The Rents came to California for a bunch of days to see us. Sadly, they’re leaving tomorrow morning.
One day, while walking through the town of Orange, my mom was talking about my career, and how hard I’ve worked and blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening, because whenever people talk about how hard I’ve worked and blah, blah, blah, I feel compelled to stop them.
Yeah, I’ve worked hard.
Yeah, I’ve always loved being a journalist.
But this doesn’t happen—never, ever, ever happens—without Stan and Joan Pearlman, my awesome folks.
Where to begin? My parents knew nothing about sports, but throughout my boyhood they’d pretend to care as I’d jabber on about Wesley Walker and Bernard King and Rickey Henderson.When I was a high schooler, my folks would pretend to listen as I’d read them one insufferably dull story after another from the student paper, The Chieftain. After my sophomore year at Delaware, my parents sent me off in their Chrysler to Urbana, Illinois to intern at a newspaper for $5 an hour. After my junior year at Delaware, my parents sent me off in my own car (which they bought me, used but in excellent condition) to intern at The Tennessean in Nashville. My parents paid for my entire college education—no loans. My parents urged me to become a journalist, even when it probably didn’t seem wise or practical.
In short, I’m living my dream because my parents pushed me to live my dream.
They’re the ones who worked hard. I’m just reaping the benefits.
