A Dedication to My Friends Through the Years

Not really about gymnastics but more about my journey. It’s always about the journey. Copied from one of my other blogs.

The Spirit of ‘76 — A Dedication to My Friends Through the Years

There’s a line from a song that hits me every time I hear it:

“And me, I’ve seen my dreams come true

But that don’t make me no hero, just one of the lucky few…”

It’s from Spirit of ‘76 by The Alarm — a song about growing, surviving, taking chances, and holding on to belief even when the world gets dark. Mike Peters, who wrote it, recently passed away. He was an incredible songwriter, and oddly enough, I ran into him a few times over the years. It’s a story for another day, but it connects deeply with my brother, who passed away ten years ago from the same cancer that took Mike’s life. Life’s strange like that — full of echoes, connections, and chance moments that never quite leave you.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the friends who helped shape me, especially those I grew up with during the 70s and 80s. It was a different world back then — one without GPS tracking, instant messages, or helicopter parenting. We were wild, mostly unsupervised, and totally free. Feral, some might say, and maybe that’s not wrong.

Our parents worked. We raised ourselves — and sometimes our siblings too. From the moment we could ride a bike, we could be anywhere: at the lake, in the city, maybe even a different state. It was chaotic, and it was beautiful. Tight friendships were not a luxury; they were a necessity. There were no cell phones to check in with, no social safety nets. Your lifeline was your crew. You stuck together, or you sank.

Those years taught me how to read people, how to adapt, how to lead, and how to follow. We learned resilience not from books, but from scraped knees, missed buses, heartbreaks, and long summer nights with nothing but music, stars, and dreams.

Fast forward to last week — I was on a work trip in Iceland, and I had dinner and a beer with one of my oldest friends. Someone I met during my first year of college. Back in the fall of 1984, I had just quit competitive gymnastics and was coaching to pay the bills. I wanted to be a teacher. Or maybe a politician. I had no real idea — just this drive to do something that mattered.

We were part of the punk and new wave scene. We studied hard, worked harder, and lived for the weekends when we’d see bands, play a little music ourselves (badly), and just exist in this weird, beautiful community of misfits. It was raw. It was real. It was formative. And that friend? He helped me find myself when I didn’t even know I was lost.

During those college years in New York, I started feeling the push from my parents and professors to fit into boxes. A teacher should look like this. A politician shouldn’t say that. A gymnastics coach? That’s a dead-end job. You’ll never make any money. You’ll never make a difference.

And yet, I kept going.

Eventually, I transferred to a school in New Hampshire. Summers were spent coaching at a gymnastics camp just outside NYC. I was one of the younger coaches — full of nerves, full of awe. But I learned. I grew. I made more friends — and quietly fell in love with someone. (I could write volumes about the people at this camp. Love them all). Life was intense and vivid and complicated, and I wouldn’t change a second of it.

What strikes me now, looking back, is how those friends — the ones from college, the ones from camp — saw me. Really saw me. Not for who I was supposed to be, but for who I was becoming. They accepted the radical thinker, the idealist, the scrappy coach, the music-obsessed kid with big ideas and no clue how to pay rent.

And here I am now. Writing this from the terrace of my apartment in Italy. I’ve got an amazing wife — my rock for over 35 years. Two kids, grown, thriving, chasing their own paths. I’ve coached a few girls who have made Olympic teams, yes. But more importantly, I’ve helped athletes become who they are, in and out of the gym.

But my heart is also with the friends who have struggled — and there have been many. Some have faced down their demons and still fight them every day. Some fell into patterns they couldn’t quite break — whether it was drugs, alcohol, failed relationships, or simply the weight of expectations that never matched their own dreams. Some just never quite “closed the deal” or found the life they were looking for. I see you. I still believe in you. I believe in your ability not just to survive — but to flourish. Think back to the dreams we shared. The promises we made in parking lots and coffee shops and on the hoods of cars in the dead of night. There is still time.

You see, some nights when I can’t sleep

I still think of you

And all the promises, all our dreams we shared

I know those lights still call to you

I can hear them now…

And every now and then, like anyone else who’s lived a little, I find myself flashing back to those Talking Heads lyrics:

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife

And you may ask yourself, “Well… how did I get here?”

It’s surreal — because that’s exactly what happened. Somehow, in the whirlwind of choices, failures, detours, and friendships, I ended up here. And the honest answer is: I got here because of the people who stood by me. Who lifted me up. Who challenged me, believed in me, and let me be messy and real and unfinished.

The work was hard. The path wasn’t always clear. But it was worth it.

And me? I’ve seen my dreams come true.

But I know I’m just one of the lucky few.

So this is for my friends — the ones from those lost summers and gritty winters, from New York and New Hampshire, from the campgrounds and the music clubs, from the gyms and the midnight drives. Some of you are still here. Some are gone too soon. All of you live in the best parts of me.