Coaching From Beyond

I didn’t need a map. I knew exactly where I was going—Courts of Remembrance, a place where legends rest. Bette Davis. Carrie Fisher. Debbie Reynolds. Liberace. But I wasn’t there for the stars of the screen. I came to find a quiet crypt in the corner—the final resting place of a man whose influence stretched far beyond the hardwood.

The Companion Wall Crypt. Designed for two. Now holding a couple whose love story was as steady and timeless as the wisdom he shared.

There are several Forest Lawn cemeteries scattered across Southern California. Only one holds the man who turned coaching into a masterclass on life. Opened in 1952, Forest Lawn Memorial Park – Hollywood Hills is where I walked in silence to pay my respects to the greatest college coach—and teacher—of all time: John Wooden.

There’s a calm that settles over you in that place. The noise of the world fades, and your footsteps feel more deliberate. You’re not just approaching a grave. You’re approaching a legacy.

I’ll admit, I was surprised to find that John Wooden and his beloved wife Nellie weren’t laid to rest on the campus of UCLA, the place they helped shape for generations. Instead, their final resting place sits quietly over the Hollywood Hills, 17 miles away from Pauley Pavilion, where they spent much of their lives teaching young people not just how to play, but how to live. And yet, somehow, that distance only reinforces the reach of their influence—because their message was never meant to be confined to a court.

Wooden’s crypt is unassuming—just like the man himself. No towering statue. No grand monument. Just two modest plates, four rows up in the first column of crypts. And yet, that quiet space speaks volumes—echoing louder than most tributes ever could.

It’s representative of the man who led UCLA to 10 national championships in 27 seasons yet never asked for a pay raise during his coaching career. His salary was modest as he never made more than $35,000 a year. No agent. No contract battles. He didn’t coach for the paycheck—he coached to shape people.

There’s a story—true to his nature—that in the back of his office sat a dusty Coach of the Year trophy, mostly forgotten. What he valued more were the handwritten letters from former players—notes filled with gratitude, growth, and lessons that had nothing to do with basketball. That was the kind of legacy he cared about.

Standing there, it’s humbling to reflect—not on the trophies or the streaks—but on the lives he changed. The Pyramid of Success wasn’t a strategy to win games. It was a blueprint for living a life of integrity, discipline, and grace.

Later, while in Minneapolis, I made a similar pilgrimage—this time to Roselawn Cemetery in Roseville, just east of the city—to visit Herb Brooks. The architect of the “Miracle on Ice” rests in a simpler grave, but his influence is just as profound. Where Wooden taught the slow, patient art of building character, Brooks ignited belief, unity, and an underdog’s fight. They were different men in different sports, but both used coaching as a platform for something bigger.

Visiting these graves wasn’t about nostalgia or sports history. It was about gratitude. About recognizing that the greatest coaches weren’t just drawing up plays—they were drawing out the best in people.

But here’s the thing: paying your respects shouldn’t end at the headstone.

If you truly want to honor them, take the lessons they gave the world—humility, preparation, teamwork, courage—and pass them on. Teach them. Live them. Because a legacy doesn’t live in bronze plaques or marble crypts. It lives in the people who choose to carry it forward.

And in doing so, something beautiful happens. You don’t just walk away with memories—you leave renewed.  Re-centered. Recommitted. A quiet conviction to live better, lead humbler, and make your dash between the dates count.  Paying your respects, in the end, isn’t just about remembering a life. It’s about being reminded how to live yours. 

Lessons from the Asphalt

Back in the late-80s to mid-90s, summer wasn’t about highlight reels or player rankings.

It was about double-rimmed hoops with chain nets, games to eleven, and who had next.

Outdoor 3-on-3 tournaments ruled everything. And for a generation of kids raised on concrete and asphalt, White Men Can’t Jump wasn’t just a movie—it was part of our basketball curriculum.

Billy Hoyle and Sidney Deane weren’t real, but they might as well have been. They showed us how to play with confidence, how to compete with swagger, how to let our game do the talking—and how to respect the game even when the game didn’t respect you back.

They were bigger than the film. They became part of how we saw the game—and ourselves.

Of all the movies from my childhood, none influenced me more. It shaped how we played, how we saw the court, and how we carried ourselves when the ball was in our hands. It also taught us the value of chemistry—of knowing your partner’s rhythm, timing, and trust—because Billy and Sidney didn’t win by being the same; they won by figuring each other out.

