Dear Washington High School Football Team

An Open Letter to the Washington High School Football Team

The scoreboard doesn't tell the whole story

Dear Washington Panthers,

When I read the article about your football team in the South Bend Tribune, I was inspired.

You might find that surprising.

After all, many of you are probably disappointed with the record your team has had this season. And honestly, you have the right to be disappointed. Losing isn't fun. Nobody puts on a uniform, practices all week, and walks onto a football field hoping to lose.

But what inspired me wasn't your record.

It was your hard work. Your teamwork. Your positive attitude. Your willingness to keep showing up despite the score. Your ability to get knocked down and get right back up.

Rashad Taylor, from South Bend Tribune.

In a recent Tribune article, Rashad Taylor said something that really stood out to me:

"When we’re around each other, everything gets better. We don’t lose our focus, and everything stays together. We’re just one big family going against anybody.”

Rashad, I hope you and your teammates understand just how important that is. Because what you described is about so much more than football.

I grew up playing sports, and now I'm a parent of kids who play sports. Interestingly, I can't remember the scores of almost any of the games I played growing up. I don't remember the scores of most of the games my kids have won or lost. 

But I remember the experiences. I remember the teammates. I remember the lessons.

And that's what I want my kids to remember. It's what I hope all of you remember, too.

We don't play sports just to win or lose. Especially in high school. We play sports because of what they teach us.

And here's something I've learned over the years: Sometimes we learn a whole lot more from losing than we do from winning.

When we win, we often miss the lesson. Sometimes winning even teaches us the wrong lessons. We convince ourselves that everything we did was right simply because we won. We overlook mistakes. We excuse bad behavior. Sometimes we even learn that cheating or being a bad sport is acceptable as long as we come out on top.

But when we lose, we have to pay attention.

And that's what I want to encourage you to do.

Pay attention to the lessons you're learning right now.

You're learning that showing up matters.

It matters because you said you would, and you kept your word.
It matters because your teammates are on that field waiting for you. They're counting on you.
It matters because without you, something is missing.

You're learning that being part of a team means being responsible for more than just yourself.

You're learning how to get knocked down and get back up.

And believe me, that's going to happen a lot in life.

It's going to happen at work. It's going to happen in relationships. It's going to happen with your family. Just like it happens on the football field.

If every time life knocks you down, you decide to walk away, you're going to have a long life filled with missed opportunities.

I know it sounds cliché, but learning to get knocked down, brush yourself off, and get back up is one of the most valuable lessons you can ever learn.

And maybe even more importantly, you're learning something else.

When someone next to you gets knocked down, you can reach out your hand and help them get back up.

You can remind them they're not alone. You can tell them you've got their back. You can help them prepare for the next play.

That lesson will take you further in life than almost anything you'll learn from winning.

I've been fortunate to accomplish some things I'm proud of, personally and professionally.

But I can tell you that every one of those accomplishments was preceded by failures.

I've made mistakes. I've lost. I've let people down. I've had people let me down. I've been knocked down more times than I can count.

And if I had decided to quit during any of those moments, I would have missed out on some of the greatest things in my life.

Today, much of my work involves helping small business owners.

And I've learned something interesting about the most successful business owners.

They're not the people who always get things right. They're not the people who never make mistakes. In fact, the people who think they always have the answers are often the ones who struggle the most.

The best business owners I've worked with are the ones who get knocked flat on their butts, get back up, and say, "Whew! Well, let's not do that again."

Then they figure out another way.

They're the ones who ask the person to their left for help and turn to the person on their right to offer whatever help they can.

They are the ones who have a bad month, a bad quarter, and don't give up.
They adjust. They learn. They try something different.
They don't quit just because things get hard, because they lost. 

And that's exactly what you're learning to do.

So, Washington Panthers, I want you to know something.

There are people in this community who see what you're doing. People who recognize that it takes courage to walk onto that field every Friday night when things haven't gone your way.

People who understand that your record doesn't define you.

You may not realize it now, but the lessons you're learning this season may turn out to be more valuable than the lessons learned by teams that win every Friday night.

And years from now, I doubt you'll remember the final scores of most of these games.

But I hope you'll remember that you kept showing up.

That you didn't quit.

That you had teammates who counted on you, and you were there for them.

And when you walk onto that field for your next game, I hope you'll remember something else.

That game isn't just about the scoreboard.

It's about the young man standing shoulder to shoulder with you.
It's about the teammate who's counting on you to do your job.
It's about the guy who gets knocked down and needs your hand to help him back up.

And it's about knowing that when you're the one who gets knocked down, someone will be there to help you, too.

Because long after the final whistle blows, long after you've played your last football game, those are the lessons that will matter.

And from where I'm standing, you're already learning how to win at something much bigger than football. Life. 

Keep showing up, Panthers.

People are watching. And some of us are inspired.

Sam Centellas

Strongest Tree In South Bend

I drove by this small tree often, and over the past year or so, it's condition got worse, and it was hard to believe that it just keeps growing. 

