Interesting discussion with a friend who was in the same "eating club" as Wahl and his wife at Princeton. Said they were both two of the most well liked and respected people in the club. Never heard anything but praise and respect, and he is the written voice of US Soccer for most of us. Just sad. I did see his brother retract his initial statement and say he believes it was natural causes. Not going to question the emotional reaction after getting word his brother died, especially after worrying about the death threats. Unfortunately aortic aneurism will only serve to fire up the vaccine conspiracists.
An honest to God cult of personality - formed around a failed steak salesman.
-Pruitt
The infuriating thing is half of them know they're lying and half of them are too stupid to consider that people died before 90 before covid/vaccines. I hope they all have aortic aneurysms.
Johnnie wrote: ↑Sat Sep 10, 2022 8:13 pmOh shit, you just reminded me about toilet paper.
The Sybian wrote: ↑Wed Dec 14, 2022 12:31 pm
Interesting discussion with a friend who was in the same "eating club" as Wahl and his wife at Princeton. Said they were both two of the most well liked and respected people in the club. Never heard anything but praise and respect, and he is the written voice of US Soccer for most of us. Just sad. I did see his brother retract his initial statement and say he believes it was natural causes. Not going to question the emotional reaction after getting word his brother died, especially after worrying about the death threats. Unfortunately aortic aneurism will only serve to fire up the vaccine conspiracists.
Were they Tiger Inn? I'm pretty sure that's the club my HS GF's brother was in. He was at Princeton the same years as Grant and Celine.
Until everything is less insane, I'm mixing weed with wine.
The Sybian wrote: ↑Wed Dec 14, 2022 12:31 pm
Interesting discussion with a friend who was in the same "eating club" as Wahl and his wife at Princeton. Said they were both two of the most well liked and respected people in the club. Never heard anything but praise and respect, and he is the written voice of US Soccer for most of us. Just sad. I did see his brother retract his initial statement and say he believes it was natural causes. Not going to question the emotional reaction after getting word his brother died, especially after worrying about the death threats. Unfortunately aortic aneurism will only serve to fire up the vaccine conspiracists.
Were they Tiger Inn? I'm pretty sure that's the club my HS GF's brother was in. He was at Princeton the same years as Grant and Celine.
I didn't even ask, just try not to laugh every time he mentioned his eating club over the years. Like meeting his eating club friends at his wedding. Never asked which one. I gather they are a combination dining hall/hangout spot. He described it as like being in a co-ed fraternity.
An honest to God cult of personality - formed around a failed steak salesman.
-Pruitt
They are basically co-ed frat/sororities. The houses are very similar to other frat houses where the school or similar owns them (as opposed to run down death traps that some houses are). I got to hang our at "Cap and Gown" when I coached at the Princeton lacrosse camp. Big dinning room/kitchen. Big open social spaces with sofas, chairs, TVs, sound system, pool table, and such. From what I gathered members eat meals there, throw parties, and similar events.
So, I clicked on that link later in the thread for Dylan's "Don't think twice, it's alright". The song behind it? Zevon's, "Keep Me in your Heart". Really not helping with the weepiness.
Until everything is less insane, I'm mixing weed with wine.
It was the best part of that episode which might have been the worst one of Ted Lasso so far. I’m willing to give them a pass because 1) it’s not THAT bad compared to a lot of shows and 2) a lot of the criticism of this season has been overdone. But still. Not really sure where the show runners are trying to go this year. Obviously the Nate vs Ted stuff but none of it is really hitting home for me.
govmentchedda wrote: ↑Thu Apr 06, 2023 8:25 am
So, I clicked on that link later in the thread for Dylan's "Don't think twice, it's alright".
I'm only through 2 episodes this season but that fucking song, man. I don't even know the context yet and I already have chills.
And the unicorns shall come down with them, and the bullocks with the bulls; and their land shall be soaked with blood, and their dust made fat with fatness. - God
Baseball writer Molly Knight has a substack newsletter that I subscribe to. Today she turned it over to Eric Wahl, Grant's brother, on the anniversary of his death.
It’s December 4th, 2023, and I’ve woken up to a trailer for a new Grant-related project getting shared on social media for the CBS Sports docuseries The Billion Dollar Goal.
The subheading on the clip reads “As told by Grant Wahl and friends.” I blurt “What?” to no one before scrambling to turn the sound off.
