P.K. SUBBAN'S GREATEST GIFT

"In life I believe you are not defined by what you accomplish, but by what you
 do for others,"  P.K. Subban.

In his brief 26 years on the planet,  P.K. Subban had been defined by what he does,
a beautifully skilled hockey player who took his talents to the NHL. But for the rest of
his life, the veteran of the Montreal Canadiens, Subban will be remembered for what
he did Wednesday.

Subban donated a whopping $10 million dollars to a children's hospital in Montreal,
making it the biggest philanthropic gift by a professional athlete in the history of the country.

$10 million.

For a children's hospital.

Wow. Simply amazing.

If Subban ever wins the MVP of the NHL or raises the Stanley Cup, it still won't be
enough of an accomplishment to surpass the one he achieved Wednesday. To the people
of North America, Subban is a hero forever. To make such contribution to a children's
is both jaw-dropping and beyond heartwarming.

The $10 million donation will be made during the next seven years, and part of it
will be used to create a fund called "P.K.'s Helping Hands," which will provide financial
assistance to families of sick children so they can concentrate on caring for them instead
of worrying about how they will provide for their family while their child is in the hospital.

Amazing.

In a sports world that's been rife with scandal after scandal and poorly behaved athletes
like Ray Rice, Greg Hardy, Adrian Peterson, Lance Armstrong, and Tiger Woods, Subban
is a huge deodorizer that temporarily covers up the stench. He's the breath of fresh
air the world needs right about now.

There are many, many athletes who make far more than Subban, who recently signed
an 8-year, $72 million contract, but few that will ever do what Subban did.

I have played and covered sports for nearly my entire life and my days of hero worshipping
ended when I was about 16-years-old. I admire and respect professional athletes for their
awe-inspiring talent, but I learned a long time ago, they are just human beings like the
the rest of us, complete with warts and imperfections.

P.K. Subban has changed that. I don't care what kind of hockey player he is, but his
gift to the hospital in Montreal, made him a person I respect and greatly admire.
He is professional athlete who truly "gets it', as evidenced by what he said at Wednesday's
ceremony.

 "Sometimes I try to think, 'P.K., are you a hockey player or are you just someone
who plays hockey?' I just play hockey. Because one day I won't be a hockey player a
nymore. I'll just be someone who played hockey. So what do I want people to remember
me for other than being a hockey player?

"Well, every time you walk into this hospital, you'll know what I stand for."

P.K. Subban gets it. I just wish other athletes would "get it" as well.

CHANNELING MY INNER ROB KONRAD

6.2 miles in the open water is a long way, making for a lot of time to think about
things. Long before I drew down my googles and jumped in Lake George for the
start of the marathon swim race, I knew exactly what I was going to think about to
help get me through this endurance challenge:

Rob Konrad and his epic, swim-for-his-life journey eight months ago

The former fullback of the Miami Dolphins fell out of his boat off the coast of Florida
and had just two options: sink or swim to safety. Trouble was, safety and land was nine
miles away. Nine long miles. He had to swim through the night with sharks circling around
him without having any food, water, or a competitive swimming background. Can't
imagine Konrad was liking his odds of surviving.

I just about came out of the womb swimming and swam competitively until I was
12-years-old. Years of mind-numbing double-sessions and the boredom that goes with
staring at a black line for more than 6,000 yards a day, was just about all I could handle.
I was cooked and said bye-bye to the sport. Or so I thought.

When I started my swim around Lake George, which is one of the cleanest, freshest lakes
in the world, I thought about Konrad and what he had to endure to make it back to
shore that January night in 2015. That was my ticket for getting through this grueling event.
I figured if a guy like Konrad could survive in the ocean's salt water and all that goes with
it, I could go the distance of 6.2 miles.

When the water got choppy on the way out to the turnaround point, I thought of Konrad
battling five-foot waves during his nine-mile swim. Now, that is tough. I grinded it out
the only way I knew how.  I just attacked it. Exactly a month earlier and less than an
hour away, I completed the iconic Ironman for a second time, which included a 2.4
mile swim.