I wanted to write about it. I thought maybe a blog, then a few ideas came together, so I thought maybe I write a few mini blogs in one. I stopped and took pictures of it in the spring when it had blooms on it, and then when it grew its first apple... and then one day it was gone. 

So I thought to write a few blogs I should have written about that tree. Enjoy: 

"Just Keep Growing"
It is often easy for us, to give up. To say, I got dealt a bad hand, or we got off to a slow start, maybe we took a wrong turn... 

The tree doesn't have a choice. It had dirt, sun, and water, and it kept growing. It probably doesn't know how bad it looks, or how tall it is supposed to be, or even what the tree next to it looks like. It just kept growing, doing it's best. 

Just keep growing, I think of Just Keep Swimming from Finding Nemo, yeah cheesy, but staying still rarely gets you anything. Quitting doesn't usually get you much either. 

I also think of sharks, I remember reading from Anderson Cooper's book, Dispatches from the Edge, that great white sharks swim or die. Look it up. I got to meet Anderson when I worked with his team on a 60 minutes episode, I shared with him how his book impacted me, and students I worked with at IUSB (it was the text in our U100 class I taught for years). 

Just keep growing. Maybe it is easier for the tree cause it doesn't have a comparison, it doesn't know its behind, its small, its bent over... It just grows, what if we didn't always look left and right and up and down and compare our progress. What if we just did our best? 

"Hardest Working Tree in South Bend"
Most people drive by the tree and think how sad that is, how little it is producing, and wondering how soon until it dies. Honestly, I think it won't die on its own, I think it is why it is surviving, the owner is mowing around it, and letting it run its course. 

That tree's job is to bear fruit. Yes normally a tree bears hundreds, and this tree only has one. So to many that might feel like a disappointment, but not me. 

That tree persevered. It had blooms in the spring. The leaves slowly came in, and while no one thought it could bear fruit, it did. One lone fruit, and I honestly get inspired by each time I drive by... I think, what if each time I was down, or felt behind, or not supported like I wanted... what if I quit, what if I gave up. 

We often focus on output compared to others, compared to the standard, compared to the average... but the average tree didn't have the catastrophic damage to its trunk. The average tree also might have been chopped down, which is honest what I think will be the only thing that will stop the hardest work tree I have ever seen. 

That tree worked hard, harder than most, and it did its job, it grew fruit. Congrats. 

"Victory often depends on your perspective" 

I like inspirational stories. Like the Dick Hoyt story, a father who pushed his son in Ironmans for decades. Some people would actually question, does it count for his son to complete an Ironman? Did he win, did they win, did they cheat, was it a victory? 

My son this year participated in Unified Track, which includes athletes of all abilities. They went to state and were ranked. Were they the fastest? Did they win? Was it a victory? 

I remember the quote on a shirt, and it was really the first time I saw and thought about the Special Olympics Motto: "Let me win, but if I can not win, let me be brave in the attempt." 

I thought about my tree, it didn't win, at least not in the traditional sense. A tree doesn't have emotion, so it can't be brave, but it can be an example to us of pushing through adversity. 

I like to think that, before the tree was cut down, that the one apple it grew... that the little family of deer that walk that neighborhood, that the little fawn, ate that apple, and thought, "Wow that was good. Thank you tree."

Friday Night Lights: The Lessons Beyond the Score

High school sports are about more than the score.

Friday night, John Adams football lost.

And yeah, if you just look at the numbers, there are reasons to feel pretty good about where this team is headed. A year ago, the same matchup looked very different. This year, our defense faced an incredibly strong running attack and played hard all night.

That's improvement.

But the stats don't really tell the story of Friday night. And wins and losses don't tell the whole story of high school sports.

Youth athletics aren't just about learning how to run a play, follow a route, catch a football or make a tackle. Those are the mechanics of the game. The more important lessons are everything that comes with them—the skills you need for the rest of your life.

You learn to be on time.
You learn to be accountable.
You learn to practice how you want to perform.

You learn how to depend on someone else and how to let someone else depend on you. You learn how to respond when things aren't going your way. You learn how to lose. You learn how to win—with humility and sportsmanship.

People sometimes call these "soft skills." I've never liked that term.

These are the real skills. They are the things that will ultimately determine whether many of these young people are successful long after nobody remembers the score of a high school football game. That's why something else from Friday night stuck with me. We knew our opponent would be tough. I'd seen the stats. I'd read the reports. There were some phenomenal young athletes on that field.

What surprised me won't show up in a box score. Sportsmanship.

I expected it from our guys because I've watched our coaches teach it. We shake hands. We take a knee when someone is hurt. Guys help opponents up. We encourage teammates whether we're winning or losing.

That's not accidental. Those behaviors are taught.

Unfortunately, so are the opposite behaviors.

Friday night, I watched things from the opposing team that bothered me far more than losing the game. I watched what I believed were unnecessary shots after plays. I watched holding away from the ball. I watched a much larger player appear to throw a punch at one of our players and get away with it.