It’s been almost a year since his death, and new and unexpected videos of Grant still knock me sideways. I’ve spent the past year trying to manage these anxious and sad jolts, and I’m not there yet. I knew the docuseries’ premiere date—my calendar for the past twelve months has been filled with so many Grant-related things—but nobody told me there would be a trailer, when it would drop, or the degree to which Grant’s involvement would become a main event now that he’s gone. I wish someone would have let me know. My heart rate goes up, and I watch with one hand on my forehead.
I immediately text the family group chat to let them know that the trailer is out and includes a lot of Grant, and to be ready in case we get questions.
Grant was my only sibling, four years younger.
Four years ago, our family included our mom, our dad, and my partner, Pete. But Mom died in 2019, and my father passed away in 2020. And in an unbelievable turn of events, I’d agreed to a divorce from Pete just hours before Grant died.
So the family group chat now consists of Grant’s widow, Céline, her sisters, Sabine and Stephanie, their mother, Nicole, and me. I’ve known Céline since 1995 and have long seen her as a major part of the Wahl family.
Céline asks me to pass along a link to the trailer, which I do, adding, “Don’t click on it unless you’re sure you want to see it. I can’t bring myself to unmute it.” My heart is still racing. I feel certain they worked in more of Grant than they were originally planning to when he was alive. I mention this to the group, adding that it may be great but that I’m not in the proper headspace to be objective about it. “When you’re dead, everything you’ve done suddenly becomes more valuable,” Céline notes. My background is in art and literature, so this phenomenon is not lost on me, thanks in large part to the philosophical works of Roland Barthes.
I take some relief in the knowledge I get to see my therapist, who has done yeoman’s work this year helping me sift through the frequency and volume of Grant-related attention and emotions.
And here we are in early December marking one year since my brother’s very public death at the world’s preeminent event for the sport that was his life. My life this past year has largely been given over, willingly, to fulfilling requests to speak with others about my brother, his life, and our family. I get asked to describe the circumstances around Grant’s death, how I found out, and how I reacted so often that I’ve had to memorize a kind of mental script while I hover about ten feet behind myself to try to lessen the visceral hurt. This is no one’s fault, and at least it gives me something to do instead of wallowing about how my life has exploded.
Grant does and does not belong to me.
Even when he was alive, our family--and particularly Céline and I-- had to deal with sharing Grant with the rest of the world by nature of his public profile. In death it’s the same. I have at times caught myself feeling selfish and awkward as I listen to others talk about him. And then I feel bad for having those feelings and wonder about the right way to feel.
When I see videos of Grant, I want to reach into them and pull him out. I want to save him. I hate feeling the powerlessness of knowing I can’t.
I cry so easily now. He was the one person left in the world who would always love me unconditionally. We were supposed to be there for each other forever or at least until I died first since I’m the older brother. When I think about the past year, it’s a lumpy, blurry mess—memories of events and the people in them are splattered around like when Grant and I used to squirt paint onto spinning cards using a mechanical art gizmo Mom and Dad got us when we were kids, little Jackson Pollocks in training.
In my last phone conversation with Grant on his birthday last December 2nd, we both said how much we were looking forward to seeing each other in Houston for the holidays a few weeks later. Instead, Céline and I spent the holidays bunkered down in her and Grant’s Manhattan apartment shellshocked. Each day melted into the next until it turned into a month. All I remember from that time is friends showing up with food and no one watching the news in case segments about Grant aired that would have been too much for us to bear.
Having to grieve with what felt like the world watching was a surreal experience. What, exactly, did we owe the public? The first time I ventured out of the apartment, I was accosted by a reporter and a photographer from The NY Post who uploaded unflattering photos of me and posted an article falsely attributing quotes to me just an hour or two later. It was part of the swift media education I was receiving that, like it or not, I was attached to the story, and how that story would unfold.
I was already having a crap December.
Pete, my husband of ten years with whom I’d been together for eighteen, had made it clear he wanted a divorce. I was blindsided, not imagining we had any problems we couldn’t fix. Grant and Céline were aware of the situation and checked in with me on a more regular basis out of concern for how I was handling things. In one speakerphone conversation, after I’d expressed worries about how Pete would fare after we split up, Grant said, “Eric, I’m a lot more concerned with your well-being than anything else.”
After he got to Qatar, Grant even offered to leave the World Cup to come to Seattle and stay with me while I sorted out my life. That was the kind of brother he was. Before we learned how Grant died, I regretted not asking him to come to Seattle. Maybe he would have lived. But once we learned it was an undetected aortic aneurysm, I knew he would have died no matter where he was at the time. Considering that, I’m glad he died doing what he loved most, covering the World Cup. I don’t think I could have handled him dying with me in Seattle. It would have sent me over the edge.