Even at the age of 51, I can pretty much fall out of bed in the dead of winter and complete
a 2.4 mile swim in under 1:10. Swimming came naturally to me. However, I only spent
five sessions in the pool preparing for the 6.2 mile race in Lake George. Not finishing
was not an option. It was just a matter of how much time it would take me and what
shape I would come out of the water in.

Konrad finished his swim-for-life, nine mile journey in 16 hours basically because
he kept getting pushed around by the waves. He said he followed the lights on shore that
he saw through the darkness. I tried to follow my line of sight to each buoy flanking the
course, but I kept going of my mark.  I was incredulous to how Konrad could find his
way back to shore in the darkness in waves that were crushing him.

Many people were skeptical of Konrad's story but they didn't account for his incredible
will. They seemed to forget all he endured to be a college All-American, second-round
draft pick, and a man who survived six years in the dog-eat-dog world of the NFL.

Only the strong survive in that league. He was mentally tough, had a high-pain threshold,
and when he was in the Atlantic Ocean, Konrad was driven by one thing: seeing his
wife and three girls again. He didn't want them to have to grow up without a father.

I was hardly in any danger of losing my life, being fish food for sharks, or getting
hypotherma. Konrad got that plus severe dehydration, and a condition that sees the
fibers in the muscles break down.

The only thing I battled during my 6.2 mile swim was a pair of burning shoulders. It
felt like someone was jabbing a red-hot poker into my rotator cuffs over the last two
miles of the race. Other than that, I actually felt great.  Thinking of all that Konrad
went through made the distance seem easy for me. If I were in Konrad's suit and had to
swim in the ocean at night and sharks circling, my heart would've jumped through
my throat.

My swim was a piece of cake and I loved every minute of it. Using Konrad's experience
during my quest to complete the race made it seem like a mile swim in the pool.

I came out of the water and crossed the finish line in a time of 3:21, which wasn't too
bad. I wasn't popping champagne but I was thoroughly satisfied with my performance.

I can't wait to do it again next year. I'm quite sure Rob Konrad didn't utter those words
after coming onto the shore in Florida that early morning in January.

There's a good chance he's telling everyone who will listen that anything is truly possible.

ECK, GIBSON & A PICTURE WORTH MORE THAN 1,000 WORDS

Kirk Gibson. The Eck. The Picture.

When I saw the two baseball legends captured in a picture that was posted in a twitter
feed I rarely check, a flood of memories rushed through my brain like Usain Bolt on crack:
incredibly fast, producing a burst of unbridled joy that ends with one simple word:

Wow.

A simple photo where a caption wasn't necessary and the subjects didn't seem to mind
their moment was interrupted by someone whose sole purpose was seemingly to post
the picture on Facebook just to get 1,000 'likes'.

Dennis Eckersley, as cool a guy as there's ever been in the history of game, spending
a moment with a man he's forever connected with, Kirk Gibson, a man who played the
game with spectacular grit, passion, and intensity. If you know what happened with them
on a baseball field in 1988, it wouldn't take much to figure how beautiful this simple,
yet powerful photo really is.

It was the first time I'd ever seen them pictured together, in or out of uniform, since
one incredible baseball moment put them in the same sentence forever in 1988.

1988 represented a time in my life where baseball was the second most important thing
in my life behind my family. I had just finished my first season as a minor-league player
in the Boston Red Sox organization and I was as engrossed in the game as a person
could possibly be. It was my true passion.

In the Fall of 1988, the Oakland A's met the Los Angles Dodgers in Game 1 of the
World Series. Eckersley was the most dominant pitcher in the game as a shut down
closer, preceding Yankees great Mariano Rivera as a baseball assassin whom opposing
hitters seemingly conceited at-bats to because they realized they had virtually no shot
of getting a hit off them, much less the fat part of the barrel on the ball.

