Road Trip. Waiting for a phone call.

930 miles down. Many more to come.

17 hours in the car is a great distraction when you're waiting on a pretty important phone call. 

Especially when driving through the endless nothing that is southern Illinois, Missouri, and Arkansas. 

Little rock was pretty cool though.

Especially when driving to see the Spartans play in a national semi-final.

Especially when wasting time goofing around with my co-pilot/navigator/best friend.

Especially when in a few hours, we'll arrive and begin celebrating 100 days since the stem cell transplant. 

The phone call is looming and it has a place in the back of my mind pretty constantly--but I'm ready for whatever comes. 

Either way, it'll be a celebration:

A celebration of some great news.

Or a celebration of an adventure with a bunch of people I love, in a strange place, watching a special team, ignoring bad news and staying optimistic about the future.

It's just a game. 

It's just a road trip. 

It's just 34 hours of quality time with her. 

They're just distractions.

it's just a phone call. 

And it's just cancer. 

Some things, like who I'm with and what I'm doing, in this moment, are much more important. This game, this trip, and this girl--that's where my head is now. 

I'm enjoying the moment. 

The phone call will come, and I'm ready for it--then I'll get back to the important stuff.

It's just what you allow it to be.

Merry Christmas

Cancer is the cousin Eddie of diseases. It lives in an RV and is unwelcome at all times.

"Have you checked our shitters honey?"

Just a quick thanks to everyone who's ever read this, shared this, reached out, sent thoughts, etc. I try and write this as if only I will read it, and the result is me being more honest and open than I think I otherwise would. 

Still, would I do it if I didn't know there was an audience? Unlikely. I face this with clearer eyes and in a more optimistic way because of this blog and because you read it.

You put up with my anger, complaining, frustration, bad words, failed attempts at wit, and overuse of pictures.

You all make a shitty situation more tolerable, and I wouldn't be where I am or how I am without you all. 

To my family--I love you. Thanks for being everything. You all have this strange talent of being present when I need it, and giving space when it's necessary. You've all been perfect.

Special thanks to the Fernandez family, you guys are too good to me. 

Your daughter is okay too. 

By "okay," I mean the best thing that has happened to me since I can remember. 

All I want for Christmas is good news on the 28th (PET scan) and a Spartan W...IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!

Updates soon. 

We're gonna be the Jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nut house.

434 days have passed--I hate this place.

This is wild. 

I've been in this seat before. I spent my first day of Chemo here, wrote about it, and started this blog. Through all of the treatments following that day, for whatever reason, I was never here again. 

I wore the same green and white. 

I had a beard then.

I haven't been here since that day. 

But now, as I restart a years worth of Chemo today, I'm in the exact same spot, with the exact same surroundings. 

Time has passed. 

434 days. 

10,416 minutes. 

37,497,600 seconds. 

Much has happened in that time span. Good days, bad days, people, places, victories and failures. 

It feels like yesterday that I was here. 

It feels like years ago. 

I've changed. This place hasn't. 

An elderly woman nearby was just told she wouldn't be going home today, and needed to be admitted to the hospital immediately due to dangerously low blood counts. 

She is thin, weary. She has been at this for a while. I feel awful for her. 

Her husband is stoic, strong. He has questions that the nurse can't answer, so he's frustrated. 

There's a teenage girl receiving treatment, her friends joined her. They're all on their cell phones and giggling and having a good time. They bring at least a measure of levity to this heavy place. 

Her father is seated nearby, looks stressed as he tries to converse and laugh with them. 

Others are asleep. 

Others are tossing and turning with pained expressions, trying to find a tolerable position. 

An elderly man is alone. His straightforward stare is piercing. He looks hearty, new to this. 

He looks like he absolutely hates this place. 

I'm with him. 

Last time I was here, the space and the people in it served as a cold but needed reminder that I was facing something serious, that I wasn't special, and that it was time to focus, and take all of this head on. 

This time, I just hate it. 

I don't look like the others in here. 

I look around, and I see death and discomfort. 

I see optimistic visitors and pessimistic patients. 

I see a place of healing and treatment in a world where both come at a price. 

Physical, mental, financial. 

I'm not special. It's not that I don't belong. 

It's that I don't want to any longer.

I'm sick of belonging. 

I'm tired of the heaviness of this place, and I've only been here for an hour. 

