Fighting Cancer at the Final Four
I recently returned from my third consecutive trip to the NCAA Men’s Basketball Final Four in San Antonio. The 2018 college basketball tournament was one of the most exciting in recent memory (see “Sister Jean, UMBC Retrievers”), and despite a trouncing in the championship game where Jay Wright’s Wildcats from Villanova handily beat the Michigan Wolverines, it was still exciting to watch. Simply Google “Donte’s” Inferno and you’ll learn about a young man named DiVincenzo, who wrote his own divine comedy with utter nastiness behind the 3-pt arc, eliciting a raucous response from fans far and wide every time he touched the ball.
I’ve been filling out brackets every March with my dad for as long as I can remember. But these past few years have added even more magic to the madness. In 2016, I was invited to be an Infiniti “Hardwood Hero.” I joined 13 other cancer survivors from around the country to show the world that “we beat cancer and we can play,” as one of our coaches was quick to remind us. The event benefits Coaches Vs. Cancer, a partnership between the American Cancer Society (ACS) and the National Association of Basketball Coaches (NABC), for which I now serve as a consultant. This year, former coaches Bo Ryan of Wisconsin along with legend/2x cancer survivor Jim Calhoun of UCONN led our respective teams of cancer warriors — 7 “rookies” vs 7 returning alumni — for a battle on the hardwood, where the only loser is cancer (the alumni won, sorry rooks).
Nothing brings people together like the March Madness. Bracket pools and wagers are made by fans and non-fans alike. Cancer brings people together, too, albeit in an entirely different way. There isn’t another event or partnership that even remotely resembles the Infiniti Hardwood Heroes.
As far as I know, there’s no charity football game held on the same field as the SuperBowl before team practices. And to the best of my knowledge, a group of cancer patients are not invited to participate in their own Home Run Derby before the American League and and National League champions battle it out at the World Series.
There are dozens of people and organizations to thank for making an event like this possible, and giving proper thanks to every key stakeholder is easier said than done. Walking out under the lights and onto the hardwood is such a transcendent feeling, but this year we had even more reason to celebrate victory over cancer at one of the most pervasive sportings event in our culture.
Two groundbreaking broadcasters — ESPN’s Shelley Smith and Barstool Sports’ Kayce Smith (no relation, but that didn’t stop them from becoming besties) joined us as assistant coaches. Not only are the Smith “sisters” both remarkable sports journalists, they are both cancer survivors.
Kayce is a friend and fellow Texan, and recently left NBC Sports in Boston to lend her beauty and brilliance to the brash boys at Barstool. It didn’t take long for the ruffling of feathers there.
Shelley — a FOUR TIME Emmy winner and best selling author — was an absolute joy to meet, and someone I was proud to add to my stable of Final Four celebrity friends along with the late Craig Sager and iconic Jim Nantz.
With a local crew of new survivors and a stellar group of returning ones, I knew the 2018 event would be a special one. But there’s an underlying reason for this rejuvenation of blogging and recapping another remarkable year as a Hardwood Hero. Each year, at least one (if not more) of the Hardwood Heroes has been in the midst of their cancer battle. My friend Priscilla was showing off a chemo-induced, perfectly bald head in year one; in year two I met my now “sister survivor” Melissa, who has chronic myeloid leukemia — chronic meaning “no cure;” in year three I met Hunter, a cosmic guy full of character and charm, who ended up needing an emergency surgery the night of the semi-final games, the details of which I will spare you…
These heroes are the embodiment of bravery and the define what it means to be fierce. But more than anyone else, I dedicated my 2018 Hardwood Heroes game to my friend Sam. We don’t have a great deal in common between us, Sam and me. He’s tall, I’m short. He’s a badass hockey player, I can only quote Happy Gilmore — albeit quite well. But we have bonded over our commonalities: we love Chicago, we adore our ladies, and we have survived two bone marrow transplants each.
I met Sam a year ago when I worked at LIVESTRONG. He was volunteering at the time, and we were in the middle of fulfilling a huge constituent mail order when he struck up a conversation with me. After exchanging niceties, he told me his cancer story and asked about mine. At the end of describing his journey, he said, “Man, I really wish you had written a book. Knowing you beat the odds and found life again after cancer would have changed my whole outlook towards my own battle.”
It was the equivalent of your parents’-you-have-so-much-potential-talk when you’re young. The nice way of saying “you could be offering so much more to this world.” I had never been so directly challenged by another patient or survivor before. Sure, I’d had the privilege of speaking to thousands of people through hundreds of events and various channels, and many of them have offered words of thanks for sharing my story of victory and hope.
But Sam’s was more of a call to action. It was at that moment I decided I would no longer talk about writing “the book” when life allowed. For years I’ve had an account with my bank called “book fund” where friends have actually donated towards the publishing or marketing of my life story. And despite this and countless supporters ensuring that “it’s gonna be great,” I still never felt full confidence in it.
Until I met Sam.
For years I promised myself I would continue public speaking as long as I felt at least one person benefited from hearing it, I just wasn’t sure if it was actually happening.
Until I met Sam.
I’ve written and deleted hundreds of thousands of words, but they never felt worthy enough of delivering the hope that I’ve been given by the amazing people in my life. I didn’t think my story could inspire others to keep fighting the way others inspired me.
Until I met Sam.
Not long after our friendship was formed, I had the opportunity to work with Infiniti USA on another project — a global brand campaign called Beyond The Numbers. The goal? To highlight remarkable stories of human achievement, living beyond formidable figures in life. That same week, I learned Sam relapsed and would be forced to live beyond another number: bone marrow transplant #2.
Shelley Smith sat next to me at lunch. We had just left the Alamodome after our game and were all enjoying a celebratory meal with our friends at Infiniti when she asked if I had ever thought about chronicling my story into a published work. “Funny you should ask,” I told her. She reached into her purse, pulled about a business card, and told me to shoot her a note. “If you want me to write an intro for you, just say the word.” I was speechless.
Shelley’s gesture was just as weighty as Sam’s. How could I pass up the chance to have someone with her pedigree introduce my life story? How could I disregard Sam’s plea for prose knowing not long after our first conversation, he would endure another hardship.
So, if you’ve made it this far, you’re being put on notice. My fianceé Kendall and I declared 2018 as the year to “get shit done.” She kinda went above and beyond and decided to pursue her doctorate. That’s after she finishes her second Master’s degree this May, of course, all while effecting change in health care through acupuncture and breakthroughs in integrative medicine. I suppose I can hold up my end and write a freaking book.
My friend Harrison — a fellow Hardwood Hero and, like me, one of the lucky athletes to have participated in all three editions — joked about getting to cross the Final Four off our bucket list last year in a thank you note to Infiniti. “Thank you for gifting us with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity… again…”
I’ve experienced a once-in-a-lifetime event each spring for the last three years.
The Hardwood Heroes are strangers united by a common thread ready to deliver a message to the world: that we beat cancer and we can play. And whether it’s through a cancer survivor’s game at the Final Four, a conversation with a close friend, or words on pages in a published work, I hope that message inspires at least one person to fight for one more shining moment.