Gibson was a throwback, a player who asked no quarter and gave no quarter, either.
As a newly signed free-agent, he changed the country club culture of the of the Dodgers,
imposing his will, intensity, and passion on a team that desperately needed it.

By the time the World Series came around Gibson was a shadow of the player
who'd win the National League MVP that season. His legs ravaged with injury,
making him a man who could  barely walk, let alone swing a bat with any kind
of authority.

Gibson didn't start Game 1 against  Oakland, in fact, he didn't even bother to come
out for pre-game introductions because he was in such pain. He did promise Dodgers
manager Tom Lasorda he could give him one at-bat if he needed him in a late-game
situation.

That situation came three hours later when the Dodgers trailed the A's by a run
in the ninth inning. Eckersley came in and more than a few fans headed for the
exits to beat the traffic. Gibson came to the plate with two outs, walking as if
there wasn't a single ounce of joy in his life, the happiness sapped by the
pain of injuries sweeping through his lower body.

If you're a baseball fan, you know what happened next. Gibson shocked the
Eck and the baseball world with a walk-off home run to win the game, propelling
the Dodgers to a monumental upset of the almighty A's.

Flash forward 27 years later to Detroit, where Gibson is working as an analyst
for the Tigers, the Eck is doing the same for the Red Sox. They meet in
a hallway of the broadcast wing of Comerica Park. I could only imagine what
was going through their minds when they stopped to chat.

Gibson was recently diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Eckersley dealt with
demons in the early part of his career, battling alcoholism and a career that was
going in the tank before reinventing himself as a Hall of Fame closer. Gibson's
signature moment of his career was a heart-stopping, iconic home run that will
will forever be part of baseball lore. Eckersely will forever be the dominant
closer who gave up that magnanimous home run.

But that moment didn't shatter Eckersely as it did Donnie Moore or even
Ralph Branca, who gave up the home run to Bobby Thompson in the ninth
inning to give the NY Giants the pennant over the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1951.

Eck was just too good and downright too cool for that to happen.

I had the good fortune of working with Eckersley for two years during my time
at NESN. A man once said to me, "Paul, perception is reality." Eckersley convinced
me that was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard.

Eckersley was  perceived to be brash, cocky, and arrogant. He was somewhat reserved
off the field and a bit of a showman  on it. He'd punctuate a big  strikeout with a point
of the finger or a pump of the fist. Admittedly, I bought into that image as well.

That perception couldn't be further from reality.

Eckersley is the coolest, most down-to-earth Hall of Famer  there's ever been. While
at NESN, he never played the role of a superstar, never talked down to anyone, or
made like he was better than anyone else.

He always had a minute for me, always returned my calls, and never said no when
I'd ask him to offer his unpaid analysis while I worked at MLB.com.

Unfortunately, during all my years in sports broadcasting, I never met Gibson, but I'm
fairly certain the perception of him was reality. He was gritty, gutty, and a bad-ass
when it came to competing on the field. I'm sure he's battling Parkinson's disease just
as he did all those injuries during his magical season in 1988: Without complaint and
dignity.

When pictured together as they were in Detroit, Eckersley and Gibson represented what
a lot o life and baseball is all about. There is triumph, defeat, victory, set-up backs,
toughness, trying times, passion, dignity, energy, and perseverance.

For me, it will forever be a picture of more than 1,000 words.

ECK, GIBSON, AND A PICTURE WORTH MORE THAN 1,000 WORDS

Kirk Gibson. The Eck. The Picture.

When I saw the two baseball legends captured in a picture that was posted in a twitter
feed I rarely check, a flood of memories rushed through my brain like Usain Bolt on crack:
incredibly fast, producing a burst of unbridled joy that ends with one simple word:

Wow.

A simple photo where a caption wasn't necessary and the subjects didn't seem to mind
their moment was interrupted by someone whose sole purpose was seemingly to post
the picture on Facebook just to get 1,000 'likes'.

