Robert Meachem’s dad built him a basketball court in the neighborhood where he grew up. Like a lot of NFL players, Meachem grew up in a really troubled community with a lot of gangs. Those were the kids who wanted to use the basketball court, so Meachem’s dad didn’t let him play.

“So there was times I didn’t get to play in my own backyard. I’m frustrated, crying, mad,” he said. “My dad tells me, ‘Your time will come.’ And that’s stuck with me for 27 years.”

“Be patient. Don’t rush it. Learn. Learn from the older guys. That was my gift.”
Watch more of my interview with him here.

When I started this beat four years ago, the first two people Kevin Acee introduced me to were Luis Castillo and Jacques Cesaire.

“Two of the best people around,” he said.

He was right.

At that time, the place now known as “The Zoo” — (the area in the locker room inhabited by the defensive line) — looked a little different. There was no Corey Liuget, no Kendall Reyes. Vaughn Martin had just been drafted that year. Ryon Bingham and Alfonso Boone had lockers.

That was my first year on the beat, my first year covering a professional football team, and, as I call it, my rookie season. It was a fun year but also a tough year. I had to learn as I went. I had to find my identity in that locker room. I had to build relationships and prove I belonged. I did a lot of things right, but I also experienced growing pains.

I became very dependent on Jacques Cesaire’s smile.

Have you ever seen Jacques smile? It’s like a freakin’ Christmas tree just lit up. It’s contagious. It’s genuine.

And it was a constant.

When you’re a woman in a man’s world, you often get tested. That year, I was tested a lot. How thick was my skin? How would I hold up to some teasing? How would I maintain professionalism? Many times, when I walked into the defensive line area — which I coined “The Lair” — I’d get ribbed. Jacques would join in, but then he’d always know when enough was enough. He never let it cross the line. He stopped, or called it off, and the other guys followed suit.

He was, as his teammates call him, their “spiritual leader.” When he spoke, they listened.

Jacques became a guy I interviewed and chatted with a lot. He was always patient, always generous with his time. He was hilarious, but also serious. I got to know his wife, Jill, and their daughter. Then their son, when he was born. Not well. Not close. But enough to share pleasantries with whenever I saw the family at events and games.

Fast forward to last season. I’m working for NBC doing my “Overtime With Annie” segments, where I take players off the field to show their personalities, and I get this idea to surprise a deserving family with a “D-Line Christmas” in December. Okay. It’s tough enough to get ONE player off the field … imagine getting an entire line to agree to a place and time. During the season, players are pulled in so many different directions, and asking them to do MORE than that is asking a lot. But I approached the D-Line, brought it up, and Jacques looked at me with all the other guys around and said, “We’ll do it. Don’t worry about how. We’ll get it done.”

It wasn’t easy, but he found time to meet me and give me money to shop for all the presents. And when the day came to surprise the family, every … member … of … the … D-Line … was … there.

Every single one.

Those kids had a day they will never forget.

I credit that to the whole line for following through, but I know how much of that was because of Jacques.

He is such an identity of that D-Line, such a steadfast part of their cohesiveness. He’s the one who, knowing they were next in line to take his place, “adopted” Vaughn Martin, Corey Liuget and Kendall Reyes, showed them the ropes, invited them to his house for dinner, made them feel comfortable and embraced their role as teammates.

He’s the one who paid for sandwiches to be delivered to the homeless each week and passed out turkeys to needy families at Thanksgiving.

I’m not saying he’s the only guy in that locker room that is kind and generous. He’s not. There are so many players who do things for people in the community that you, the fan, will never know about. Make no mistake. But Jacques, like I said, just had an unselfishness to him, and a personality that was so authentic. It was impossible to not like the guy.

I’m selfishly sad that more young players won’t learn from him, how he treated people, how he treated the media and fans. He had an understanding of all the moving parts that go along with professional football.

I wish Jacques the best of luck. I’ll miss him. I’m sure this won’t be the last we see of him. He’s built a nine-year career with the Chargers out of basically nothing.

And he’s done so with a smile that will be sorely missed around that locker room.

I wrote about a certain debonaire Jerry when I first started this blog, so I figured I’d write about another one.

Jerry Coleman. The guy is 87 and has mad game. He played for the New York Yankees, went to the World Series SIX TIMES, won four of those, was the World Series MVP in 1950, served in the Korean War and World War II, is in the National Baseball Hall of Fame for his broadcasting success … I mean, seriously. What have you done with YOUR life? I gave a few bucks to a homeless guy when I walked into my building today and I was the spelling bee champ in sixth grade. Other than that, I got nothing.