I have it better than everyone here, I would presume. I'm sure my diagnosis is better, positive my treatment is lighter, and sure I'll be here for a shorter duration. 

I'm not better than them--that isn't why I'm "sick of belonging"--and being around it makes me feel terrible for them. There's a strange sense solidarity--even if it hurts. 

I just have this sense, right or wrong, that I've done my time. 

I've paid my dues. 

Somehow earned the "right" to be anywhere but here. 

It's wrong.

This is a bullshit way of thinking. 

I'd come here every day until forever if it kept me healthy and around to experience all the things I want to. 

I don't mean to complain.

My life at the moment is wonderful in so many ways. 

In almost every way. 

I'm just angry.

Angry that this fluorescent-lit, saline smelling, life saving dump--is a reminder of the one thing that isn't. 

434 days of belonging. 

There's no way of knowing exactly how many more days have to pass before I can move on from this. 

Until I can say I belong to a new group(s): 

In remission. 

Survivor. 

No amount of time is too long for me to wait for that.

I'm not too tired to continue or too disillusioned to care.

Apathy is not something I'm capable of.

It's not a moment of weakness. It's just a combination of experiences that add up to frustration. To hate.

I'm not done. I'm fine.

I'll come here forever if I have to, so 434 is a blink of an eye. 

When I'm done tonight, I'm going to walk by the old man with the stare, shake his hand and say "fuck this place."

I have a feeling it will be well received. 

Here's to 434 more. 

Chemo, round 1904830924132841287

I was originally scheduled to begin this new chemo on December 2nd. For a number of reasons, it's been pushed back twice. The delays have been welcome, but I'll begin next Tuesday. 

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. 

It's a 30 minute infusion. Short. The drug is supposed to be lighter on patients than the drugs I've been on before. It's more of a preventative measure than it is reactive. 

The science behind it is extremely strong. There is no doubt this is what is best for me. 

And yet, I really, really wish I didn't have to do it.

These are wasted thoughts and emotions. Woe is me. Why me? I wish life were more fair blah blah blah. 

As aware as I am of the waste that it is--worrying about or dreading or wishing away something that is beyond my control and is happening--I can't help myself. It's just a kick in the nuts. 

I thought I was done. That was mistake #1. 

"No more chemo, ever, hopefully. I received my last dose of this process earlier this morning. 

It was exciting and shitty all at the same time. Exciting because of the obvious--I

Might actually be done with willingly injecting poison into my body."-Me, on September 21st, in Ann Arbor

Idiot. 

This will never be over. That just isn't the way it works. This a lifetime sentence. 

Even after I'm officially in remission, and life returns to "normal," I'll be in a cancer clinic multiple times a year for all kinds of a tests and checkups. I'm at risk for numerous other cancers and health complications simply due to the drugs I've been exposed to. 

To some extent, whether the disease is active or not, I will "have cancer" in my life forever.

That box will be checked on every form I fill out from now until the end. 

More treatment, and specifically, more chemo, was always a possibility. 

Hell, in reality, it was more than a possibility. 

It was statistically probable, even if I didn't realize that until now. 

It's not a mistake I'll make again. 

I've been told before to expect a certain chemo drug to be "easier on me" than others, and they weren't--not at all. 

I've been told that resuming normal life and work and the rest wouldn't be affected by certain drugs--that also wasn't true. 

So what I'm saying, is my skepticism is founded in experience.

It's a years worth of chemo. 

And of course, all of this could change drastically depending on the results of my PET scan on the 28th, which I suppose is to say:

In cancer and its treatment and its outcomes, certainties do not exist, save for one:

without treatment, you don't stand a chance. 

So even if I don't feel like it at the moment, I'm lucky to be doing more chemo. 

I'm lucky that treatment options exist for me and I'm phenomenally fortunate that at the moment, the prescription is a preventative measure. 

Every time I'm in Ann Arbor, I see people who I know would love to trade places with me. 

So I know I'm being selfish. 

I'm in a good place. 

Life is good. I'm feeling better. I'm getting out and about. 

I'm back in the gym, attempting to resemble a human, rather than a tube of play dough.

Less that--more this:

I'm doing well. Chemo, and the thought of it, just sucks. 

The mental grind got to me. It happens. It has to, this shit is heavy. 

I'd like to say I "win" every time I think about all of this, but that would be a lie.