Dennis Eckersley, as cool a guy as there's ever been in the history of game, spending
a moment with a man he's forever connected with, Kirk Gibson, a man who played the
game with spectacular grit, passion, and intensity. If you know what happened with them
on a baseball field in 1988, it wouldn't take much to figure how beautiful this simple,
yet powerful photo really is.

It was the first time I'd ever seen them pictured together, in or out of uniform, since
one incredible baseball moment put them in the same sentence forever in 1988.

1988 represented a time in my life where baseball was the second most important thing
in my life behind my family. I had just finished my first season as a minor-league player
in the Boston Red Sox organization and I was as engrossed in the game as a person
could possibly be. It was my true passion.

In the Fall of 1988, the Oakland A's met the Los Angles Dodgers in Game 1 of the
World Series. Eckersley was the most dominant pitcher in the game as a shut down
closer, preceding Yankees great Mariano Rivera as a baseball assassin whom opposing
hitters seemingly conceited at-bats to because they realized they had virtually no shot
of getting a hit off them, much less the fat part of the barrel on the ball.

Gibson was a throwback, a player who asked no quarter and gave no quarter, either.
As a newly signed free-agent, he changed the country club culture of the of the Dodgers,
imposing his will, intensity, and passion on a team that desperately needed it.

By the time the World Series came around Gibson was a shadowy of the player
who'd win the National League MVP that season. His legs ravaged with injury,
making him a man who could  barely walk, let alone swing a bat with any kind
of authority.

Gibson didn't start Game 1 against  Oakland, in fact, he didn't even bother to come
out for pre-game introductions because he was in such pain. He did promise Dodgers
manager Tom Lasorda he could give him one at-bat if he needed him in a late-game
situation.

That situation came three hours later when the Dodgers trailed the A's by a run
in the ninth inning. Eckersley came in and more than a few fans headed for the
exits to beat the traffic. Gibson came to the plate with two outs, walking as if
there wasn't a single ounce of joy in his life, the happiness sapped by the
pain of injuries sweeping through his lower body.

If you're a baseball fan, you know what happened next. Gibson shocked the
Eck and the baseball world with a walk-off home run to win the game, propelling
the Dodgers to a monumental upset of the almighty A's.

Flash forward 27 years later to Detroit, where Gibson is working as an analyst
for the Tigers, the Eck is doing the same for the Red Sox. They meet in
a hallway of the broadcast wing of Comerica Park. I could only imagine what
was going through their minds when they stopped to chat.

Gibson was recently diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Eckersley dealt with
demons in the early part of his career, battling alcoholism and a career that was
going in the tank before reinventing himself as a Hall of Fame closer. Gibson's
signature moment of his career was a heart-stopping, iconic home run that will
will forever be part of baseball lore. Eckersely will forever be the dominant
closer who gave up that magnanimous home run.

But that moment didn't shatter Eckersely as it did Donnie Moore or even
Ralph Branca, who gave up the home run to Bobby Thompson in the ninth
inning to give the NY Giants the pennant over the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1951.

Eck was just too good and downright too cool for that to happen.

I had the good fortune of working with Eckersley for two years during my time
at NESN. A man once said to me, "Paul, perception is reality." Eckersley convinced
me that was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard.

Eckersley was  perceived to be brash, cocky, and arrogant. He was somewhat reserved
off the field and a bit of a showman  on it. He'd punctuate a big  strikeout with a point
of the finger or a pump of the fist. Admittedly, I bought into that image as well.

That perception couldn't be further from reality.

Eckersley is the coolest, most down-to-earth Hall of Famer  there's ever been. While
at NESN, he never played the role of a superstar, never talked down to anyone, or
make like he was better than anyone else.

He always had a minute for me, always returned my calls, and never said no when
I'd ask him to offer his unpaid analysis while I worked at MLB.com.