But one moment bothered me most.

One of our players went down after a hard hit and didn't immediately get back up. From where I was standing, it looked like the kind of hit that at least deserved serious scrutiny from the officials. While our player remained on the ground, several opposing players celebrated the hit, high-fived each other and headed toward their sideline.

I couldn't tell from where I was standing what happened when they reached the sideline or how the coaches responded. But I could see what happened next: no one took a knee, even as it became clear that our player wasn't getting up right away.

Maybe some people see that and say, "That's football." I don't.

Football is physical. Football is honestly violent. Players are supposed to hit hard. They're supposed to compete. They're supposed to want to dominate the person across from them between the whistles. But when the whistle blows and another 15-, 16- or 17-year-old kid is lying on the ground, the competition stops for a moment.

That's somebody's son. It could have been mine.

Young people learn from the adults around them. Coaches aren't simply teaching blocking schemes and defensive assignments. Parents aren't simply cheering from the stands. Every adult involved in youth sports is helping teach young people what behaviors get rewarded and what behaviors don't.

We teach them whether winning excuses bad behavior.
We teach them whether taking advantage of someone because you can is acceptable.
We teach them whether empathy is weakness.
We teach them whether character matters only when it's convenient.

Those lessons don't stay underneath the Friday night lights.

Eventually these young men will leave high school. Most won't play college football. Almost none will play professionally. They'll become employees, bosses, husbands, fathers, neighbors and members of their communities. They'll carry the lessons they learned playing sports with them.

I walked away Friday night disappointed in the score, but proud of our guys.

I watched them compete. I watched them get knocked down and get back up. I watched them continue playing when the game was essentially over. Their opponent kept pushing. Even on fourth downs, they went for it, and even though another score wouldn't have changed the outcome, our guys refused to give up. 

I watched them do it without abandoning their standards.

A year from now, few people will remember the score.

Ten years from now, almost nobody will.

But the young men on that field will still be carrying those lessons.

Those "soft skills" will be valued on the shop floor and in the lab. They'll help some of these young men become leaders in the boardroom. They'll help determine who people trust, who they want on their team and who they want leading it.

And I suspect those young men will someday find themselves supervising people who learned different lessons, people who learned to cheat when they could get away with it, to ignore the rules when they became inconvenient, or that the score mattered more than how they got there.

Because eventually there isn't a scoreboard.

There is just who you became.

That's the part of Friday Night Lights that actually matters.

Barron Lake Times 5

You finish how you trained. 
You place where you prepared. 

I can come up with more cheesy quotes. I manifested this slow finish this year. I back maybe in April started to slow down training. I thought at that point I would not take the long September weekend to do an Ironman (Wisconsin). With both kids doing fall sports I hated to miss multiple games, and one of these Fridays dude might get his first snaps on varsity. 

Yeah lots of excuses. Interestingly now my parents are flying in to visit the day that would of been my Ironman attempt. So I guess it will be another year of Still Not an Ironman. 

Last year was a real high for me. Despite moving and lots of transition, I was able to maintain a good training pace, often taking calls for work or home contractors while on a long bike ride, answering texts on long runs with Siri's help... I got the training in and did a HALF Ironman, and that reflection and blog is here (Ironman: Not Yet). 

I had a lot of excuses why I could have skipped the Barron Lake Triathlon this year. 

 - I didn't air up my bike tires until 3 weeks ago. 

 - I didn't open water swim until 2 weeks ago. 

 - I didn't think I could beat any of my times. 

I signed up. Not cause I would be fast, not cause I could beat a time, not cause I would feel better doing it. It didn't feel great at all, but because I feel worse not doing it, and knowing I could. So I did. Did I do better than I thought, naw, not really, maybe not as bad as it could of been, but way worse than I should of been. 

So enough tongue twisters and deep thoughts, here is the Table of Times:

Discipline	2019	2023	2024	2025	2026
Weight	153 lbs.	155 lbs.	151 lbs.	150 lbs.	162 lbs.
Swim	12:21	16:39	15:17	11:24	11:40
Bike	53:32	54:18	51:20	53:17	53:39
Run	27:29	25:40	25:37	24:25	27:57
Age Rank	4/4	3/7	2/5	3/6	4/9
Total Time	1:37	1:40	1:36	1:33	1:36

I added my weight to this table for each year. I think for sure weight makes a difference, but I do feel like a 4th place out of 9 in my age division feels good. More people competing and I was just one spot out (barely a minute) of getting a third place medal. 

It was a great day overall, nice to see Barron Lake Tri growing, the turnout was bigger than the last few years so maybe triathlons are back! While I loved getting medals last few years, it was mostly cause of low turnout not my speed. Ha. 

Checking out the overall results, I like to see how I compare not just overall, but in each of the split times, and we will ignore the transition times... cause good god I don't know why I can't get my act together but I love to take my time putting on socks. Ha. 