I'll be ready next week, and the reason why is simple:

What other choice do I have?

Bring on the drugs.

Sports.

"I feel bad for people who don't like sports.

“Especially people with cancer who don't like sports. I'm sure they can find other things to distract them, but I have a hard time imagining they work as well as the games this weekend have for me.”

I wrote that on October 26th of last year, after a big Spartan win. 

This win was slightly bigger, and the same is still true. I feel bad for people who don't like sports. Not because they don't have other fulfilling hobbies, but because the excitement this team and the run its been on has brought me has to be unique to sports. The highs and the lows and the stress and the relief.

A distraction like no other. 

Experiences I'll never forget.

And for a few hours on the past few Saturdays--what Cancer? What Chemo? What upcoming PET Scan?

Just the Spartans. My family. The girl I love.

And victory. 

Onward.

Three kinds of men

"There are three kinds of men:

The ones that learn by reading,

and the few who learn by observation.

The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves." - Will Rodgers

I made the decision to go to Columbus for last nights game just hoping to have a good time. I certainly accomplished that goal. 

It was an incredible performance.

I'm not the kind of person who tries to take every positive or exciting experience and turn it into something profound, but I can't help but feel this morning that I learned something valuable last night:

Nothing is more important than creating memories, whether positive or negative--and the chance to do so should always be taken when it's possible.

Beyond experiences and memories, what else do we have? When were gone or when others leave us, that's all that remains. 

I don't mean to get too philosophical on you. 

Last night won't be forgotten, and not because of the football game. Eventually the details of the game will fade. 

What will last: the memory of the time that I had sitting surrounded by the Spartan players families in an opposing teams stadium, getting to experience first-hand the thrill of watching loved ones accomplish something no one gave them a chance to on the biggest possible stage.

What will last: The memory of sharing a moment of pure and total exhilaration with my older brother. I'm sure that eventually I'll forget the final score and the date and how wet and cold and miserable it was, and all I remember is the time him and I hugged and jumped around like mad men who had just won the lottery.

I'm a lucky man in that I have many experiences similar to this with countless great people that I can always look back upon and smile and laugh.

As much as I wish it weren't the case, maybe it's the fact I am sick and at least a little uncertain about what the future holds for me, that allowed last night to teach me the value of creating memories and experiencing things with the people you love as often as possible. 

Slow things down, and whether good or bad, exciting or scary, experience all you can while you can.

I hate when I sound preachy, so I apologize. I know it was just a football game, I really do, but I had to get these thoughts written down.

So I guess I'm a pee on the electrical fence for myself kind a guy, and I like it that way.

I'll keep learning through experience. 

I'll just pee all over the world. 

I did it the last few days, and will until I can't. 

Some memories last forever. Some of those were created this weekend:

With just a little help from my Spartans, who peed all over the Buckeyes.

Zing. 

Go green. 

Rules be damned...and an update

At my doctors appointment on Tuesday, I learned that starting on December 3, I will begin chemotherapy again. 

I will be going every three weeks for a full year.

365.  

This was not expected. 

This decision was based on the results of a recent study that showed this particular drug to be effective at combating a recurrence of aggressive lymphomas.

It isn't the worst news in the world. In a sense, it's playing offense instead of defense. It's what is best for me.

Still, it's a full year of chemo, when I was fairly certain I was done with that poison for what I hoped it would be the rest of my life. 

I'm not trying to be dramatic, but I'm pissed.

It doesn't mean that the transplant did or did not work. 

In fact, everything else looks good.

I will do my first post transplant pet scan on December 28. Obviously, the results of that scan could drastically change all of this. 

Hopefully it won't.

I am not happy with the news I received on Tuesday. 

So I'm going to break the rules, and travel out of the state and attend an event with a large group of people.

I will be in Columbus at the horseshoe on Saturday afternoon to watch Michigan State smash Ohio State. 

Maybe I'll chew some gum I find on the street and drink from a public fountain. 

What a rebel. 

If my doctors and nurses have a problem with it, they can take it up with me next time I'm in Ann Arbor.

I'll be there for chemo. 

"Know the rules well, so that you can break them effectively." -Dalai Lama

Fuck Cancer. Go Green. 

Incognito

It's been a long time since I've been in the cancer center.

At least a long time since I've personally been here. 

