Brian

I’m sitting here thinking about life’s phases—what I call the “3rd chapter.”   As I’m sharing my journey here, I started out pretty narrow-focused, growing up on an Indiana farm where my brother and I battled it out in the front yard over football and basketball.   Back then, it was all about me—my goals, my wins, my survival in the ‘sibling rivalry’ family dynamic. But as I’ve aged, I’ve realized that life’s richest moments come not from taking, but from giving.   That’s what the 3rd chapter should be about.   We all start as selfish beings—it’s natural. As kids, we’re wired to focus on our own needs, like I was when I chased football dreams after my first season of organized football at the age of 13. Even into my 20s and 30s, I was driven by personal achievements—building a career in sales, starting a business, pursuing passions like snow skiing and golf.   But science tells us our brains don’t fully mature until our mid-20s, so it’s no surprise that unselfishness takes time to grow. My own empathy developed slowly, shaped by experiences like watching my uncle Bill struggle after Vietnam and seeing my mother left with little after my parents’ divorce despite her contributions to our family.   The 3rd chapter—our later years—should be about acceptance that life isn’t forever. As with everyone, I’m growing older (but still alive!) and I’ve learned we gain more by giving our time, money, energy, and focus to others. Raising my kids, volunteering with 4-H, coaching football, even deciding to donate my brain to the Concussion Legacy Foundation—it’s these acts that bring me deeper fulfillment than any material possession ever did.   Yet, it’s disheartening to see how, in the U.S. and globally, we’ve become less willing to help our fellow man. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I saw how isolation made us more self-focused, and that trend seems to have stuck. It’s a challenge we need to face head-on.   Embracing benevolence in this chapter aligns with my core values of acceptance and balance. It’s about living with purpose, as Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi writes in Flow – finding joy in the moment, whether that’s mentoring someone, sharing a skill, or simply listening. I’ve found that giving doesn’t drain me; it energizes me.   It’s a mindset shift: instead of asking “what can I get,” we ask “what can I give?” That’s how we live our best life in the 3rd chapter.   I’d love to hear your thoughts—how are you giving back, or planning to, in your own 3rd chapter?   Share your ideas in the comments below. Let’s inspire each other to make this phase about unselfishness and connection, building a tribe that values lifting each other up.   Here’s to a chapter of giving! Brian

They say you become who you admire. And for me, it started with a movie, a name, and a football.   It was the summer before 8th grade when I first saw the movie Brian’s Song. I was just 13, a skinny farm kid in Indiana who hadn’t played a down of organized football yet. But that film—that story of friendship, resilience, and the unbreakable bond between teammates—ignited something inside me.   Maybe it was because his name was Brian.   Maybe it was because the movie tugged at something deeper: the idea that in the crucible of sport, differences disappear.   Black. White. Rich. Poor. City kid. Farm boy.   In the locker room, we all wore the same sweaty, used gear. On the field though, we fought for each other.   That movie planted the seed. My mentors—Coach Jay, Coach Hunsucker, and later Coach Strickland—watered it with discipline, belief, and iron in the form of barbells and morning two-a-days.   But it was my heroes who gave it fire. The Birth of a Bears Fan (And a Football Life)   Growing up in the cornfields of Indiana, you’d think I’d have rooted for the Colts. They had relocated in the middle of the night in 1984; I didn’t care for the way it happened and I wasn’t in Indiana long enough after college to commit myself to becoming a fan.   The team that owned my heart was the Chicago Bears—and it all started with Brian Piccolo. His quiet courage. His friendship with Gale Sayers. That gut-wrenching goodbye. I was hooked. It was why I chose #41 as my jersey number.   And for a bit of irony, the bantam football team my brother played on was the Bears.   And then came Walter Payton.   “Sweetness” wasn’t just a nickname—it was poetry in motion. He ran like he owed someone money and lifted like he was trying to bend time. I admired everything about him: the legs, the lungs, the mindset. He trained like a man who knew the end would come too soon. His ‘Hill’ workout was legendary in the football training circles.   That hit home for me.   Coach Jay’s comment in those first days of my football experience that I had “tenacity” – I latched onto that.   I wasn’t the biggest or the fastest, but I could hit.   I could grind.   I wasn’t afraid.   I learned that effort, attitude, and preparation could beat raw talent if you showed up enough times.   I was also a fan of the Alabama Crimson Tide and Paul ‘Bear’ Bryant; I had dreams of playing for him because of his ability to outwit his opponents and his innovative approach to the game. I was facing headwinds getting the attention of smaller schools in Indiana, which led me to the conclusion that perhaps I wasn’t a candidate for the Crimson Tide. But the ‘Bear’ was always a hero to me. The Raiders Taught Me Swagger   By the time I had arrived to high school, I was reading every magazine watching every VHS highlight tape I could find of the Oakland Raiders (I was in the era before the internet existed). This wasn’t just a team. It was a lifestyle. The Raiders were attitude.   I modeled my mindset after them. I wanted to be feared on the field—not because I was dirty, but because I was relentless.   And if you know me now, you can probably still hear the echoes of that swagger when I talk about training, business, or grilling the perfect lamb chop. Meeting a Raider and Becoming One—In Spirit   In the early 1990s, I met Burgess Owens in person – one of the Raiders I idolized. By then, I was in the thick of my wellness career, starting my own company, learning how to fight for independence just like I did on the field.   Burgess wasn’t just a great football player. He was a man of principle, sharp intellect, and purpose. Meeting him reminded me that heroes grow, too. They evolve. And if we’re lucky, we get to become the kind of person someone else might admire. From Bears to Giants: Loyalty Born of Grit   After college, living in a Maryland suburb of D.C. (where my dad rooted for the Redskins), I went searching for something different.   As a Ball State alum, I scoured pre-internet magazines looking for MAC grads in the pros.   I found Rob Carpenter, a fullback with the New York Giants.   That was enough for me.   Then came Lawrence Taylor—a force of nature—and Bill Parcells, the master tactician. The roster was deep with great players. The Giants played like I wanted to live: with fire, control, and unrelenting resolve.   They became my team (until the Browns relocated to Baltimore as the Ravens. Not quite the same as the Colts leaving Baltimore for Indy but I acknowledge the irony and potential hypocrisy). Heroes Aren’t Perfect. They’re Human.   That’s the thing no one tells you when you’re young (or if they do, we don’t hear the message).   Your heroes may not always stay on the pedestal. Some stumble. Some fade. Some grow into something else entirely. Which is why we’re told not to meet our heroes because we’ll be disappointed by their humanity.   But the ones who last are the ones who made you better.   The ones who: Why It Still Matters   I’ve grown older; I’m reflecting. I’ve built companies, raised kids, lost and gained a lot of things in life.   But that spark? That grit? That love of football, brotherhood, and heroes who lead by example?   Still there.   I think about those days often—not with nostalgia, but with gratitude. Because football gave me more than just bruises and stories.   It gave me my compass. The Power of Heroes   So, here’s:   To Brian Piccolo and Walter Payton. To