Total Times

2019 1:37:31 for 47th of 65 (28 percentile) 

2023 1:40:04 for 35th of 60 (42 percentile) 

2024 1:36:29 for 21st of 50 (58 percentile) 

2025 1:33.22 for 26th of 62 (58 percentile) 

2026 1:36:45 for 38th of 65 (42 percentile)

It doesn't feel great to be in the bottom percentile... but I know its what I get for not putting in the work I needed to be faster. I did think my swim time would be better, as I really worked hard this year on the swim portion, but I guess I did spend less time this year than last training in open water... two swims in the month before, and only three open water swims total all year!. 

Swim

2019 12:21 for 55th of 65 (15 percentile)

2023 16:39 for 45th of 60 (25 percentile)

2024 15:17 for 37th of 50 (26 percentile)

2025 11:24 for 35th of 62 (44 percentile)

2026 11:40 for 40th of 65 (38 percentile)

Bike

2019 53:32 for 50th of 65 (23 percentile)

2023 54:18 for 39th of 60 (35 percentile)

2024 51:20 for 19th of 50 (62 percentile)

2025 53:17 for 33rd of 62 (47 percentile)

2025 11:24 for 37th of 65 (43 percentile)

Run

2019 27:29 for 38th of 65 (42 percentile)

2023 25:40 for 20th of 60 (67 percentile)

2024 25:37 for 13th of 50 (74 percentile)

2025 24:25 for 11th of 62 (82 percentile)

2026 27:57 for 31st of 65 (52 percentile)

Breaking this up my percentile in the disciplines shows overall progress over time, but still a bad dip for this year. I did rank higher in each discipline this year than I did my first year, so while the graph line dips down, it is still better than when I started my triathlon journey. 

¿De Dónde Eres?

¿De Dónde Eres?

Recently I had the chance to sit with the preschool class at La Casa de Amistad, called “Yo Puedo Leer”, and read De dónde eres by Yamile Méndez.

I read it in Spanish.

That matters more than I expected. I used it to relate to them, I don't read Spanish well, I told them I moved here when I was close to their age, and then never really to read and write in Spanish. I reminded them, and not all of them were native spanish speakers, the value of speaking two languages. 

The book itself is simple on the surface, a child is asked on the playground by friends, "de donde eres", or "Where are you from?" She says from HERE, and they ask joking, no where are you really from. Something most immigrants hear often, a questions that a biracial, Latino-identifying but white looking kid like me hating answering. 

So the lead character asks the smartest person they know, their abuelo, "where am I really from?" The answer that goes beyond geography. It’s about roots, memory, culture, and all the invisible things we carry with us. It’s about the stories that shape us long before we know how to explain them.

Sitting there, reading those words out loud, I wasn’t just reading a children’s book. I was stepping into something familiar. Something personal.

Spanish wasn’t just the language of the book, it was the language of home, of stories, of identity. Especially because the author is South American, so the terms and vocabulary where more similar to my roots. 

And it brought me back to my mom.

She’s always loved storytelling. Not just reading stories, but sharing them, passing them down, making sure they live on. When La Casa opened that new preschool classroom, she donated books for that class. She made sure stories would be there, waiting.

So sitting in that classroom, reading one of those stories in Spanish, felt like a full-circle moment. It wasn’t just me showing up to read. It was everything behind that moment; family, language, culture, and a community I call home. 

And then there were the kids.

Listening. Watching. Engaging in a way only preschoolers can; completely present and completely absent (there is always that kid), completely curious. You could see it clicking. Not just the words, but the feeling behind them. Or the pictures in the book that showed kids of all colors, that reflected the look of that classroom. 

Kids understand more than we think. They understand belonging. They understand being left out. They understand when something feels like them.

That’s what De dónde eres? does. It gives language to something deeper than a place on a map. It reminds us that where we’re from isn’t just about location, it’s about people, history, and the stories we carry forward. Also that everyone is loved, the stories ends with abuelo telling her, that she came from his heart. 

That’s why programs like “Yo Puedo Leer” matter, why the La Casa space matters. 

Because when kids see themselves in stories; when they hear their language, their culture, their experiences reflected back to them, it tells them something powerful:

You belong here.

And maybe that’s the real answer to the question, “¿De dónde eres?”

Not just where you’re from.

But who you carry with you, and that you came from love. 

The book is available on Amazon in both Spanish and English: https://www.amazon.com/%C2%BF-d%C3%B3nde-eres-Where-Spanish/dp/0062915258'

The Gil I Knew

I will miss Gilberto Cardenas. I have seen so many posts, of all his academic work, awards, presentations (thorough link below)... but none really cover the guy I knew.

I knew a funny guy, I knew a guy who during one of our first meetings told me, "let me know how I can help".

I knew a great host, well maybe that was Dolores Carrillo Garcia, but together, they hosted and opened their home to friends, to non-profits, to artists, to the community.

I knew a guy who loved to brag about you, not himself, he loved to tell you what cool things you were doing, and was quick to shrug off when you told him what you appreciated about him.

