Life is a lot like catching passes. Sometimes the throw is perfect, spiraling neatly into your hands, and all you have to do is hold on. Other times, the ball wobbles through the air, a half-second too high or a fraction too low, and it’s up to you to adjust, to stretch or dive or brace for the hit that comes after. Then there are the ones you don’t see coming, the ones that smack you in the chest, leaving you stunned but still standing, ball in hand. I’ve spent most of my life catching passes—some easy, some impossible, some I never should’ve caught but somehow did. And, of course, I’ve dropped a few—some I had no business missing, the ones that hit me square in the hands but slipped through anyway.

When I was eleven, my mom got a new job in a far-off town called Neshannock. So, my dad, my mom, and I packed up our lives and moved. I was an awkward kid—deeply flawed but full of promise. I carried a little extra weight, rocked a regrettable bowl haircut, wore braces that could reflect the sun, and moved with the gracelessness of a baby giraffe. I was smart, sure, but school was a battlefield where I was losing every skirmish. My mind processed things differently: I learned to read, spell, and write by memorizing how words looked, their structure as shapes, never grasping the meaning of each letter. The illusion shattered when my mom casually asked me one day what a “T” was. I had no idea.

Despite reading at a 12th-grade level in fifth grade and scoring a 1250 on the SAT as a freshman (no prep, no studying), my report cards were a graveyard of potential. No A’s lived there.

Moving to Neshannock felt like throwing kerosene on my smoldering self-doubt. I craved approval from peers but had no clue how to earn it. My reactions were too big, my jokes too loud, my presence an unwanted spotlight. My peers didn’t like me, and in hindsight, I can’t blame them. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt less.

Football was my anchor. When my parents first brought up the move, the one thing that made it bearable was hearing that Neshannock had a team. I’d spent countless hours in the backyard with my dad, throwing and catching the ball, dreaming big. (Funny how even years later, recruited for Division I, I still wanted to catch the ball even though I was better at defense.) But in Neshannock, I was starting from scratch. The other kids were battle-tested veterans; I was timid, inexperienced, and downright bad.

Then my parents made a choice I resisted at first but now see as a gift: they held me back a grade. I was young for my year, emotionally immature, and barely scraping by academically. Starting sixth grade over wasn’t something I wanted, but it gave me time to recalibrate, try again even. 

Frankie Antuono was one of those kids who had it—big for his age, a natural athlete, and someone everyone gravitated toward. He played running back and linebacker on our football team, though linebacker suited him better. He was respected, played hard, and carried himself like he already knew who he was. All things he continues to be and do today.

Me? I was the opposite. An awkward outsider, trying too hard to fit into a town where everyone seemed to have known each other forever. Frankie and I had no reason to have crossed paths. But one summer we did.

We were all hanging out at the pool, which was the town’s unofficial social hub during the summer. Frankie came up and started talking to me out of nowhere. The school had just announced homerooms for the fall, and when he asked which one I’d be in, I told him I got to choose. Without missing a beat, he said, “Pick Mrs. Measel’s class. That’s mine.” (God bless Alicia Measel, too.)

So I did.

On the first day of school, I walked into Mrs. Measel’s room feeling out of place. But Frankie had saved me a seat next to his right. It wasn’t a big deal to him, but it was a big deal to me. It gave me a soft landing.

I didn’t magically become someone different after that. I still struggled—grades, fitting in, all of it. But that small moment with Frankie mattered. It gave me a crack in the wall I’d been running into, a chance to catch my breath and keep going.

Frankie didn’t change my life in some dramatic, movie-script way. He was just a kid who saw another kid struggling and decided to make space. But that’s the thing—we don’t always get saved by grand gestures or sweeping epiphanies. Sometimes it’s a nudge, a small moment, a little bit of grace when you need it most. And maybe that’s why Frankie sticks in my mind. He was human, like me, but just a little kinder, a little braver.

Our dynamic evolved over time, as childhood friendships do. Frankie was always close with the local kids, the ones who grew up in Neshannock, the ones who shared inside jokes and family histories I couldn’t access. But if you’d asked him back then, he might’ve said I was his best friend. That’s how Frankie was—loyal, open, and generous in a way I struggled to understand, let alone replicate.

We pushed each other in ways most kids don’t, especially not where we were from. For Frankie, it was always about work. He was the type to get up early, to run extra drills, to grind away at every little detail until it was perfect. I wasn’t like that. My talent came naturally, but I had a chip on my shoulder that made me careless, arrogant even. If Frankie was the engine, I was the spark plug—raw potential, but prone to burning out if the conditions weren’t just right.

We fought, too—physically, verbally, like only close friends can. Frankie wasn’t afraid to call me out when I needed it, and I wasn’t afraid to throw it right back at him. But no matter how heated things got, we always circled back. That was the balance we had, the yin and yang. Frankie was outgoing, likeable, and relentless in his work ethic. I was withdrawn, naturally gifted, and sharp-edged in ways that could cut me as much as anyone else.

Our lives were messy and intertwined. We had our first beers together, laughed until it hurt, and stood by each other through the kind of shit that bonds you for life. Frankie wasn’t just a friend—he was my foil. The better version of me I wanted to be, and the mirror that showed me where I needed to grow.

I don’t think Frankie remembers all of this the way I do. Maybe he looks back and sees us as just kids, running around a small town, playing football, and trying to figure out who we were. But I see it differently. I see it as the foundation of who I became.

Because even now, when I’m faced with a moment of doubt or hesitation, I think about those days. About Frankie saving me a seat, about the way he pushed me without judgment, about the countless times we butted heads and came out stronger for it. And I wonder—am I living up to that? To the version of myself he saw?