Unfortunately, during all my years in sports broadcasting, I never met Gibson, but I'm
fairly certain the perception of him was reality. He was gritty, gutty, and a bad-ass
when it came to competing on the field. I'm sure he's battling Parkinson's disease just
as he did all those injuries during his magical season in 1988: Without complaint and
dignity.

When pictured together as they were in Detroit, Eckersley and Gibson represented what
a lot o life and baseball is all about. There is triumph, defeat, victory, set-up backs,
toughness, trying times, passion, dignity, energy, and perseverance.

For me, it will forever be a picture of more than 1,000 words.

TEBOW, TIGER, AND 'DON'T EVER GIVE UP'

"Tebow is the single worst quarterback I've ever seen in the NFL."
                                                                                              --former NFL kicker Jay Feely

It's not the critic who counts.....


"Tiger Woods is just painful to watch right now."
                                                               --Butch Harmon, Tiger's ex-swing coach.


....Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles.

Tim Tebow is back in the consciousness of the sports world after nearly two years of
dealing with failure. He's in camp with the Philadelphia Eagles trying to earn a spot
on a very tight and talented roster. On Sunday, he returned to a standing ovation while
scoring a touchdown in a preseason game against Indianapolis.

Tiger Woods has been washed out of our consciousness because his steady failures
in a  game now filled with young and wildly-talented players who have  passed him
by. As Jason Day was raising the Wannamaker trophy Sunday, Tiger was back home,
watching a game he once thoroughly dominated while seeing his ranking plummet
into the 300's.

Like Tiger, Tebow dominated his game once, albeit at the college level, earning a Heisman
Trophy and two national championships at the University of Florida. He was the king of
college football and a legend long before he left the campus in Gainesville.

Tebow was like Tiger in that he had his legion of haters and when his talent, or lack of it,
got exposed in the NFL, the haters and 'expert' analysts made like he was a piñata and just
kept whacking and whacking away at him.

A funny thing happened though,  Tebow never broke. Ever. He got traded by the
Broncos, cut by the Jets and Patriots, and couldn't even get an invite to training camp by
his hometown team, the Jacksonville Jaguars, who sucked worse than he did.

However, Tebow, never quit and never gave up on himself. He worked with throwing
specialist Tom House and continued to work out in hopes of getting another shot with
an NFL team, which the 'critics' said, seemed about as likely as Ryan Leaf hooking on
with the New England Patriots and taking over for Tom Brady.

Despite all the hate, the critics, and an NFL door that seemed all but bolted shut, Tebow
didn't quit. Nope, he didn't let anyone else tell him that he was done and it was time
to move on with his life.

The haters and critics have been all over Tiger going back to that regrettable night when
he barreled down his driveway in an ambien-fueled haze, knocking over a fire hydrant
letting all the sordid details of his private life come gushing out.

Tiger hasn't been the same since. Oh, sure, he's won a lot of tournaments, but has gone
MIA in the major ones, which is what everyone in the sport is measured by.  Tiger was on
pace to shatter Jack Nicklaus' record of major titles,(18) but now it appears, he won't
get any closer than where he is right now. (14)

For the last year and a half, Tiger has played like a weekend hacker, striking fear in
no one while getting openly mocked by the 'experts' and even other players in the game.

Many see Tiger as the old and breaking down Willie Mays, who stumbled his way
around the diamond with the New York Mets during the final stages of his career,
causing people to wonder why Mays would embarrass himself, rather than just quit
the game.

Just quit the game.

I've heard people say Tiger and Tebow should just do the same and get it over with
and save themselves the embarrassment. Yeah, that's right, just retire because the talent
is gone, and in Tigers' case, the mind has followed.

Those critics and haters never get it. Quitting is easy. When the going gets tough for
most people in the country, they just pack it in. They'd rather walk away and disappear
then endure any hardship and embarrassment.

The perseverance, determination, and mental toughness is what got Tebow and Tiger
to the top of their respective sports. Those same qualities are the things that keep them
going right now and that's a lesson for everyone, athlete or not.