I knew a guy who never asked me for anything, and who never turned me down when I asked him for help. Help in promoting an event, hosting people at the house, and in giving a start to a collection and gallery in small local community driven place... to give a gift he might only get to enjoy once (and his smiles that day will live forever in my memory).

I knew a guy, who is honestly a legend, and I can say I am not just proud to have known him, but I am glad he got to see the fruits of his work through others, like me, and La Casa, things that he made possible... and I know he can rest knowing his impact will never end.

I knew a guy who gifted me a Sam Coronado print. It sits on a gallery wall in my house, and will always remind me of the Gil I knew.

Gracias Amigo.

https://iuplr.org/conferences/siglo-xxi/7th-biennial-siglo-xxi-conference/dr-gilberto-cardenas/

Coates Tire: Value of Work

This Isn’t About a Tire Shop

This might sound like a story about a garage.
It’s not.

It’s about work. The kind you can see. The kind you can’t fake. The kind that either holds, or doesn’t.

I was reminded of that recently while reflecting on Shop Class as Soulcraft and telling a story I’ve known most of my life, but didn’t fully understand until now.

The Work That Doesn’t Lie

In Shop Class as Soulcraft, which when asked to be a guest on Dinner and a Book locally, I said I have to do this book. In it, the author Matthew Crawford makes a simple but uncomfortable argument:

We’ve separated thinking from doing, and in the process, we’ve devalued work you can actually touch.

In a shop, there’s no hiding.

You don’t get to spin a narrative or polish a slide deck. You either fix the problem, or you don’t. The engine runs, or it doesn’t.

That kind of work forces clarity. It demands judgment. It builds confidence the hard way, through repetition, failure, and figuring it out.

And it creates something rare today: ownership.

Coates Tire

My grandfather didn’t start out owning Coates Tire.

He worked at Hoffman Tire. 

He learned the trade. Day by day. Problem by problem. Tire by tire.

Eventually, he had the opportunity to buy the shop.

And here’s the part I didn’t know until recently:

He didn’t get a bank loan.

He use hard money (AKA loan shark)

The Risk

That detail changes the story.

It would be easy to frame that as reckless. But it wasn’t.

It was belief.

Not in an idea. Not in a pitch deck. Not in projected growth curves.

Belief in something real.

He knew the business. He knew the work. He knew what it meant to fix things, serve customers, and keep a shop running. He wasn’t guessing, he didn't ask ChatGPT, he was stepping into something he had already built with his own hands.

So he took the risk.

Because the alternative was waiting.

Waiting for someone else to decide he was ready.
Waiting for access to capital that might never come.
Waiting for permission.

He didn’t wait.

Then vs. Now

I don’t work in a garage.

Today, I work in capital, trying to help entrepreneurs access the financing they need to start, grow, and scale.

But the more I do this work, the more I realize:

The problem hasn’t changed.

Back then, my grandfather couldn’t get a loan from a bank.

Today, I sit across from business owners who are told the same thing in different words:

Come back later.
You’re not quite ready.
Once you land the contract, we can talk.

And just like then, the opportunity doesn’t wait.

The job is in front of them. The growth is right there. The potential is often obvious.

But without capital, none of it matters.

So they hustle. They piece it together. Sometimes they take risks they shouldn’t have to take, just to get a shot.

What We Lost

We didn’t stop needing builders.

We just stopped valuing them.

We built an economy that celebrates abstraction, ideas, strategy, theory, but often overlooks the people doing the actual work of building, fixing, and making things run.

And we built financial systems that reward certainty over capability.

But real work isn’t clean.

It’s trial and error. It’s judgment. It’s experience. It’s knowing what to do when something unexpected breaks, because it always does.

That’s what my grandfather had.

Not credentials. Not access. Not a perfect balance sheet.

He had skill. He had experience. And he had the willingness to take responsibility for something real.

What Still Matters

There’s something different about work where you can point to it and say:

I did that.

A running engine.
A repaired tire.
A business that opens its doors every morning because someone figured out how to keep it alive.

Coates Tire wasn’t just a business.

It was proof.

Proof that if you knew the work, and could find a way to access capital, you could build something that lasts.

The Work Today

That’s still the work.

At CDFI Friendly South Bend, we’re trying to close that gap, the one that’s always existed between people who are ready to build and the capital they need to do it.

Because the issue isn’t a lack of ideas.

It’s access.

It’s making sure the next person who knows how to fix the engine, run the shop, or build the business doesn’t have to go looking for a loan shark just to get started.

Closing

South Bend has always been a place of people who figure it out.

People who build.
People who fix.
People who don’t wait for permission.

My grandfather was one of them.

Coates Tire was never just a tire shop.

It was a bet on real work.

And it paid off. Thanks grandpa, and grandma, for teaching me the value of work, and about making sure everyone has opportunity. 

What Soccer Taught Me About Being a Teammate

I played a lot of soccer growing up. 

