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Lucas: Asking for Everything
March 21, 2005 | Men's Basketball
March 21, 2005
By Adam Lucas
I am looking at a boy.
Well, not yet. I am looking at a digital clock that does not seem to be moving. It is last Tuesday and my wife is in the UNC Hospitals operating room preparing to deliver our second child, a son. I am decked out in my white jumpsuit, my blue shoe coverings, and my extremely stylish shower cap-type hat.
They took her back at 10:28. It is 10:48. Outside the room, nurses are talking about shopping. They do this every day. This is just work to them.
Work to me is watching college kids play ball. At this moment, it seems to me that one of our jobs is not very important.
At my job, the people I encounter frequently credit God for their successes.
Right now, I am hoping God is not paying attention to basketball.
I am looking at a boy. He is a little over two years old and he loves going to his daddy's baseball games. His name is Reece Holbrook and we pass many sunny afternoons in the spring of 2004 sitting in the Boshamer Stadium stands watching his dad, assistant coach Chad Holbrook, and the rest of the Diamond Heels put together a successful season.
Reece is fascinated by the single pieces of gravel that we pick up and occasionally drop near the drain near our seats. I, in turn, am also fascinated by the gravel.
Reece's mom, Jennifer, works in the Carolina basketball office. She is pregnant. She will soon have a newborn to go with her 2-year-old. Sometimes I wonder where she will find the time.
I am looking at a boy. It is 11:15 a.m. and he has just come into the world. He has a full head of hair and he is screaming.
It is a beautiful sound.
He is our second; we now have a newborn to go with our 2-year-old. Sometimes I wonder where we will find the time.
They hand him to me and I take him over to meet his mother. His eyes aren't open yet, which is good, because he doesn't see both of his parents crying.
I am looking at a boy. He looks familiar but I can't place him.
The eyes, mostly, strike a chord somewhere. But the puffy cheeks, the bald head, they don't make sense. I don't know anyone who looks like that.
It takes a moment to register. It is Reece Holbrook. It is the fall of 2004 and he has been diagnosed with leukemia. I have not seen him since the diagnosis, since he began the intensive rounds of chemotherapy that have caused his hair to fall out. His father noticed some unusual bruising on his son and searched the internet for possible causes.
One of them stands out: leukemia.
He goes to the doctor, they confirm it. The pediatrician says those words no parent wants to hear: "He needs to be admitted to the hospital. Right away."
I wonder what you would think about on that drive to the hospital. What would you say to your son? How would you tell a toddler his life is about to dramatically change?
I try to imagine. But I don't think anyone could know until they had to do it.
The Carolina family immediately envelops the Holbrook family. Roger Williams and Mike Fox are regular hospital visitors. Eric Montross visits. Roy Williams tells Jennifer, as the busy preseason approaches, that her presence is more important at home than it is at the basketball office.
I am looking at a boy. He is fast asleep in his mother's arms and his sister has just met him for the first time. She walks over and gives him a kiss and everyone melts.
That night he sleeps at home for the first time. It is a long night. He is constantly up and down, constantly wanting food, love, attention. It is tiring. I am somewhat grumpy when I wake up the next morning.
I am looking at a coach. Chad Holbrook sits in the Boshamer field-level seats one fall afternoon after a Carolina baseball Fall World Series game. His son went into remission by day 7 of his initial treatment. This means his prognosis is over 80%.
In the world of leukemia, where the Holbrook family--including infant Cooper, who was born over the summer--now lives, over 80% is considered "great."
Chad slumps slightly in his seat. I ask him how things are going. "Things," you see, is code for leukemia, which no one wants to say. I do not say it because then it might be true.
He looks over at me and I suddenly realize he looks very tired. He has two children constantly wanting food, love, attention. One has spinal taps on a regular basis. One is still in that "no-set-routine" routine.
He is not grumpy.
"I think it's going to be OK," he says.
I am looking at a boy. I am trying to imagine what he will do. Maybe he will play point guard for Roy Williams or shortstop for Mike Fox or linebacker (OK, maybe kicker) for John Bunting or maybe he will hate sports and become a painter. He is five days old and has endless possibilities. I want him to do everything. After all, he has a lifetime in front of him. Everything is not too much to ask.
I am looking at a boy. Carolina has just defeated Duke 75-73 at the Smith Center and he is in the tunnel that leads to the Tar Heel locker room. His head is still bald. He offers a high five.
Two days ago, they filmed a commercial for the Reece Holbrook Golf Classic, which will take place May 4 at UNC Finley for the benefit of the Holbrook family and the pediatric oncology department at UNC Hospital. While shooting with Mike Fox, he suddenly began singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."
I want him to do everything. I want him to go more than a week without having to visit UNC Children's Hospital. I do not want him to have a web page with a photo that is captioned "Fun at the hospital," because there is no such thing. I want him to be able to play with friends he meets because they are on the same t-ball team, not because they are staying two rooms down from him at the hospital.
Most boys his age take Flintstone vitamins. He takes Dexamethazone, Vincristine, doxorubicin, cyclophosphamide, oral thioguanine, and methotrexate. In early February, he woke up and couldn't walk for nearly four days. The doctors said the medication caused it.
His chemotherapy treatment will last roughly 40 months. But he's already been back to Boshamer this spring, where he took in a Carolina victory and then ran the bases and took a little batting practice.
He is three years old and he has endless possibilities. I want him to do everything. He has a lifetime in front of him. Everything is not too much to ask.
Dean Smith, Bill Guthridge, Roy Williams, and many other Tar Heels will participate in the Reece Holbrook Golf Classic on May 4 and auction on May 3. For more information on how you can participate, call Stephanie Williams at 919-423-8435 or email her by clicking here.
Adam Lucas is the publisher of Tar Heel Monthly and can be reached at alucas@tarheelmonthly.com. His book on Roy Williams's first season at Carolina, Going Home Again, is now available in bookstores. To subscribe to Tar Heel Monthly or learn more about the book, click here.