So, when I finally made it out west to Los Angeles, I had to visit two of the film’s most iconic courts. This wasn’t about checking a box. It was about coming full-circle.

The first stop - the parking lot off Dudley Avenue and the Ocean Front Walk in Venice Beach. That’s where the movie’s opening scenes were filmed. Many fans shoot hoops at the iconic Venice Beach basketball courts near Muscle Beach assuming they’re standing where Billy and Sidney first met. But real fans know better. That legendary opening—Billy in the tie-dye hat, hustling his way into Sidney’s world—was shot a mile north, in a parking lot in front of the four-story Cadillac Hotel with its pink sandstone walls and pistachio green trim. 

The court they built there didn’t last—but the story it told did. For a few weeks, that lot became one of the most iconic streetball sets ever captured on film. And even though it returned to being a parking lot, for those who remember, that court still lives on.

Then came Lafayette Park near downtown Los Angeles—the site of the Two-on-Two for Brotherhood Basketball Tournament where Billy and Sidney beat “Flight” and “Willie” but instead of it bringing them closer, it highlights their flaws. It’s where they learn they’re both living with their own personal pressures. They don’t trust each other yet, but they both start to sense that any success they have will be temporary if that doesn’t change. 

More importantly, the court at Lafayette Park is where Billy and Sidney take on Los Angeles streetball legends Duck Johnson and Eddie “The King” Faroo in the movie’s final game. Duck and The King aren’t just streetball legends — they represent the pinnacle of the Los Angeles outdoor basketball scene. Beating them isn’t about money. It’s about validation. It’s the first time we see their chemistry fully realized. 

For years, I said if I ever made it to Los Angeles, this court would be a must. A bucket-list stop.

Even though the characters were fictional, there’s nothing like walking onto the same blacktop where Billy finally dunked. That moment—where he rises up and shocks everyone, including himself—was filmed on a new court built by the production crew. Most sets get torn down. This one was left behind, gifted to the city. And it’s still there. Same spot. Same view. Palm trees, mid-rises, and that feeling that if you laced up your shoes, someone would call next. 

But that court tells a bigger story—the one where Billy and Sidney finally trusted each other, finally played for something real. They stopped hustling and started hooping. They won the game, but not without losing something too. That’s the thing about streetball: the score never tells the whole story.

Standing there, it hit me:

It was never about where you played. It was how you played.

Because we had our own versions of those courts growing up.

We played Gus Macker tournaments in Quincy (IL) and Peoria (IL), where you either fought through fouls or went home early. Gus Busters didn’t bail you out. You learned to be tough—or you learned to lose. That’s where trash talk was born, even if subtle. Where you learned how to take it. When to give it back. Even when you were outmatched.

We played at the Strawberry Festival in Farmington (IA)—facing kids from all over southeast Iowa. A few hard fouls. A few handshakes. And sometimes, friendships that lasted long after the final whistle.

And nothing beat Keokuk (IA).

After school or on weekends, we’d head to Tumelty Park or Kilbourne Park. We didn’t know who we’d play—and they didn’t know us. That was the beauty of it. Just sets of friends showing up with a ball and something to prove. Playing to stay on the court. Playing for respect—win or lose.

And respect wasn’t handed out easily.

You earned it by taking a hard foul that everyone knew wasn’t getting called. You earned it by standing in and taking a charge. By giving it right back—even when the guy guarding you had six inches of height and twenty pounds of muscle on you. Every possession felt like a statement. Hard screens were worth a few points each run. But with that kind of intensity came consequences. 

Out there, it wasn’t about who you were or where you were from—it was about how you played when it mattered.

But sometimes, the court that mattered most was the one closest to home. Because while the parks taught us how to earn respect from strangers, the "Barndomium" taught us how to earn it from the people who knew us best.

Some of the fiercest competition we ever faced didn’t happen in a tournament or a city park—it happened inside a Quonset barn on our family’s dairy farm south of Kahoka (MO). We called it the “Barndomium”—part barn, part dome, part gymnasium. You could count on it: our older brother’s teammates would roll through the cattle lot gate and park right beside the barn’s wide-open front. Friends would show up, and before long, we’d have hours-long games of 2-on-2 or 3-on-3. The best part? With one pull of a heavy steel handle, two massive overhead lights would flicker on, casting a golden glow across the court and turning that old barn into something that felt like a small-town arena. On weekends, the games stretched deep into the night. And if social media had been around back then, I think word would’ve gotten out—there was always a game waiting in the "Barndomium".