In 2023, I’ve travelled all over the country on behalf of Grant and our family, accepting awards, advocating for aortic health and genetic testing, receiving a steady stream of condolences and well-wishes from people. Everyone is so sincere, and I want to have something unique to say to them all. I get on my own case when I realize I’ve said the same words and phrases to people while their hands are in mine. But after a while, one can’t help but say the same things.
Grief does strange things to a brain. I forget what feels like far too many names of people who have introduced themselves to me, but I do remember and treasure their individual Grant stories. Every new story is more data I can download into the Grant-being in my mind; that’s the Grant that stays with me and with whom I have regular conversations.
Because we can’t attend every Grant-related event to which we get invited, Céline and I divide up appearances by geography: she takes the east coast, and I take the west and Kansas City, where our family is from. We learned early on, though, that doing events by ourselves is incredibly emotionally taxing.
When I came to Kansas City for Sporting Kansas City’s home opener they honored Grant beautifully. They dedicated a plaque to him on the stadium’s Local Legends wall. They held an on-field pre-game dedication to him with our family photos displayed on the big screens and presented me with a jersey.
I ended up having to cancel plans the next two days. I had pushed myself so hard to seem outwardly okay during the event that I couldn’t move. All the sadness and depression and anxiety I had pressed hard into the back of my mind to make a good appearance came out in a rolling tide of crying and nose-blowing back in my hotel room. Sadness requires a lot of Kleenex.
I’m grateful for the times I can attend events with Céline, her mom, her sisters, and their husbands and kids. The Gounders have made a point of letting me know that I am still part of the family, and that has helped me tremendously. Together, we attended Grant’s induction into the US Soccer Hall of Fame in Frisco, Texas, where Céline and I both gave acceptance speeches and interviews.
Because of Grant I get to meet real US soccer legends. I get to talk with LGBTQAI+ soccer fans who expressed gratitude for Grant’s vocal support of queer rights. By doing these things, little by little I feel, if not “better,” then less in despair.
The soccer community has reached out to me in ways like how the Gounder family has. It was bewildering at first, but it is sincere. I can let down my guard a bit and allow for the possibility that I am regaining a sense of my new place in the world thanks to my brother.
I spent more time in airports in 2023 than maybe anywhere else. Personal grief and public grief made up two distinct silos in my head by what felt like necessity, and I had no idea how busy the silos would keep me while trying to strike a balance between the two.
I went to New York City to film an interview and B-roll footage for the John Ritter Foundation for Aortic Health. I went to Houston for Grant’s award from the US Basketball Writer’s annual awards ceremony. I did interviews with a Ted Lasso podcast, NPR, The Kansas City Star, Women Kick Balls, and others.
I toured the genetics lab in NYC where they discovered Grant’s chromosomal mutation. I took a genetic test and learned I have the same mutation on the 15th chromosome that Grant had. This caused some distress. Did I have an aortic aneurysm, too? Would I suffer the same fate as my brother? The wait for answers and guidance was horrible.
I visited a cardiologist for various scans and tests. I let a doctor at the University of Washington take two skin biopsies from the back of my arm while a gaggle of med school students stood around us watching. It turns out that while I have the same genetic mutation on the 15th chromosome as Grant (called FBN1), I do not show indications of aortic problems of any kind. This was a great relief that further motivates my advocacy for ensuring people monitor their heart health. To address the situation, I’ll get routine annual scans, and more advanced tests every few years.
I talked to a genetic bereavement specialist from the New York City Medical Examiner’s office who was incredibly supportive and instructional—to such an extent that I wrote an essay about her to help get her nominated for a national award in the genetics community, which resulted in the essay getting published in the annual Heart of Genetics Counseling awards booklet.
I gave more speeches and interviews. I realized that I was serving an important function for others who had known or known of Grant. I was serving as a kind of receptacle for their expressions of grief, and that made me feel both honored and bewildered.
I took trips back and forth from my home in Seattle to Kansas City. I filmed a piece about Grant for CBS Sports’ We Need to Talk show for Pride month at Children’s Mercy Park with enthusiastic support from the Sporting Kansas City organization and friendly people in the supporter’s section, the Cauldron.
On each KC visit, I met more local folks with Grant stories. A man on the airport shuttle to the rental cars asked if I was Eric Wahl and shook my hand. A woman on a downtown sidewalk asked if she could give me a hug because she recognized me from local news.