I've been gracing the newsstands for some time.

But no one knows it's meeeeeeeee.

So I can say things like:

"Boy, this handsome man on the cover sure is an interesting fellow."

"His bone structure is impeccable."

"I bet he works out."

And so on.

Hoping for some good news today. 

As in, no, there isn't more chemo in my future. 

As in, yes, your bloodwork is wonderful and you can go back to normal life shortly. 

I've learned expecting good news is dangerous. So I'll just plan on hearing things I don't love, hope for the opposite, and move forward either way. 

Never thought I'd say this, but I missed this place. Lots of familiar faces. Lots of history in a short amount of time.

The one thing I can say for the cancer center is that it never held me hostage for weeks, like the transplant unit did.

Cancer Center > Transplant Unit.

Except for the nurses...they're equally great in both places. 

And we all hate Ohio State this week.

Updates to follow.

Never too high, never too low. 

Boredom

I've been feeling, and telling myself a lot lately, that I'm bored. 

I've been telling other people that as well, when they ask how I'm doing. 

Stock answer:

"I'm doing fine...feeling better. Just finding it tough to pass the time with all the restrictions. I'm bored as hell."

It's a lame ass thing to say. 

So I'm not going to any more. 

I came across a quote today by Louis C.K.

He's a phenomenally pottymouthed, dark, and hilarious comedian. I highly recommend any of his stand-ups and his TV show. 

Still, when I woke up today, he's about the last person I thought I'd be taking life lessons from:

"I'm bored' is a useless thing to say. I mean, you live in a great, big, vast world that you've seen none percent of. Even the inside of your own mind is endless; it goes on forever, inwardly, do you understand? The fact that you're alive is amazing, so you don't get to say 'I'm Bored."--Louis C.K. 

All of what he says is true. 

I've seen very little of the world. When this is all over, I plan to change that. 

Our minds are endless and I need to be better about finding ways to challenge it.

 Time isn't promised to anyone and it is amazing that I'm alive. 

Saying "I'm bored" has to be nothing more than lack of effort. I know this, because when I say I'm bored, I'm usually sitting on the couch, doing nothing, feeling bad for myself. 

No mas. 

Now, I'm not preaching and it certainly isn't in my nature to be perpetually busy, with sunbeams shining out of my ass--walking around with a constant huge smile plastered on my face, fascinated by a ladybug on a twig. 

That isn't me, and it will never be. 

Life can't be at all times exhilarating, mysterious, challenging and rewarding. Obviously there will be some down time. 

Still, boredom, it seems to me, is a decision. 

It's a choice I've been making too often. It's lazy. Born from excuses. 

Maybe it's even a personality flaw. 

Whatever it is, I'm going to try and be done with it. 

These 100 days can't be done soon enough. I'm ready to get on with the rest of the time I have. 

"I think my new thing will be to try to be a real happy guy. I'll just walk around being real happy until some jerk says something stupid to me."-Jack Handy

Accurate. 

Gray Area

Absolutes are easy:

You do have cancer. We're treating it. You'll get better.

You don't have cancer. Move on with your life. 

You are a world class moron for watching the Lions every weekend. 

You get the gist. 

Uncertainty is tough:

You might still have cancer. 

You could be done with treatment forever. 

There is a chance you'll have to continue with more chemotherapy. 

The very pleasant Stem Cell Transplant you just went through may have been successful. 

We can't tell you right now when you'll be able to put this all behind you. 

Will everyone call you out for being unfaithful if you give up on the Lions?

I can't speak for everyone, but I find I have a bit of a tougher time when things are "up in the air." 

I realize that possibly not having cancer is absolutely better than definitely having cancer. That isn't what I'm saying. I'm not an idiot (all the time). 

Certainty just provides a bit of clarity. Helps me focus.

Post PET scans that showed definite cancerous growth, it was clear to me what lay ahead. I'd receive treatment and get better. I was sick--I needed help. I could prepare mentally for what was coming. 

Black and white. 

Now, 40 some odd days into this transplant process, there is much to be determined. 

I may still have cancer, the transplant may not have been effective, there may be more chemo, radiation is a possibility if things go south.

Or:

I could be completely done. Cancer free. Movin' on. 

Gray and gray. 

You can imagine how the huge gap in possibilities for me in the coming months might lead to some anxiety. 