That’s what those White Men Can’t Jump courts reminded me of.

It wasn’t about Hollywood. It wasn’t about perfect conditions.

It was about the game—the raw, unfiltered version we grew up on.

Quick decisions. Toughness. Inside-out basketball. Backdoor cuts. Moving without the ball. Executing the pick and roll. Making the right pass. Connectivity. Handling adversity when nobody was going to save you.

It was sharpening your basketball IQ.

Those courts near Dudley Avenue and at Lafayette Park weren’t just movie locations.

They were reflections of where the real game lived.

Outside. In the heat. On asphalt. Where every possession mattered, and everything you earned came the hard way.

It shaped how we played.

It shaped how we saw the game.

And if you grew up on courts like those, you didn’t just watch White Men Can’t Jump—

You lived it.

More Than a Season

On May 18, 1992, Kevin Garner sat down at his computer to begin putting together the end-of-year booklet he created for each player. The first page was always a letter to the team. He wrestled with how to best capture the season—how to say goodbye to this team as he looked forward to the next.

Two months had passed since the end of a 25-2 season, a dream year for the Clark County Indians. The pain of coming up short of Columbia still lingered. But so did the joy. The pride. The love.  It’s easy to feel the impact of that season and the individuals that shaped it. The difficult part is putting into words what a team like that means to you.  But the school year was ending, and it was time to let the emotions out and onto paper.

Garner, then in just his second year as varsity boy’s head coach in Kahoka, let his fingers slowly move across the keys.

"It has been great having you this year on the team. We have been through a lot in such a short season. The lows of losing the Palmyra and District Tournament will never diminish the highs this season has accomplished; being 25-2 and ranked No. 1 in state, beating Keokuk, Fort Madison, Brookfield, and winning the Highland Tournament for the first time in school history. 

All of these memories will stay with me for a long time, and I hope they are as memorable for you...

Sincerely,

Coach Kevin D. Garner"

 

He didn’t know it then, but that letter would outlive the box scores. The stats would fade. The games would blur. But that message—and the meaning behind it—would become something timeless.

Coming into that 1991–92 season, there wasn’t much reason to believe it would be special. Seven players had graduated from the previous year’s district championship team. Just three players with real varsity experience remained—Kevin Ross, Bill Esterday, and Troy Hamner. There was talent waiting in the wings, but it was unproven. Juniors like Travis Ellison, Matt Dienst, and Ryan Walker were expected to contribute. Seniors Scott Nutter and Travis Eddleman were ready for their shot. But most of the basketball world expected the Indians to slide.

Garner didn’t. “As a coach, I was always optimistic,” he said. “There was anticipation, excitement—and, truth be told, a little angst.”

Garner believed the pieces were there. He believed in their fast pace, their perimeter shooting, and their bench depth. But belief only gets you so far. Something else had to happen.

And it did.

From the opening tip of the season, the Indians looked different. They thrashed Canton behind five threes from Hamner. They pulled away from Scotland County with a 19-7 run sparked by back-to-back threes. When Highland threatened, it was the bench—players like Brandon Worrell grabbing key rebounds and blocking shots—that sealed a comeback win. They overwhelmed Keokuk with pressure defense. They caught fire from deep, averaging nine threes a game. Suddenly, people were watching.

The team wasn’t just winning—the players were buying in.

With each victory, the fast starts kept coming, the three-pointers kept falling, and the scoring stayed balanced. If this were a film, now’s when you’d cue the montage of blowout wins.

As the streak continued, so did their rise in the Missouri Class 2A state poll — up to No. 2. They edged host Highland and claimed the Highland Tournament title, a first in the event’s two-decade history.

But pressure has a way of sneaking in. It can harden a team. Other times, it starts to splinter it. And for a moment, you could sense the tension creeping in.

Garner noticed it too. The week before back-to-back showdowns with Brookfield and Fort Madison, he sensed a lack of concentration. So he did something unusual.

“I blew the whistle and told all of them to grab their outside shoes and jackets. We loaded the bus, drove out to the track… then passed it and went to the bowling alley,” he said. “Our practice that day was a bowling tournament and pizza.”