I’ve appeared on each of the local news stations talking about Grant, our family, and what this city has meant to us. Each time I flew back to Kansas City from Seattle, I began to realize Kansas City is my real home. After losing my parents, my husband, and Grant, I knew I needed to restart. But should I make such a big decision as moving halfway across the country during a time of massive upheaval when nothing felt permanent? I decided to buy a townhouse in my favorite neighborhood in Kansas City, right in the middle of the action. I felt equal parts excited and sick to my stomach and wondered what I had done.
I drove across the country in a packed car with my now 16-year-old diabetic cat, Thomas, in a much shorter time than was prudent. The rest of my life was boxed up in a moving truck that arrived a few weeks later. My furniture at first consisted of a camp chair, a sleeping bag, and a pillow. But I have friends here who check in on me, take me out to eat, and try to keep my spirits up.
Sometimes, I still get very sad, depressed, and anxiety ridden. I’m living off savings until I find a job, and I’ll start looking in January.
Some days are better than others, but I’m still able to see my therapist via video, and I have my medication—gabapentin, Cymbalta, Wellbutrin, and Truvada—to help keep me on track. I think it’s a strange optimism that has me taking Truvada, in case I ever date again, as I struggle heavily with the word “divorce” in my mouth. The lack of daily hugs and kisses from the person I believed was my person still hurts. He wants to sleep with other people but doesn’t want an open marriage. He doesn’t want to be married at all, so It would be pretty rotten of me not to let him be single.
I get so anxious sometimes I say things like this to my cat: “I’m scared, buddy. I don’t have anyone left to tell me it’s going to be all right.” Usually by this point, I’ve grossed myself out enough, if not to snap entirely out of it, then, at least, to fall asleep. I never know to what degree this causes Thomas concern, but whatever his thoughts on the matter, he’s used to me by now.
When Grant died, all the color drained out of the world for me. I had to scream into one of my couch pillows when I first heard. In the weeks and months afterward, I felt intense guilt for laughing, for enjoying a meal, for appreciating a well-written op-ed or any other thing I could never again share with Grant.
I have trouble staying in the present, my mind drifts. I have dreams about the last times I saw Grant and try to re-wire the events to allow me to drag him to a hospital, telling him, “I know this doesn’t make sense, but you must trust me. You must come with me to the hospital!” and then I wake up in a sweat. I have terrible thoughts that my divorce might be hurting me more than the death of my brother, and then I get angry at myself for even having those thoughts.
The one-year anniversaries just hit—Grant’s birthday on December 2nd and then the day he died a week later. His official death date is December 10th. But because it happened in Qatar, it was December 9th for me here in the states. It will always be December 9th.
The days in between are a queasy sort of countdown as I remember that week from last year. I spoke with him and texted with him. The last thing we said to each other was “I love you,” for which I am grateful.
My dad also died just a few days before his birthday. His unopened card from me was on a table nearby, so I kept it, not knowing that a nearly identical situation would happen with Grant and another unopened birthday card from me after his death.
I make myself as busy as possible to counter too many meddling thoughts. On the anniversary of his death, I went downtown to Johnny’s Tavern to watch the morning Arsenal match with the KC Gooners. It felt right. A dear family friend took me out to dinner, and we toasted Grant. As I have done every day since I received some of Grant’s ashes in a lacquered wooden box with muted rainbow stripes, I placed a hand on him and told him how much I loved him and missed him, and that I still need him.
Christmas with the Gounders this year is in San Francisco, and we will find joy and comfort in one another while still acutely aware of the absence in our lives. We miss Grant’s voice, his hugs, his laughter, his wide bright smile, his anecdotes, and his genuine interest in each of us. There’s no way he’d want any of us to be sad, but he’d understand the sadness all the same. Going into a new year still seems unfair somehow, having to commit Grant to the past as we grow farther away from him in time. January 1st is not only our mother’s birthday but Céline’s mother’s birthday as well. We will commemorate these things out of love and to recall our own places in the world.
For the rest of my life, I will struggle during the week between Grant’s birthday and the day he died as I lament all we lost. But if I’ve learned one thing from this difficult year, it’s that the loss of Grant, the absence of him in physical form, is a loss I share with so many people who don’t expect me to act like I’m okay.
The loss of Grant isn’t mine alone to bear, and I see in many ways how shared affection for him is both guiding me and helping me into whatever is next.
