Seriously.

I don’t think I’d worn one in 10 or maybe even 20 years.

A couple weeks ago, during one of those brutally hot days where even walking across the house feels like work, I pulled on my old Larry Bird jersey as a joke. No undershirt. Just the jersey.

And you know what?

It felt pretty damn good.

Airy. Comfortable. Cool.

Perfect for bopping around the house while pretending I wasn’t melting.

What started as a joke quickly turned into a realization: I’ve been overlooking one of the simplest solutions to summer discomfort for decades.

So I doubled down.

Now the summer rotation includes Larry Bird, Michael Jordan, Dikembe Mutombo, and Dennis Rodman.

A lineup that would have made my younger self very proud.

The funny part is that none of this was driven by fashion. It wasn’t a style choice. I was hot, grabbed a jersey, and accidentally rediscovered the magic of sleeveless clothing.

Then another benefit appeared.

For years I’ve carried around a respectable Midwestern farmer’s tan. You know the one: tanned forearms, pale upper arms, and a clear line marking where the sleeves usually stop.

Every summer I tell myself I’m going to do something about it.

This year, I finally have a plan.

Expose the shoulders.

Trust the process.

Let the jerseys do their work.

I’m not expecting miracles, but if September rolls around and my arms are at least one consistent color, I’ll consider it a successful season.

Sometimes that’s how the best things happen.

You spend years assuming something isn’t for you anymore, only to stumble back into it and wonder why you ever stopped.

Will I be wearing tank tops everywhere?

Probably not.

But around the house? On scorching summer afternoons? Out in the backyard?

Absolutely.

It’s a small thing, but I’ve learned that small comforts matter more as I get older.

And right now, a rotation of vintage basketball jerseys is bringing an unreasonable amount of joy—and maybe a more balanced tan—to an otherwise sweaty Kansas summer.

Life was busy. I was overcommitted, overworked, and if I’m being honest, not giving enough to the relationship.

At some point I said, “I just don’t have enough time.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“You make time for the people you love.”

She was right.

The relationship didn’t last. The lesson did.

Over the years, I’ve realized she was right in more ways than either of us probably understood at the time.

Making time isn’t really about calendars.

It’s about priorities.

It’s about deciding what matters and then proving it with your actions.

What took me years to understand is that nobody can see my intentions.

People only experience my actions.

– I may care deeply about a friend, but if I never call, they don’t experience that friendship.
– – I may care about my team, but if I’m always too busy to meet with them, they experience distance instead.
– – – I may tell myself that my health matters, but if I never make time to exercise, recharge, or slow down, my calendar is telling a different story.

Intentions are invisible.

Time is visible. Time is how priorities introduce themselves to the world.

I’ve carried that idea into every part of my life.
– Relationships. Make time to say what needs to be said. Make the call. Have the dinner. Show up.
– – Friendships. Send the funny GIF. Grab the beer. Take the lunch.
– – – Leadership. Make time for your people. Listen before you need something from them.
– – – – Projects. Make time for the ones that excite you, even if nobody is watching.
– – – Yourself. Make time to decompress, recharge, and become the best version of who you can be.

When you lead people, this lesson matters even more.

Whether you like it or not, leadership is a relationship.

People don’t measure your commitment to them by what you say in a town hall or a performance review. They measure it by your availability, your attention, and your consistency.

– Do you make time for them when things are busy?
– – Do you listen when they need help?
– – – Do you know what’s happening in their lives beyond the status report?

The small investments compound.

Trust is built one conversation at a time.

I schedule a 1:1 with every direct report.
– Rescheduling happens.
– – Canceling doesn’t.

That time belongs to them. My job is to show up.

The same principle applies to the work itself.
– Not every project needs to be high visibility.
– – Not every effort needs executive attention.

Sometimes you do something simply because it matters to you.

– Because you’re curious.
– – Because you want to learn.
– – – Because it gives you energy.

And sometimes because you need to remind yourself that you can still build something from scratch when the moment calls for it.

Those things deserve time too.

There is a strange kind of fulfillment that comes from intentionally spending your time on the people, work, and experiences that matter most to you.

Not because they’re urgent. Because they’re important.

The truth is, none of us have enough time for everything. We never will.

But we always make time for what matters most.

And if your calendar consistently says you don’t have time for something, it may be worth asking whether it’s truly a priority.

The calendar usually tells the truth long before we do.

But somehow… it turned out kinda rad.

Now there’s:

• actual cupholders
• storage
• a flashlight mount like I’m preparing for a roadside adventure movie
• and, most importantly, a dignified resting place for my extremely important collection of CDs

Honestly, the whole thing feels appropriately 1988.
A little rough around the edges.
A little overbuilt.
A lot “Joe.”
Exactly how Betty likes it.

I swear it was yesterday they were tiny humans riding in the back seat with fruit snack crumbs everywhere, asking a thousand questions before breakfast. Now they walk into school on their own… with opinions, jokes, and gigantic backpacks.

Time moves quietly until it suddenly doesn’t… Proud of these rascals.

Not “fashion” exactly. Something better than that. Effortless. Funny. Unexpected. Cool without trying to be cool. One day it’s bright colors and sneakers that somehow perfectly match the bike. Another day it’s sunglasses that make her look like she walked out of a tiny French film from 1977.

To say I stuck out would be generous.

I was a pale, sweaty Midwesterner with a full head of curly hair, driving around South Florida like somebody dropped the wrong extra onto the set of Miami Vice. I never really adjusted to the heat. Or the culture. Or honestly… any of it.

Pretty early on, I knew Florida and I were probably not long-term compatible.

Somewhere in the middle of that experiment, I interviewed for a design job in Miami. They offered me a week-long trial run before making a decision.

Looking back, it was one of the most useful failures of my career.

The office looked exactly how you’d imagine a South Florida design office looked in the late 90s. Beach-themed everything. Pastel colors. Fake palm tree energy. More Tubbs than Crockett.

They sat me at a temporary folding table between two designers and pointed me toward a tired little Mac.

Then the critiques started.

Every ten minutes.

– “This blue should be 8%, not 10%.”
– – “Move the image four picas left.”
– – – “You should’ve made a new layer for that.”

None of the feedback was technically wrong. That was the weird part. But after a while, it stopped feeling like collaboration and started feeling like death by a thousand microscopic adjustments.

My head was spinning before lunch.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized something important:

This was not going to work.

– Not because I couldn’t do the job. I could.
– – But because I could already feel myself disappearing inside their process.

I remember sitting there and thinking about baseball.

One phrase popped into my head immediately:

Always go down swinging.

So that’s what I did.

I stopped trying to survive every critique perfectly. I listened. I adjusted some things. Ignored others. I started designing the project the way I honestly thought it should be designed.

– Not recklessly.
– – Not arrogantly.
– – – Just honestly.

By the end of the day, they loved the work.

I never went back.

But I kept the lesson.

Over the years, that phrase has followed me into creative reviews, leadership roles, photography, presentations, hard conversations, big swings, and uncertain seasons.

Always go down swinging.

Do the work the best way you know how.

– Take the shot.
– – Trust your eye.
– – – Commit to the idea.

If it fails, fine.
If it succeeds, even better.

But don’t let the fastball go by because you were too afraid to move.

That part stays with you longer than failure ever does.