Garner wasn’t overlooking either opponent—he just knew his team needed to relax.

It worked. 

The next night, more than a thousand fans squeezed into Edna L. Seyb Auditorium to watch Clark County take on No. 4 ranked Brookfield and their 6’8” junior star, Brian Kelley. What they saw was a classic. The Indians forced 20 turnovers and wore down the Bulldogs. 

Troy Hamner made a deal with his coach: win by ten or more, and practice would be a breeze. But for every point under ten? One dreaded wind sprint.

“We were up 8 with less than 30 seconds left and Travis Ellison was on the line,” Garner recalls. “Troy came over to me, pinched me, and said, ‘See, I told you! Ellison is going to hit both of these and we’re going to win by 10.’”  Ellison only hit one. The Indians won by 9.  

No sprints were ran the next practice.

Coaches want their players to embrace the opportunity, not be overwhelmed by it. They try to not be stagnant at any point during the season – constantly evolving their team and each individual so they keep improving. This is what allows you to peak at the right time. There is no greater test than to schedule back-to-back games against two highly coveted teams in their respective states.

So, the very next night, they crossed state lines to play Fort Madison (IA) and 6’9” future NBA player Ryan Bowen. Fourteen of Ft. Madison’s fifteen players were taller than six feet. But the height of Ft. Madison did not deter Clark County’s senior 6’2” center Kevin Ross, who scored ten points in the first quarter to put the Indians up by five. The Indians fell behind in the second half but never folded. Ryan Walker came off the bench and hit two big threes. They rallied in the fourth quarter to win 56-53. They were 14-0.

If they wanted to earn the state’s top ranking, they had to go through the giants to get there—and they did. That weekend became the turning point—a proving ground. Slaying a giant one night and toppling a titan the next, the Indians not only held their ground; they claimed it.

Within the week, the Indians would earn the No. 1 state ranking in Missouri Class 2A. “Did I think we’d start 15-0 and be ranked No. 1?” Garner said, “As we headed into the Highland Tournament, I knew this team had an opportunity to be very special.”

And special they were. A 15-0 start. Seven different leading scorers throughout the year. Many nights there were 4-5 players in double figures. Players sacrificing ego for the team. “They played so hard, shared the ball so well, and helped each other out. It was the key ingredient to their success.” Garner said.

With each win, the noise grew louder. Whispers of playing in the Hearnes Center began to crescendo. Garner recalled, “I thought we had a legitimate shot at winning a state championship when we were 19-1. I was sharing game film and talking with coaches from all over the state. The Eugene coach and I had become good friends as well as the coach down in Alton. He was ranked 4th and was 14-0. Both of these coaches had shared with me that we had a chance.”

But as every coach knows, even the most magical seasons aren’t guaranteed the storybook ending.

The final heartbreak came against Highland. Again.  This time, it was in the District Championship, their fourth clash of the season. Down eight in the fourth, they clawed back to within one. They had the final shot to tie. It bounced off the rim.

And the dream ended.

“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good,” Garner said. “For a season like that to happen, everything has to go right. And we were so close.”

Still, seasons like that don’t just disappear when the scoreboard turns off. They stay with you. They teach you things.

Two years later, Garner would move on to Sullivan, where he’d take a team to the Final Four in 1997. He credited the 91–92 team for shaping that run. “They were mirror images,” he said. “One of the greatest lessons learned was to enjoy the season and help the players enjoy it too.”

Thirty years later, he still talks about them like they’re family.

“The coaching staff felt like every member of the team was one of their own.  We hurt when they hurt. We laughed when they laughed. And most of all, one of the greatest gifts is to see them now—succeeding in life, raising families.”

In 2018, Garner stood center court again. This time, handing out state medals to the Clark County girls' team in his role as Assistant Executive Director at the Missouri State High School Activities Association (MSHSAA). One of the players? The daughter of Kevin Ross, his center from 1991–92.

“Presenting the medals to those girls was one of the highlights of working at the MSHSAA office,” he said. “I absolutely thought about how close the 91–92 boys team came. I wish we had been able to accomplish that as a group.”

But the truth is, they did accomplish something. Something bigger than a trophy.