Uncertainty is difficult.

Especially considering how much I've been improving lately. I feel good, generally. My energy level is rising. My bloodwork looks good. I've been cleared for more activity. 

Took a weekend trip up north with my girlfriend, showed her Sleeping Bear and Arcadia. Saw the sights. Appreciated all the small moments. Never been happier in a relationship. 

I feel the support of everyone who cares about me every day. The Spartans are 8-0. My employer treats me better than any that I know of. 

I'm doing very well. 

Still, every trip in front of a mirror is a reminder:

I'm still recovering from something major, and more may lie ahead. 

Also a reminder that I have a giant, misshapen head. 

Also a reminder that I look like a chubby infant without my beard. 

Hi I'm Marcus

Mostly, though, that I've got a ways to go. 

I'll be ready for whatever comes. 

Never too high, never too low. 

The good with the bad...and more Chemo.

It seems to me that's what this whole process is about--weighing the good news and the bad news you receive, and then deciding which "side" is "victorious" on a given day based on what you've learned. 

So rare is a day that everything I hear from doctors all "good," that I don't even consider it a possibility when I am on my way to see them. 

Not once have I had the thought "Man, I just gotta feeling...I think everything I hear in there is going to be awesome."

That, I understand, is a pretty standard defense mechanism. Can't be surprised by bad news if you're expecting it, right? It's useful. 

It softens blows. 

Still, as unlikely as they seem and as little hope I have for experiencing it: 

one of those "all good" days would be nice, eh?

Even on the day I'm told I'm in remission, which is coming, I'm sure I'll be lined up for appointments for the next 5 years of my life and told what to look for and what to expect and the likelihood of relapse and yada yada yada. 

Which brings me back to where I started, that it's all a balancing act. 

My whole little personal mantra this entire time has been "never too high, never too low." 

It's admittedly a throwback to my athletic days--a comfortable place that I go often--but it has translated well. 

If I let every little victory turn into a party, and every small defeat turn into a crushing blow--who the hell knows where I'd be at this point.

It wouldn't be pretty. 

Steady as she goes.  

I told my dad, even on relatively good days, that "I'll celebrate when this is done."

I realize that it might make it tougher on my family and friends. I've had some good days and some good news. While they're thrilled to hear it and excited for me, I usually temper expectations and sit stone faced. 

I'm not trying to be a downer. I just can't let myself get up too high. 

Or fall too low. 

I've experienced it, but more than that--I've seen it.

My mom had it "beat" for years. 

My amazing friend Becca Sernick beat long odds and fought it off for years--longer than any doctor gave her a chance to. 

 My "second father" Kevin Moody was sucker-punched by it. 

Everyone knows somebody who's had these experiences with cancer.

I'm not unique. 

This is an unrelenting, unpredictable, resourceful and stubborn monster that they dealt with, and that I'm dealing with.

It's purpose is singular. 

Just when you think you're ahead of the game, that you've got it on the ropes, comes an uppercut you didn't see coming. Back on the mat. Wondering what's next. 

It's not negativity. It's realism. 

I'm optimistic. 

An appointment yesterday showed that my blood counts look very strong and are rebounding well. Some are even into the "normal range" that a person who hadn't recently had a transplant could expect to be at. My ability to fight off infection is coming back. It has a ways to go, but it's returning. 

This is good news. 

I'm being transferred from the Transplant Team back to my Oncologist in the Cancer Center. This indicates a comfort level among the Transplant Doctors with my recovery and trajectory. 

This is good news. 

It was also confirmed that I'm not done with Chemotherapy. 

News I was not pleased to hear and was not expecting. 

Not good news. 

It's called "maintenance" Chemo, and it's a drug that really kicked my ass last time. 

But so be it. Whatever it takes.

I also learned that Flip Saunders, a longtime NBA coach and a guy well-respected in his profession passed away from Cancer. He was 60. I decided to check out what kind of cancer. Mistake.

Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

We won't share the same fate, but seeing that--seeing that this "good cancer" does kill people, wasn't great.

Not good news.

Still:

The "good" won yesterday. It definitely did. That's a victory, but a small one.

More chemo looms, as does a PET scan and the knowledge that these transplants are not 100% effective. 

That number is closer to 30-45%. 

Never too high. Never too low. 

Life is good. I'm feeling better. I'm getting stronger. I have people surrounding me who love me. 