Quitting is not an option.

People see Tiger and say, "He's a billionaire who never has to work in his life. He's
got all the toys and trophies, so why doesn't he just quit?"

Tiger is not wired like mere mortals and as embarrassed as he might be about his golf
game, I'm sure quitting is the last thing on his mind. Tiger may never find his game again,
but he's not folding like a tent and going home. He's embracing the struggle, working
his butt off, and still believing in himself.

That is the great lesson in all of this. This is the story that should be admired and relayed
to not only the next generation, but to everyone that's dealing with setbacks and failure.

Man, it's so very easy to quit. Anybody can do it. But once you quit, it'll be even easier
to quit during the next struggle. Anyone can quit and that's when a person's true character
is revealed. If a person quits, he'll be labeled a quitter forever.

I'm sure if Tiger and Tebow did quit and give up on the dreams and passion, those same
critics would blast them for being quitters and not being good role models for young athletes.
That's just the way it goes, doesn't it?

In this social-media driven, A.D.D world we live in, we often forget the great lessons
thrust upon us. Great moments pass before our eyes, we believe it for a minute, then
move onto something else.

Remember when Jim Valvano, a man whose body was ravaged by cancer, got up during
the ESPY's years ago and said, "Don't give up, don't ever give up." The national champion
basketball coach wasn't just speaking to cancer victims battling for their lives, but to
all the people who've dealt with failure and disappointment. Every young athlete, parent,
and most of all 'critic' should read the speech by Valvano. It's epic and one of the
greatest lessons of all.

No matter how bad things are going for Tebow and Tiger, they haven't just quit and
gone into oblivion. Tebow may never throw another pass in the NFL and Tiger could go
winless for the rest of his career, but they won't be ever labeled 'quitters.' Sure, they've
been called a lot of other things, but 'quitters' will never be one of them.

They've battled and persevered and haven't listen to any of their critics, which is a
beautiful thing.

"....The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by
dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again
and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming.... who at the best
knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails,
at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and
timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
                                                                                               --Theodore Roosevelt
                                                                                            "It's not the critic who counts"

A LETTER FROM BRIAN BILL

August 6, 2019

That was the eighth anniversary of Brian Bill's death. He was one of 31 SEAL's
killed  in Afghanistan when the helicopter they were traveling in was shot down by a
rocket-propelled grenade fired by the Taliban.

I didn't know Bill personally and our only connection was a trivial one. He was from
Stamford, CT which borders New Canaan, where I went to high school. But after I
learned of his death while fighting for our country, I became fascinated with him for
what he accomplished in his 31-years and grew to admire him for the true hero that
he will always will be.

Brian Bill had a big personality, big smile, and big dreams. After he fulfilled his
military commitment, Bill wanted to be an astronaut. After reading about everything
he did in his life from being a mountaineer, triathlete, earning his pilot's license, and
serving as a SEAL, I have little doubt he would've done something remarkable in space.

As I mentioned, I never even met Bill, but I felt like I knew him. As a reporter and
a managing editor of a news web site at the time of his death, I wrote several articles
about his heroics in the military, earning a Bronze Star medal with valor and a Purple
Heart, among other commendations.

The more I learned of Bill, the more I believed he was the epitome of a true American
hero.  Yeah, like the real thing. He embodied character, courage, and believed  the good of
our country was more important than anything else, including himself.

His sister, Amy, posted a letter Brian wrote to a friend while he was overseas fighting
for the country, on Facebook several months ago. She graciously granted me permission
to use it for this article. I think the letter captures the spirit of Bill and the kind of person he
was.

      "The truth is I want you to live a life of fun and excitement. I want you to travel
       and to go to music festivals and arts shows and all of that fun stuff. I want you
       to live a life of freedom and spontaneity. That is why I work where I work. That
       is why I love what I do. I do it because I know that people are out there free
       enjoying the things they love to do. When I come home and I see people out and
       about living their life with a big smile on there face I get excited and I have a smile
       on my face.”… (Brian Bill, 2008)

That's who Brian Bill was: caring, thoughtful, and unselfish. He was thinking of others
as he was battling faceless enemies on foreign soil, far away from his friends and hometown.