Senior Year Team

It was part of our family. My dad played. My siblings played. We played in the backyard. I loved the game, and I took a lot of pride in it. It was part of my Latinidad, which I didn't have a lot of growing up. 

When I got to high school, things changed quickly. I went from being a pretty good player to being a freshman trying to earn a spot. I remember the pride of dressing varsity for the first time, and the intimidation that came with it. Not only was I on the team, but I was willing to play left back, a role not many want so I was actually getting minutes on the field.

We had a strong senior group that year, I remember the leadership of Nick Andrews, and I learned quickly what it meant to work hard just to keep up.

I also realized something about myself early on: I was never going to be the most talented player on the field.

So I made a decision. If I couldn’t be the best player,

I would be the most prepared.
I would be in good shape.
I would outwork people. 
I would fill roles others didn't want.

I didn't have competition, no one wanted to be left back, you have to be good with your left foot and often guard the best striker. No one wanted to do it, but I would, and I would do my best 180% of the time.  

That became my identity.

By my sophomore year, I was starting and playing a lot of minutes. One of my favorite memories came during the playoffs when we played Traverse City (maybe Junior year).

They had a star player, one of those guys who was clearly headed for bigger things. I think he was in Olympic development program, went and played Division 1, and even spent time in MLS. 

I played left defense, and before the game our coach pulled me aside and said something simple:

“I’m sticking you on him. He’s going to run all over the field and try to wear you out. Just stay with him.”

So that’s what I did. 

Whenever they had the ball, he was everywhere. When we had the ball, he would intentionally jog up and down the midfield line trying to exhaust and distract me. I followed him every step.

At one point he looked at me and asked, “Can you do this all game?”

I said, “I’m going to try.”

He smiled and on his face I saw a, “Let’s see.” (thats how I remember it)

I felt like my job was to save the legs of our better defenders. Matt and Justin our stopper and sweeper needed fresh legs as they were more skilled (and taller) in handling crosses and corners. 

We didn’t win the game, but he didn’t score a goal. And for me, that felt like a win.

By my junior year, things were going really well.

I was playing every minute of every game and probably playing my best soccer. Our school paper wrote and article and called me an ironman, and I even scored my first high school goal, which was pretty unusual for me, in a tournament in Alpena... a left-footed shot, one touch, off a rebound (right place, right time, but I was ready). 

That year also gave me one of my favorite high school sports memories.

Our biggest rival was Heritage. They were always good. Better facilities, better training, and they beat us every year. For my South Bend friends reading this, they were like the Penn High School of our area.

We hated playing them. We knew half of them cause we played travel with them, Olympic development, tournaments, 3 on 3, etc. 

We hosted them under the lights at our field. Our football team had finished practice and actually stopped by to watch the game as it went into overtime, partly because they always beat Heritage in football and liked reminding us of it.

The game was brutal. Physical. Hard fought. 

Towards the end of OT we earned a free kick just outside the box. Everyone expected our best striker, Isaiah, to take it. But instead, another teammate stepped up with him, a foreign exchange student from Finland. 

Most of their players had grown up playing with Isaiah. They knew him well.

They didn’t know the other guy.

I got ready, often off a missed free kick the team will counter hard, their keeper grab it and push it back out fast. I knew I couldn't be caught sitting there watching this kick and not be ready. 

He lined up, hit the ball and not perfectly, a little bit of a knuckle ball, and buried it in the back of the net.

Game over. Rushing the field. Even the football players cheered for us. 

I don’t remember how that season ultimately ended. I think Heritage beat us in the playoffs, BUT it didn’t matter.

For that night, we had taken down the team everyone thought we couldn’t beat.

And we were champions.

My senior year started with a lot of promise.

My brother’s class (sophomores), maybe the best class of players ever, had come up behind us and was now contributing. We had good juniors and an experienced group of captains. I was one of them.

We had a real chance to have a special season. Beat Heritage again. 

Day of Alpena goal

Early in the year we were playing a game in Bay City that we were comfortably winning. As a defender, I rarely got chances to score. But during that game I saw an opportunity to push forward and try.

Maybe I could sneak in a goal.

Maybe it would help my stats.

Maybe it would help get an offer to play in college.

I pushed up the field during an attacking move.

And then it happened.

One of their players made a dirty tackle and completely destroyed my knee.

I remember my dad running out onto the field. I remember my brother being furious. And I remember knowing immediately that it was bad. I tore my ACL and damaged my meniscus.

One of the things I remember most clearly was walking off and giving my captain’s band to a younger player, I think Justin J. I had worked hard to earn that role, but it felt right to pass it on to someone who could lead the team on the field.

For the rest of the season, I found myself doing something new.

Coaching.

I spent time talking with John, the player who took my position. I explained how I thought about defending, how to pressure attackers, how to prevent crosses. I found that I actually enjoyed it.

And he did a great job.

Eventually our team made it to the conference championship.

Against Heritage.

I desperately wanted to play.

