Everybody has a Story

A woman and her son fish along the inlet at Lakeshore State Park in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

As someone who writes for a living, I’m almost ashamed to admit that I am the worst reader. I assure you, dear reader, that I do know how to read, but the idea of sitting down for hours with a book always seemed so foreign to me. 

I get jealous of the people who can sit at night in a quiet room with a good book and read. My wife is one of those people. Both of my children seem like they’re going to be these people. But me? I’d rather read stories in The Athletic about the University of Colorado’s Pro Day or the science behind the Torpedo bat. 

Admittedly, I’m the 1950s father who wants to read a newspaper for five minutes while he eats his dinner. 

I’ve always been told that reading is essential to being a good writer. You explore different styles, different questioning, different ideas in the formulation of stories. But again, sitting still and reading just never felt like me.

In December 2024, I kept seeing the Instagram year-end stories where friends posted how many books they read. One friend had 24, another managed to beat her goal of 50 books in a year. In 2024, I had started one book – ‘Helmet for My Pillow’, an autobiography by Robert Leckie, a US Marine who served in World War II, grew up in my area of New Jersey and is featured in the HBO hit ‘The Pacific’. 

As I swiped through the IG stories, I vowed this would be the year I Ingested more books. I listen to a lot of podcasts, most of which I’d become bored with recently, and decided to force myself into audiobooks. 

So far, I’m up to four finished books this year. I’m aiming for ten on the year. I finished Leckie’s book, then added Vince Flynn’s Executive Power (I love this series) and Jon ‘Stugotz’ Weiner’s Personal Recordbook. There’s a book on the 1998 New York Yankees by Jack Curry that’s half finished. I’ve started a few others that I didn’t get hooked on - mainly autobiographies written by Bruce Springsteen, Dave Grohl and Saraya Knight. 

That leads me to this weekend, and the first book in a long time that really moved me. The Cost of These Dreams: Sports Stories and Other Serious Business written by Wright Thompson. 

I’ve been on the road a bit more recently and had some time to pick up these chapters in large chunks. I’m three chapters in - recently finishing the Ghosts of Mississippi chapter that talks about the Ole Miss riot in 1962 and the football team. It’s brought me to so much more of an understanding of who these people were, understanding cultural dynamics and everything else that goes into such a dark and complex time in history. 

Another chapter, about an unknown boxer who once fought Muhammed Ali, ends in such a cliffhanger because that’s what happened in real life – no one actually knows. 

Side note: I’ve written this over the course of a few hours. In the gap, I’ve listened to another three hours of the book, with stories about Lionel Messi’s hometown in Argentina and one about the security guard who forgot more about Bear Bryant than anyone even knew. 

The more I’ve listened to this book, the more it continues to solidify a belief I’ve had since I became a published journalist – everyone has a story and everyone deserves to have their story told. 

***

There’s one story from my time as a journalist that truly punctuates this. I was a 22-year-old police reporter for The Jersey Journal who, at that point, had seen way too many murder scenes without any of the right training for it. 

As journalists, you’re taught not to just go to the scene and report the basics – like name of the victim, what police say happened, etc. – you’re taught to reach out to the victim’s family. As one editor put it, everyone has a story. Even the most hardened of gang member shot and killed on the street had someone who cared about them. 

During March 2013, there was an overnight murder in Jersey City’s Greenville section - one of the more dangerous sections of the city. In the early hours of the morning, 18-year-old Muhammad Choudhry was shot in the chest and killed. 

As soon as the story hit Facebook, the comments began with the usual “another gang member dead” and the rest of the truly vile things said behind the mask of the internet. 

I hated calling families. If you were lucky, the family understood what you were trying to do and tell the story. If you weren’t, you got cursed out and called insensitive. Either way, you left feeling like an asshole. In this rare occasion, I felt relief and vindication. 

I got ahold of Muhammad’s 28-year-old brother. I don’t remember how. He told the story: 

Muhammad and a third brother were outside of the family’s home while two parents and three sisters finished cooking a Ramadan meal (During Ramadan, Muslims refrain from eating during the daylight hours, thus, cooking meals at 3 a.m.). While they were sitting outside, two men ran up and grabbed the third brother’s cell phone. Muhammad gave chase. As Muhammad turned down a nearby street, one of them fired a single shot back at the brothers. The shot struck Muhammad in the chest. He died not long after. 

Muhammad wasn’t a gang member. He wasn’t a violent person. He graduated high school the year prior and had plans to attend college. He liked playing cricket in a nearby park with friends.

I think about Muhammad’s story a lot, especially around Ramadan. I used his death as personal motivation when I needed to make the tough call to family members about a deceased relative. I still use his story now to guide my own ethos – no matter who you are, no matter what you do or how famous you may be, everyone has a story.