Bill didn't just talk the talk, he indeed, walked the walk. During a dangerous mission
where he and his SEAL teammates were battling the enemy at night in the forest, Bill
saw his best friend, Adam Brown, gunned down. This scene was featured in the best-selling
book, "Fearless." Bill saw Brown was down and mortally wounded and went back to
get him. He carried Brown to the get-away helicopter where his best friend would die.

That's the definition of a hero.

I've tried to honor Bill and help spread the story of heroism over the past four years.
I dedicated my performance in a half-Ironman event to him and have authored several
articles of him. I think about him often.

As the years passed,  I found a connection to Bill through his cousin, Kerry Nagle,
whom I went to high school with. His aunt came up to me at a swimming meet in
Wilton two years ago and introduced herself and told me more stories about Brian.

Most rewarding of all, I got to meet Brian's wonderful mother, Patricia, and sister,
Amy, this past Winter. His father, Scott, also connected with me on Facebook and
wrote me a heartfelt note. These are moments I will never forget.

It has been really special to meet Brian's family. They are beautiful people.

I will continue to honor Brian for the rest of my life in  any way that I can. He was
a special person and a true American hero.

I realize every anniversary of his death is a sad one for his family, but every August
6, is also a time to realize that Brian Bill represents everything a hero really is.

Reading about the kind of person Bill was, I often get the feeling that he would have
come back alive if he controlled his own destiny, fighting on the rugged terrain of
Afghanistan, depending on his smarts, savvy, and courage.

However, he, like the rest of his SEAL teammates were in the air, depending on the
helicopter pilots to get them safely through the mission. Unfortunately, it was shot down
out of the sky and the 31 SEAL's didn't have a chance.

I also get the feeling that if Bill was going to die, he'd want it no other way than
to pass away with his brothers and the teammates he battled with side-by-side with,
forming an unbreakable bond.

That's just the kind of person Bill was.

Never forget Brian Bill and everything he did for this country.

DEJA TWO: THE CRAZY ROAD TO ANOTHER IRONMAN FINISH

"What the hell am I doing?"

I muttered that to myself at just past 4 a.m. as I was waiting for my ham, egg, and cheese
sandwich at a convenient store just outside of Lake Placid, N.Y. In two and-a-half hours
I'd be starting a 140.6 mile journey through the breathtaking Adirondack region.

I'm sure the clerk muttered to herself, "What the hell is this guy doing?" as I stood there
in spandex shorts, fire-engine red tank-top, and a pack of gummy bears in my hand.

Yes, at the age of 51, I was fueling up for the iconic Ironman, an event I successfully
completed nearly a year ago to the day. I was back to test myself for more than 12
hours in ways that only Ironman know. The race is more a battle of the will and the
mind than physical talent.

And it's amazing what can go through the mind during such a long and arduous journey.

It all begins with a 2.4 mile swim that is kind of like Black Friday at Best Buy. Competitors
are all lined-up 10 deep and as soon as the green flag drops, it's absolutely mayhem.
Mirror Lake is a mile long and a half-mile wide and everybody wants to swim in a 10-yard
lane but there are no iPads, iPhones, or big screen television to buy. Just a 2-plus mile
swim in a blender of feet, hands, arms, and legs.

Some of these people try to make like it's water polo where a lot of sinister things take
place below the surface. "Oh, thanks for that foot to the mouth, buddy. And that elbow
to the cranium really felt great!" It can be quite insane, really.

After completing the swim, the sprint to the transition area nearly 600 yards away begins.
The heart is pounding and you're almost a bit dizzy as if someone spun you around five
times and told to run a straight line. Not happening.