Doctors said I would eventually need surgery, but I convinced everyone to let me try. I had been lifting weights, running, trying to rehab it. I strapped on a large don joy knee brace, got taped up, and stepped onto the field.

Within minutes, I blew my knee out again. Probably made it worse. I went to the sidelines and watched the rest of the game from there. We lost.

I remember yelling.
I remember being angry.
I remember crying.

But when I think about that moment now, I realize something important. Something I wish I had told my guys, especially John who took my spot, to Chris and Ryan my fellow senior captains. 

I wasn’t crying because of the pain. And I wasn’t crying because we lost. I wasn't angry at them for us losing. 

I was crying because I couldn’t be out there with my team.

Not because my presence would have changed the result.

But because I wasn’t part of it anymore.

Soccer taught me a lot of things growing up, but the most important lesson was this:

It taught me how to be a good teammate.

Looking back now, I also see something else clearly.

Part of why I got hurt in the first place was because I was trying to score a goal.

That wasn’t my job.

My job was to defend.

And in that championship game, I probably could have served my team better by staying on the sidelines, encouraging, coaching, and helping my teammates succeed. 

I still could have been part of the team.

Instead, I made it about wanting to play.

The injury changed my athletic career. After surgery and months of rehab, my knee was never quite the same. I had dreams of being a college player, but those dreams changed. 

But the lesson stuck.

Over a month ago, an NFL player who went to my son’s high school came to speak to them, I went and he really caught my attention.

“This is where I learned how to be a teammate.” ~ Danny Pinter, #63 Indianapolis Colts (now with the Ravens)

He took that lesson to the highest level of professional sports. I didn’t.

But I’ve tried to carry that lesson into every part of my life since.

Because most of us won’t be the star, but every one of us has the chance to be a great teammate.

And I’m not done yet.

There’s still plenty more games left to play.

Breakfast with Freddie

I will miss joining Freddie for breakfast at PEGGS.

I loved watching him hold court there; in his usual seat, with a breakfast platter named after him, greeting everyone who walked in. Whenever we met, he was already there, already in conversation. While we sat together, there was a steady stream of people stopping by to say hello.

Breakfast at PEGGS. 

That was Freddie.

He didn’t just know people. He built community wherever he went. There are people who welcome you to a community, and then there are people who make you feel like you belong. Freddie Thon was that person for me.

Freddie passed away peacefully at home on Friday, March 20th, 2026.

I remember the first time we met. I had just moved to South Bend and showed up to a Hispanic Leadership Coalition meeting, and not knowing many people was still trying to find my place.

Freddie motioned for me to sit at his table up front. He was wearing a Puerto Rico baseball cap, something I would learn was pretty standard for him, and we struck up a conversation about my daughter was half Puerto Rican, about Humboldt Park, Puerto Rican food, and life.

Latin Chamber Event

That moment mattered more than I realized at the time.

That was about 18 years ago, and he introduced me to leaders across the community since then. He connected me to people who would shape my path. He helped me navigate rooms I wasn’t sure I belonged in yet.

Freddie always knew everyone, but more importantly, he made sure everyone knew each other. He wasn’t just connected. He was a connector, and he didn’t do it for credit, he did it because he believed in people.

As I got to know him more, I realized just how deep his impact ran. We also happened to be neighbors, him and Carol lived across the street! The number of boards he served on, the organizations he supported, the causes he championed... it was extensive, but also, his kindness with my kids on halloween or when they joined us at PEGGS. 

He chose to invest his time, his energy, and his relationships into making this place and others better. And he brought others along with him.

He certainly did that for me.

He opened doors for me at La Casa de Amistad. He made introductions to donors and partners that helped move our work forward. He spoke highly of me in rooms I wasn’t in yet.

And one of the most impactful things he did, he pushed me to get involved with Notre Dame Federal Credit Union.

Hall of Fame Induction

That single connection changed the trajectory of my career.

At NDFCU, Freddie was consistent in a way that mattered. Every meeting, every discussion, he was the one who spoke up about the Latino community. He asked the questions others didn’t. He made sure those voices were part of the conversation.

He cared deeply about the West Side, about access, about presence, about culture and not just language, about showing up where it mattered. It’s only fitting that the West Side branch now carries his name.

When we talked about expanding into Elkhart, it was the same thing. Freddie didn’t let it be abstract. He grounded it in people; real needs, real families, real opportunity.

I usually sat next to him in those board meetings.

Now, I sit in his seat, and I think about that, I think about that A LOT. 

I hope I’m making him proud, speaking up the way he did, making sure those voices are heard, pushing when it matters.

I like to think he knew that just last week, La Casa de Amistad named NDFCU Partner of the Year, an honor he had a hand in shaping, not just recently, but over many, many years.

NDFCU Board Room

It's part of Freddie’s legacy. A pattern of showing up, over and over again, for people who needed someone in the room to speak up for them.

There was always something new to learn about him, stories that would surprise you. Like signing with the Yankees. Or competing in the Bengal Bouts at Notre Dame. 