They carried the torch lit by the teams before them—teams that had already defined what it meant to wear Clark County across your chest. And in their own way, they added to that legacy. They inspired. They didn’t just chase greatness—they helped shape the standard. And because of them, the teams that followed didn’t have to start from scratch. They were building on something strong. Something real. Something nobody could tear down.

The team also gave a coach the season of his life—a season that never stopped meaning something.

More than thirty years after the final buzzer of the 1991–92 season, Kevin Garner paused to reflect on the team that shaped a chapter of his life. He once again searched for the right words, hoping to capture what that season still meant. He then began to type a final letter to his 1991–92 team. This is what he shared:

“Dear Troy Hamner, Scott Hunziker, Bill Esterday, Travis Ellison, Matt Dienst, Greg Weaver, John Wheeler, Justin Brunk, Travis Eddleman, Scott Nutter, Ryan Walker, Kevin McVeigh, Kevin Ross, Brandon Worrell, Tony O’Brien, David Parker, Jason Acklie, Chris James, Jarrod Field, Terry Sturm, Chauncey Wilson, and Eric Young,

THANK YOU!

Thank you for allowing me to be a small part of your life. Thank you for sharing a game that I enjoy and love. Thanks for teaching me how to navigate life through the lessons learned in a game’s disappointments and rewards. Thank you for showing me what it means to be a part of something bigger than myself. Thank you for helping me understand what it means to be part of a family.

This is a chapter in my life that I will NEVER forget. Each of you — regardless of your role on the team — truly touched my life through a game that was played during the 1991–92 school year. If I could turn back time and replay that season, there are very few things I would want to change. There are a couple of outcomes I would work hard to make happen.

Etched in my mind forever are your faces, your tears, your smiles, the team dinners, the winning shots, the celebrations, the huge wins, the marking of the Tomahawk after each victory — but most of all, the friendships.

Thank you for being some of the greatest young men a person could have the opportunity to coach.

Love you all,

Coach Kevin Garner”

As the years have passed, Kevin Garner has coached other teams, handed out championship medals, and walked countless sidelines. But no matter how far life has taken him, a piece of his heart always drifts back to the small gym in Kahoka. To the team that reminded him why he fell in love with coaching in the first place—the team that showed him how a season can carry both joy and heartbreak in equal measure, and how both are worth holding onto.

In a career full of games and seasons and teams, this one never really left him. It still shows up from time to time, in unexpected ways. Their voices still echo in quiet moments, their faces show up in old photographs and unexpected memories—including a few that feel especially sacred now. And when it does, he’s reminded that the best seasons aren’t always defined by where they end, but by who you walk through them with.

“All of these memories will stay with me for a long time,” Garner once wrote, “and I hope they are as memorable for you…”

Eastbay Delivered the Perfect Fit

There was a time—not long ago, but long enough to miss—when one of the most sacred deliveries a teenage athlete could receive wasn’t a scholarship offer or a letter from a coach. It was a glossy, stapled magazine that came in the mail. Not the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue—though that got plenty of attention too—but the one that really got your heart racing.

Eastbay.

To the uninitiated, it might’ve looked like any other catalog. But for those of us who lived and breathed high school sports in the ’90s and early 2000s, Eastbay wasn’t just a magazine. It was a lifeline. A teammate on paper. A loyal friend. It was Christmas morning twelve times a year.

Growing up with a size 13 foot meant choices at the mall were limited. Correction—nonexistent. Especially for twin brothers. Sporting goods stores might stock up to size 12 if you were lucky, but anything beyond that? Forget it. There was nothing worse than finding one pair left and having only one of us walk out with shoes—and a weeklong argument to follow. Eastbay was the solution. My cleats, my basketball sneakers, my track spikes—if they came from anywhere, they came from that catalog. And thankfully, they came in pairs.

And oh, the anticipation. The way you’d run to the mailbox, fingers crossed. The way you’d flip each page like you were decoding a treasure map. Fila Grant Hill 2. Jordan 12s. Penny Air Foamposite One. Adidas Superstars. Some kids read Sports Illustrated for the cover stories. We read Eastbay for the team shoes in six different colorways and the reversible mesh jerseys.

Circling items with a pen was practically a ritual. You didn’t just browse—you planned. You dreamed. You strategized your next season around those pages. And when someone at school mentioned not being able to find a certain shoe? It was like you showed up from thin air, flipping open your fresh issue—coming to the rescue like some kind of gear-slinging superhero.