I'm amazed at the effort of some people make to get to the bike for the 112-mile portion
of the event. What the hell is the rush? Are those 35 seconds you saved really going
to make a difference?

I just kind of chill, relax, and get mentally ready for the mind-numbing ride through
the challenging, but absolutely breathtaking ride through the Adirondacks. You can get
a high off the scenery, but it's still an absolute bear, bitch, or whatever nasty adjective
you care to use to describe a ride that burns your legs and sucks almost all the
oxygen out of your lungs.

But it's also a great time to people watch and figure out their story is. You see riders
with these $1,000 helmets and wonder if it's really worth it to pay so much to shave
a few minutes off your time. With their Oakley glasses, arm sleeves, and tear-drop
helmets, they kind of look like aliens in search of a new planet.

Everyone has their age marked on their right calf before the race, but seriously, what
I'm trying to figure out is why the organizers do it. I mean, it's not like the spectators
have a program to match the number with the competitor. If a competitor drops dead,
will it be easier for the EMT's to blurt out, "Man, this dude was 72. At least he had a full
life."?

Perhaps, it's because they want everyone to know the age of the person you just
dusted or got dusted by. I love it simply because when I say to myself, "Aren't I too
old for this crap?", somebody who is 17 years older than me passes me and I get my
answer.

Near the 100-mile mark when I started seeing double, I heard feet behind me pedaling
furiously, followed by a soft but experienced voice that barked out, "Keep it up, Paul." 
My bib number with my name affixed to it, was on my back so I was not surprised my
name was blurted out. This little old lady with the number "61" on her right calf staring
back at me, was passing me by.

She might've said, "Keep it up, Paul", but what she really meant was, "I'm
61-years-old and I'm kicking your ass, bitch"  Yeah, I even got a chuckle out of
it especially when I battled back to pass her. I didn't get any satisfaction out of
it, though, just a sense of relief.

I got relief when I finished the 112-mile without popping a tire. That's what
every biker dreads. Heart pounding through chest, sweat coming out of every
pore in the body, mind lost in space--yes, changing a tire under those conditions
is only slightly less than water-boarding torture.

Going from the bike to the run was torture as well. Your legs burn and
feel like 100-pound bags of concrete---and now you have to run 26.2 miles?

What the hell am I doing?

I was determined to run a good marathon, but that went out the window at mile 3.
After 112-miles on the bike and baking under the hot sun, I was cooked.Totally cooked.
Every competitor goes through trials, tribulations, aches, and crazy-type of pains, but
nobody wants to hear any excuses. I realize that, but I knew was cooked---but I kept on
moving forward.

The Ironman is just a microcosm of life, really. It's an ultra-marathon, not a sprint. You
face immense obstacles, great challenges, and things don't always seem fair, but you just
keep plugging away and moving forward. If you stop, life, not to mention, other competitors
just pass you by.

And as Hall of Fame football coach Lou Holtz famously said, "20 percent of the
people don't care about your problems, the other 80 percent are glad you have them."

The only thing you can do is fight on and tell the mind you are going to finish
no matter what. There was no way I was going to see a "DNF" posted after my
name. DID NOT FINISH. That was not an option.

I really didn't get my legs under me until mile 13 and it was already a long day by then.
I just kept picturing in my mind what it was going to be like when I could stop and not feel
bad about it.

My mother, sister, brother-in-law, and all their beautiful kids were there cheering
me on and they inspired me. And just like the year before, they were at the finish
line when I completed the 140.6 miles required to be called an Ironman last Sunday.

When I came down the finishing chute looking like death warmed over, I got a final burst
of energy and a big smile washed over my face. Through all the miles, aches, and pains,
 there is nothing better than sharing the moment with the family.

My time was 14:16 which was two hours off my time from last year.

It did not matter. It was all about finishing this time around.

The finish, the family, well, it was jut spectacular.

Less than 12 hours finishing the race, I signed up to do it all over again next year.

What the hell am I doing?