A full life. A fascinating life.

But in the end, what mattered most wasn’t what he did. Freddie was a mentor. A connector. A neighbor. A friend. For me, someone who helped turn South Bend from a new place… into home.

I’m grateful for him.

And I’ll carry forward what he showed me, to make room for people, open doors when you can, and always pull up another chair to the table.

I’ll miss that seat at PEGGS, and I'll do my best in your NDFCU seat Freddie.
Gracias Amigo. 

Edit: You can read his Obituary HERE, and to donate to his memorial fund at any NDFCU Branch or give to Carol on Venmo (@Carol-Thon-2). 

The Conversation I Wish I Had Finished

Last night I had dinner with Andrew Peñalva from the Indiana Latino Institute and Juan Constantino from La Casa de Amistad at Brew Works in South Bend.

After dinner Andrew headed out and Juan and I stayed for a beer. I was actually about to change tables to meet Jenn for music bingo when a couple at the bar walked past us on their way out. The husband stopped, stood over Juan, and said something along the lines of:

“You’re stealing from us.”

Juan and I both assumed right away what he meant. La Casa de Amistad had recently received a major grant (cause La Casa is the best). Juan calmly explained that La Casa raises private donations from foundations and individuals.

Learn more HERE

The man clarified.

He said we were stealing tax dollars.

I chimed in. I mentioned I used to work at La Casa and that the organization relies on philanthropy, not government funding.

That’s when the conversation shifted.

He said he knew who I was, attempted (poorly) to pronounce my last name (see, even Latinos say my name wrong), and then said the quiet part out loud:

“No. It’s illegals taking our taxes.”

The conversation wasn’t about nonprofit funding anymore.

It was about immigrants.

Juan calmly explained that La Casa serves everyone in the community who walks through the door needing help. I told him I wasn't going to change his racist mind, which his wife made sure I knew he was Mexican and of course not racist, and the wife (white I assume) said she didn't mind being called racist anymore. The racist word came out too soon, and it stifled my ability to make good points, I messed that up. I did know how to help end it though, unfortunately racists are generally religious. I learned it at La Casa that to end a confrontation, I often told the person I would pray for them, and they would lose it. So did he, how dare I, how dare I invoke the name of his god against his racist thoughts. So he insulted me, and I was ready for that and calmly told him, that I wanted to be very clear (I said it twice), that I didn't care what he thought of me, and that I would be praying for him. 

They walked out. 

Almost ten years ago La Casa launched a campaign called “No Human Being is Illegal.”

Back then I spent a lot of time responding to phone calls and messages from people upset about that phrase. I got used to explaining the facts behind it. I had been explaining it much of my life, got lots of experience during the 2014 unaccompanied minor crisis, the 2016 Hacienda debacle, etc. 

Last night I realized I’m a little rusty. 

Watching someone confront Juan was different than fielding angry phone calls at my desk. I spoke up, but not as clearly as I wish I had.

So this morning I want to share the points I wish I had calmly walked through.

1. Undocumented immigrants do pay taxes

The idea that undocumented immigrants are “stealing tax dollars” is simply false.

Undocumented immigrants pay sales taxes every time they buy something, property taxes through rent or homeownership, and pay income taxes.

Billions of dollars are paid into federal, state, and local governments every year by undocumented workers. Facts, google them. 

So the claim that immigrants don’t contribute to the system just doesn’t hold up. But guess who is not paying their fair share of taxes... rich people. 

2. Undocumented immigrants are largely barred from public benefits

Another common claim is that undocumented immigrants are draining government programs.

But federal law largely prevents that.

Undocumented immigrants are generally prohibited from accessing major federal benefits like Medicare, Medicaid, SNAP, most housing programs, etc. 

In many cases they are paying into systems they cannot even use. However, guess who is using those systems to enrich themselves.... rich people. 

3. Immigrants strengthen economies

The final myth is that immigrants are a drain on the economy.

Across the Midwest, the opposite is true.

Immigrant communities help drive economic growth. They start businesses, fill critical labor shortages, and stabilize neighborhoods in places that are otherwise losing population.

Cities like South Bend don’t lose because immigrants arrive. In many cases, communities like ours survive because they do.

Do you want to know what hurts South Bend's economy? You might guess, but yeah, rich people, who took their money and moved to Granger, generally because of racism. 

The bigger point

The phrase “No Human Being is Illegal” was never just about policy arguments.

It was about refusing to reduce people to a label.

Actions can be illegal.
Human beings cannot be.

And the people who walk through the doors of La Casa de Amistad every day are local families, workers, kids, our neighbors, and make this world a better place. 

Human beings.

Last night I wish I had said those things more clearly. It's not immigrants (regardless of status) that take money from others, its rich people. He should be mad at the rich people, his pastor, politicians, who have convinced him to be mad at undocumented immigrants and cause a scene, while they pilfer in the background. 

Maybe next time I will.