Honestly, half my wardrobe came from Eastbay. Jackets, college team shorts, And1 shirts, tear away pants—it had everything. I didn’t walk into a sporting goods store for years—because I didn’t need to. Eastbay had it all. To me, it was Amazon before Amazon. I ordered with a phone call and a catalog number and my grandma’s credit card. Two weeks later, a box showed up on the porch like magic. No better feeling than ripping it open. I swear a glow formed inside each box when you lifted the lid.

For a generation of athletes, it’s hard to remember a time without Eastbay—it felt like it had always been part of the game. It’s wild to think that something so essential to our sports lives started from something so small back in the early ’80s.

                                      

In 1980, Richard Gering and Art Juedes took $7,000 worth of running shoes and started doing shoe clinics out of Wausau, Wisconsin. By 1983, they had a catalog. By 1989, they were handling team sales. And in 1990, Eastbay stamped its own logo on jackets, socks, and shorts, becoming not just a distributor, but a brand.

Their empire grew until it nearly filled a city block in Wausau. That was the first time I ever heard of Wausau, Wisconsin—Eastbay taught me geography right alongside gear. By 1995, Eastbay had gone public. Two years later, it was acquired by Woolworth and eventually became part of the Foot Locker family.

At its peak, Eastbay wasn’t just selling gear. It was shaping identity. You could tell what sport someone played just by the items circled in their issue. A quarterback wanted the Nike Shark cleats. A hooper circled the Nike Air Maestros. A sprinter drew stars around the spikes. It was how you told the world who you were before you stepped on the field. You held your identity in your hands.

But by the 2010s, the digital world had taken over. The same e-commerce boom that made online shopping easier than ever eventually made print catalogs feel outdated—even the mighty Eastbay. Screens replaced pages. Clicks replaced circles. The ritual started to fade.

And time, as it always does, moved on.

In 2022, Foot Locker announced Eastbay’s distribution center would close. The website went dark on January 13, 2023. Over 200 people in Wausau lost their jobs. The magazine that once sat on bedroom floors next to algebra books and practice jerseys or stuffed in book bags between homework and scouting reports—faded into the archives of memory.

Yet ask this 46-year-old former athlete what Eastbay meant to him, and I’ll smile. Maybe even tear up. It wasn’t just about gear. It was about belief—that somewhere in Wisconsin, someone cared enough to stock size 13s for a couple big-footed kids with big dreams.

Eastbay may be gone now, absorbed into the digital ether and corporate rebrands. But it lives on in the muscle memory of a generation who flipped its pages like scripture.

We didn’t just shop Eastbay—we dreamed through it. We circled possibilities. We built ourselves in those margins.

And now, looking back, there’s a sadness that creeps in. Not because kids today don’t get gear—they do, probably faster than we ever did. But it’s different. My kids will never know what it was like to run to the mailbox, to circle their dreams in ink, to flip through pages that felt like they were made just for them. The magic hasn’t disappeared—but the ritual has. And something about that feels like a loss.

It’s funny how the big endings in life never announce themselves. They sneak past quietly—just another day, another delivery, another tournament.

There is a nostalgic quote: At some point in your childhood, you and your friends went outside to play together for the last time—and nobody knew it.

I get it now.

Just like at some point, you opened an Eastbay, circled some gear for an upcoming game, and didn’t realize you’d never do it again.

For us, that moment came quietly—no ceremony, no warning. Just my brother and I getting ready for the annual Kiwanis alumni basketball tournament. We needed new shorts. Not just any shorts—this year it was Duke team shorts. Blue and white. No need to travel to Keokuk (IA) or Quincy (IL) to find a pair. We placed the order without a second thought. Just another Eastbay run.

                                       

Only later did it hit us: that was it. That was the last time we’d ever place an Eastbay order. The last time we’d flip through the pages, fill in the order number, and wait for the delivery to arrive. We weren’t just gearing up for one more game—we were closing the book without knowing it.

So no, Eastbay didn’t fold. It just retired—like a great coach who knew it was time after decades of showing up for athletes who needed it most. Eastbay may not deliver anymore. But it already gave us everything we needed.

And if you ever find one of those old issues buried in a box—creased, scribbled on, pages worn thin—don’t throw it out.

It’s not junk mail. That’s a time machine. 

That's a generation’s playbook.