I GET TO SEE GRISWOLD AGAIN (the doctors okay'd it). 

I'm in a good place. 

And I'll celebrate. 

When it's over. 

A fortunate man

I'm tired. Just constantly tired and usually nauseous. It's slowly improving, I think. 

So.

I don't have a lot to say here at the moment other than this: 

I've never been more aware of or invigorated by my obligation to be as generous and kind as you all have been to me--to pay it forward. 

I've spoken on here at length about how lucky I am to have great friends and family and support. Even how lucky I am to get to experience this in general. 

I get it, "lucky to have cancer" sounds like an insane thing to say. It probably is an insane thing to say. 

Still.

It makes sense to me.

I never could have known, without being sick, the true extent of it: Just how fortunate a person I am to have all the people, near and far, who care about me. Who are generous. Who are kind. 

I'll stop rambling, but to say I'm overwhelmed by everything I've felt and experienced in the last year, and this last week, is an enormous understatement. 

Every message, letter, call, text, donation, hug, high five...you get the picture...has filled me up with love, confidence, and pride--I'm proud that I know all of you. 

I didn't need another reason(s) to want to get trough all this. Self preservation is strong enough. 

You guys gave me more, though. 

I have work to do to repay the kindness I've been shown. 

I better get started now. This is going to take a while.

Thank you. 

Gris says thanks, too. 

What A Day

Yesterday was a pretty surreal day. 

I don't know if it's because of my affinity for self deprecation, my distaste for arrogance, or the shyness that I can generally hide pretty well, but the attention and recognition I received yesterday still doesn't make sense to me. 

Kind of. 

It's starting to. 

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to believe people when they talk about the way I write, and I'm positive I'll never understand it when they call me an inspiration (who, me?), but I suppose it's time I start listening to people when they say this blog has turned into something pretty cool. 

Still, we'll disagree as to why it's special, or how it became special. 

Newsflash: it ain't me. 

It would be nothing without the people who read it. That's you. That's why it's important. 

Without you, this would be a collection of thoughts and words that I would hang onto for reference when this whole ordeal is over. It would likely be dull, negative, full of complaints. Also likely to be eventually lost in the bowels of the internet.

It wouldn't have the views. 

It wouldn't have kept my attention on tough days when I needed something to focus on.

It wouldn't have challenged me to be honest with myself about all of this. To look it in the eye. 

It wouldn't have allowed me to begin this blog by writing an version of events and projecting an attitude that I wanted my friends and family to read and believe, in the hopes of putting people at ease--but the more I wrote that way, the more that attitude became a reality for me. I adopted it as my own. A "realistic optimism" in me created by the readership. 

It wouldn't have allowed me to face this with a smile, with sarcasm and humor. It let's me poke holes in the big scary monster that is Cancer and reduce it to something manageable. It let's me piss and moan and swear (be myself). 

It wouldn't have led to me being recognized and flattered by stories in the LSJ and Thrive. 

It needs you. 

I need you, for any of this to have happened. 

So thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

Yesterday was wild. 

In all honesty, I had no idea when the Thrive article would be published. I had no idea that the LSJ story would be on the front page. Zero clue. 

But as my brother said, "If your athletic ability can't get you on the cover, just get cancer." 

He caught me. This was all part of my master plan. 

The articles essentially being published on the same day created a flurry of attention and an outpouring of support that I cannot believe. 

Old friends, old coaches, total strangers all reaching out to wish me well. Donations from people I know and have never met. 

There was a clear contrast yesterday between how I felt, and how I felt. 

How I felt, was like shit. 

Stomach issues all day, fatigue but unable to sleep, appetite fleeting. Small fever for most of the day. Nothing urgent, but a generally feeling of: blah. 

How I felt, was on top of the world. 

Embarrassed to a certain extent by the attention, yes, but: 

How I felt, was cared for. Loved. Like things I have to say or thoughts I have matter. 

Like there are people I'll probably never meet who are thinking of me, pulling for me. 

Like I'm the damn luckiest guy I know. 

How I felt, was if a person has this kind of support, these kind of people around him, how can he lose? 

He can't. I can't. I won't. 

Neither can the Spartans today.

MSU 27 - UM 13

The green is out today. 

Gotta feel bad for Jim.

Thank you all again. Love you guys.