothing quite like hearing Mike Reilly say, "You are
an Ironman" as competitors cross the finish line. It's a nice touch for an incredible event.

However, I really believe there is one thing the Ironman can do without: calling the bags
we use during the race "special needs" ones. Whenever I hear volunteers at check-in say,
"These are your "special needs bags",  I cringe. It just doesn't sound right. In fact, it sounds
 awful. The "special needs" bags in an Ironman event are used by competitors to put their
'goodies' in to help them get through the race. Power Bars, gels, goos, Swedish fish, aspirin,
band-aids, socks, Vaseline, sandwiches - if it can get a competitor through the endurance race,
chances are it will be in the "special needs" bag.

When I hear "special needs", I think about what most people do: those special kids who are
sometimes referred to as ones with "special needs." They are ones who need a little (or a lot) of
help just to get through the day.

Wikipedia defines special needs as people with autism, cerebral palsy, down syndrome,
dyslexia, blindness, ADHD, and cystic fibrosis. However, there are a lot of children born
with many other things that make them children with special needs.

When I hear someone talk about those "special needs" bags at an Ironman event, I feel
uncomfortable. If I was a parent of a child with special needs, I would certainly find it, um,
awkward, if not offensive. It's just not right and I think the Ironman franchise should find
a way to change the name of the bags.  Call them Fuel and Recovery bags, but please don't
call them "special needs" bags. Call them S.O.S bags - anything but 'special needs' bags.

Major League Baseball recently made a big change when it came to how they described 

the list where injured players land. Almost since its inception, baseball had a "disabled list." 

Because of their sensitivity to others, it will simply be called the "injured list"

"The principal concern is that using the term "disabled for players who are injured supports the

misconception that people with disabilities are injured and therefore not able to participate or

compete in sports," said Jeff Pfeifer, MLB's senior director of league economics and operations.

Despite the change being long overdue, it was a great move by Major League Baseball. 

There is nothing special about those bags,  But there is certainly a lot that is special about
the kids who have to overcome a lot just to get through the day. Same goes for the parents.
It is extremely tough, both mentally and physically, for the parents and kids with 'special
needs' to deal with the cards they've been dealt. It's heart-wrenching for those who watch
them try to overcome the challenges they face every single day, 24/7.

When I'm swimming 2.4 miles in a beautiful lake or riding 112-miles on courses with
spectacular scenery, I find myself counting my blessing on just how lucky I am to compete
in an Ironman event, especially in my mid-50's. I am thankful that I'm able to run, bike, and
swim and enjoy everything an Ironman event has to offer.

I just don't like to see "special needs" slapped across the bags that contain fuel and
recovery items. I don't think it qualifies as being in good taste. Competitors really are not
special. Special should be used on those kids who didn't have luck on their side when they
came into this world. They are the ones who have incredible character and tremendous will.

The "special needs" bags need to go away in the Ironman events. Call them Fuel and Recovery
bags. The "special" part needs to always be used when describing those special little kids.

Thank you.

Paul Devlin