Thank you, Lorenzo

I was seven years old.

I have no idea how my dad let me stay up so late on a school night, much less alone to myself in the living room.  But there I was, and because of it, I had one the greatest experiences of my life.

I saw a man dunk.

Granted, as my father watched Atlanta Hawks games religiously back then, it wasn't the first time I saw a man jam an orange ball through a hoop.  It was what that dunk represented that did something to me.  That dunk gave me the experience of victory.

Even though I'm a Carolina alumnus and my heart bleeds Chapel Hill, those who know me well also know of a time when my soul ran with packs of red wolves.  Wolves that carried not-so-household names like Valvano and Whittenburg, Lowe and Gannon.  People who had no business being on the same court with guys with names like Olajuwan and Drexler.  Grown men who walked with a swagger strong enough to carry the exotic-sounding moniker of Phi Slama Jama.

They weren't supposed to win.  One man's dunk made believers out a whole nation.

It was Lorenzo Charles made it.

He snatched Derrick Whittenburg's shot out of the sky and dunked it.  He took the seemingly idle dream of an afterthought in its own conference, and made them champions.

I learned to believe in the impossible that night.  I've lived to fight for the also-rans ever since.

It was because of them that I believe in the powers of perseverance and faith. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't root for the Baylors of the world, or the Valparaisos or the Bucknells or the Santa Claras. But because of what I saw that night, every time I see a small-ball school win big, I think of the Cardiac Pack.  When I see people overcome outrageous odds to earn victories beyond anyone's imagination, my heart warms, and my faith in humanity is renewed.  Jim Valvano, Kelsey Weems, Sidney Lowe and Charles, they taught me a lot.  Their example is what I try to pay forward every chance I get.

Because of them, I learned to see past one's shortcomings and see the beauty within.  When I put that extra effort in bringing along those young Soldiers others left to rot, kids who eventually grow to become better crew chiefs than I ever was, it's because of them.  Every so often, I still dream of taking that big shot, coming back from a big deficit, taking a team to that ultimate victory.  How ironic could it be that, as I try to reinvent myself to attain a higher plane of consciousness, I'm reminded of the standard that inspired my dreams to be in the first place?

People may never remember that April 4, 1983 as the day the Space Shuttle Columbia made its maiden voyage into space.  Even though it was my mother's birthday, I couldn't even tell you what we did for her that day.

Everybody will remember what North Carolina State did in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

It's funny, because when I speak about the influences of my life, I always speak of my father first, and then maybe my grandmother and a few other great men and women (this blog will have a tribute to one in the near future, I promise you that).  And yet, there were some five or six kids--giants to me at the time--and a runny-nosed coach playing out of Raleigh, North Carolina that, in some ways more than they had, made me they man that I am today.

One of them has left us this week.  Lorenzo Charles, the guy who made the dunk.  He was driving a bus that crashed near the university that loved him and his teammates so dearly. 

Lorenzo Charles may have been by himself that afternoon, but he didn't die alone.

Our love and appreciation for his life on and off the court went with him, and hopefully guided him on his way home, as they seek to comfort the family he left behind.

His body may be gone, but the impact of what he accomplished lives in all of us. 

And for you losers out there, I don't give a rat's ass that he only played one season in the NBA, or was riding the pine in the CBA, or spent his last days driving a bus.  When you leave this earth, what will you be remembered for?  What mountains would you have climbed?

Whose children will you have inspired to believe?

Like his coach almost 20 years before him, Charles will always live in the memories of so many fans and alumni, cheers for him will forever rattle the old bleachers of Reynolds Coliseum.

And he will always be in the heart of one seven year-old boy who learned just why we believe in underdogs.

Lorenzo Charles was part of a special group of men who defined my childhood.
And for that, no words can express how grateful I am...


Lorenzo Charles, 1964-2011