Jerry and I had a nice chat today. He always calls me his girlfriend and tells me I have nice legs (I mean, he says that to all the ladies, but nonetheless, I’m flattered) and he’s always good for a story. He keeps it real. He got a little emotional today, talking about old memories, and I think that’s happening more and more lately as people bring up the past.

The Padres are celebrating Jerry on Sept. 15 with “Jerry Coleman Day” and are erecting a statue in his honor. For as gregarious and public as Jerry appears to be, he is quite humble. He doesn’t like all the fanfare. He doesn’t feel he deserves it.

Ahh, but he does.

I asked him how much fun he had while he was playing baseball, and he laughed and said it wasn’t always fun. It was hard work. “Everyone was after us in those days, everyone wanted to beat us, the Yankees, so the fun didn’t come until AFTERWARD. Because the only thing that matters is winning.”

I asked him how stays so young, and he said something about genetics and diet … but I think it has something to do with being around baseball every day of his life. When you’re around something that is weaved so tightly into the fabric of WHO YOU ARE, I think it gives your soul a little extra mojo.

Or, maybe it’s the clubhouse coffee. Either way.

Anyways, I’m excited to see the statue. The Padres always get the details right. Jerry said he hopes it’s of him in a bathing suit. We’ll see.

I have an awesome job. Really, I hate to brag, but I do. As a “new media” sports reporter, I get to travel, write, shoot videos, edit, report, create and dream up ideas centered around professional sports teams. I meet amazing people and interview athletes daily. I witness the battle on the playing field between success and failure all year long and am inspired by the tiny moments (because it’s those moments that create the big ones) where triumph beats adversity.

And sometimes I complain.

Yep. I know. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s true.

You know how it goes. In any job, there are complications. Support you don’t get, resources you need, people who are jerks … Those moments when even though you’ve prepared and lined things up and made seven backup plans, life decides to laugh at you anyways and kick you in the shins and make you pull an eighth out of your butt.

Sometimes, I lose perspective.

Where am I going with this, you wonder? Well, let me explain:

Bill Johnston is the public relations director for the San Diego Chargers. His wife, Ramona, has Huntington’s disease, a genetically caused brain disorder that takes away a person’s ability to walk, talk, swallow, eat and think. Slowly, that person becomes just a shell of himself or herself. It’s such a sad disease, because it robs a person of his or her spirit.

Every year, Bill and his family — along with the rest of the HD community — tirelessly raise money to help find a cure for HD. A few weeks ago, I tagged along with Bill and his daughter, Hayley, as they ran the Rock-And-Roll Marathon in support of HD:

My life decisions often include what I’m going to wear the next day, or if I’ll have carbs for lunch, or whether or not I can cover a story. Maybe *sometimes* I might think about my future, and if I’ll marry or have a family or where my career might be in ten years. Hayley faces a decision of whether or not to be tested for a disease that she very well could have … A disease that would make all other decisions trivial. Stop. Think about that for a second. Think about one of your kids having to face that.

It’s brutal.

And Hayley is so strong.

The thing about Bill and Hayley is that they are two of the funniest, most optimistic, friendly, professional people you will ever meet. They are, for lack of a better word, cool. You’d wanna hang out with them and drink beers and watch the game. Certainly I don’t know what goes on in their personal lives, but I know their courage isn’t an act.

Last night, I went to one of my favorite events of the year — the “Shoot To Cure HD” event. It’s basically a tournament style basketball shoot-off at Chargers Park. People form teams and go at it, and usually they’ve had a few cocktails before they take their shots. 😉 It’s pretty fun. Plenty of Chargers show up, and this year, it was the coaches and defensive line that made it to the end of the tournament. Here’s some sights and sounds (excuse the poor quality — I used my old FlipCam):

Remember what I was talking about in the beginning of this post? How sometimes I forget what an awesome job I have (and life, really) because of a bad day or some jerky egotistical athlete? Well, guess what — my whole family is healthy. I am healthy. I have the choice, every day, to steer my life in any direction I choose.

Ramona does not. And depending on a test result, Hayley might not either.

I’m not trying to give you all the “don’t take life for granted” speech. But I can say that my life is changed because of Bill, Ramona, Hayley and their family. Take a second, go to an event, or simply read more about HD on this website. Help them find a cure.

Side note: I took my first motorcycle ride during the marathon, to try and find Bill and Hayley on the course. Pretty sweet huh???