WHAT MY DAD TOLD ME IN THE CAR ABOUT GRANDPA

The following photos were captured today, 8/20/26, in the Fashion District by Mitchell Royel. While taking in the vibrant energy of the area, we're listening to "A Long Walk" and "It's Love" by Jill Scott, perfectly complementing the creative and soulful atmosphere.

This content is not affiliated with the NBA or the Los Angeles Lakers in any shape or form. The reflections shared here are purely inspired by personal nostalgia and admiration for the golden eras of basketball.

Dear Everyone,

My dad and I had a long talk in the car the other day. We were driving home from the golf course, and the whole ride was about Grandpa. So I decided to write it all down, because I think I figured something out. It's about being tough, and getting older, and love. And a little bit about basketball.

You should know some things about my Grandpa. He never let me win at anything. Not checkers, not putting, not even the little claw machine at the diner. He played hardball with everybody, even the mailman.

He walked the golf course like he was late for something. He wore his collar up and his belt just right. And he had this look, the kind that said, "Don't try me, kiddo." I loved that look. It felt safe.

Lately, though, Grandpa's been different. He whistles now. He held the door for a lady at the pro shop and said "after you" like it was nothing. He even bought a new golf shirt, soft green, with a little stitch on the sleeve.

I got kind of worried. When somebody that tough goes soft, you notice. So I asked my dad if Grandpa was okay.

My dad kept his eyes on the road for a second. Then he said, real gentle, "Buddy, Grandpa's coming out of a drought."

I thought he meant we needed rain.

Dad laughed and shook his head. He said Grandpa had been on his own for almost ten years. And now he'd met somebody special. He told me that love, when it's the right kind, and it shows up after a long wait, brings out a whole different side of a person. Even a tough one. Especially a tough one.

"It's called the honeymoon phase," Dad said. "It doesn't stick around forever, but while it's here, you just let it be beautiful."

Then Dad grinned, the big one, and said, "You know, it's not many women who are down for a season pass at the NBA. Grandpa found one. So let him do his thing for now."

I laughed so hard I snorted. I pictured Grandpa in the good seats, in his new shirt, cheering like a little kid. And I thought, maybe being tough your whole life just means you were saving up all that softness for exactly the right moment.

So here's my letter, and here's what I figured out. Being tough is fine. But letting yourself go soft when it counts, that takes something too.

If you know a Grandpa, or you happen to be one, let him do his thing. Wear the good shirt. Hold the door. Cheer loud. The best rounds show up later than you think.

Let Grandpa be happy. And go easy on yourself, too.

With love (and a little laughing),

A Grandson Who Was Paying Attention

Golden threads of history weave through the night,
From the roaring '60s to Showtime's delight.
A hardwood stage for triumphs to unfold,
The Forum aglow, stories untold.

Towering moments, a force to confide,
Graceful movements, time seemed to glide.
Silent strength and sky-high grace,
Echoes of greatness still fill this space.

Purple and gold beneath the bright lights,
Unity forged in championship fights.
The crowd’s electric, their hearts beat as one,
Every season a saga, battles hard-won.

Though time marches on and eras will pass,
The memories linger, like shadows on glass.
For those golden days and their radiant spark,
A legacy lives, engraved in our hearts.

EPILOGUE:

Life has a funny way of teaching us about the people we love, doesn’t it? Grandparents, especially, are like chapters in a book that keep surprising us as we grow. Sometimes, they start out as the heroes in our lives—tough, determined, and unwavering. Then, as time progresses, they become something softer, warmer, and just as wonderful in a whole new way.

When we talk to children about the shifts and phases of their grandparents, we can use stories like this one to remind them that love—and life—have seasons. Grandparents aren’t just aging; they’re evolving. The steely strength they had when they carried the world on their shoulders makes room for the kind of gentleness that the years taught them was important, too. It’s a gift. And when children see their grandparents through these phases, they learn something deeper about kindness, love, and what it means to soften with grace.

For the little ones, explain it in simple terms, like a garden changing through the seasons. “Grandpa was once like a tall oak tree, strong and sturdy, and now he’s more like the flowers around it—blooming with color and heart.” For older kids, talk about how life isn’t about staying one way forever; it’s about knowing when to put heads down and push through and when to lift hearts up and savor the moment.

The love we see in our elders, whether it’s swagger on the golf course or softness at the pro shop door, teaches us that every phase has a purpose. That every moment, even the unexpected ones, deserves to be embraced.

And as for Grandpa? He’s not just in a honeymoon phase—he’s showing you that life is worth falling in love with at every age.

TWO PLUS TWO IS ALWAYS FOUR

Captured right here in the heart of the fashion district—this vibrant place where creativity and ambition meet—we find ourselves driven by energy and focus. And as we soak it all in, the atmosphere is amplified by the soundtrack of the moment, Erbody But Me by Tech N9ne, Bizzy & Krizz Kaliko. This isn’t just background noise; it’s a call to own your individuality, to step up and declare your unique edge to the world. Right here, right now—this is about claiming your power and remembering that success starts with the belief that you are unstoppable.

I've been chewing on this since yesterday afternoon. Didn't even finish my supper. My wife asked what was wrong and I just told her I needed to sit with it a while. So I've been sitting. And now I'm gonna hand it to you men, because I figure that's what we're here for.

Yesterday I took Tanner and his buddy Tyreek out to the course. Good kid, Tyreek. Fourteen, same as my boy. Polite, laughs easy, says "yes sir" and "no sir" without me having to teach him twice. I was glad to have him along.

Now, let me be careful with my words here. I want to be clear about something before I go one step further.

It isn't what Tyreek said. It's what I heard.

Because somewhere around the third hole, that boy got to talking. And he told me — told me and my son, both — that two plus two isn't necessarily four. Said it depends. Said it's whatever a man decides it is. Said for him, two plus two equals five, because life is malleable, and he makes his own reality.

Brothers, I about dropped my nine iron.

Now I found out later this child is not doing his best in math. And that explains a few things. But it does not explain the confidence. Because I have met grown men — bankers, deacons, fellows twice this boy's age — who did not carry themselves with half the certainty that Tyreek carried, standing on a golf course in borrowed spikes, telling me the fundamental order of numbers was his to bend.

And here's where I went wrong. I couldn't leave it be.

I went on a tangent. Fifteen minutes, near as I can figure. My son later told me it was closer to twenty, but my son exaggerates, so I'm splitting the difference. I talked about pride. I talked about respect for your elders. I quoted Proverbs at that child — "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." I told him a man who thinks he can rewrite arithmetic will one day try to rewrite something that matters a lot more, and it will not go well for him.

I told him about honoring those who came before, about the fear of the Lord being the beginning of wisdom, and how wisdom starts with admitting there are things bigger than you and older than you and truer than your feelings on a Tuesday.

And you know what Tyreek did?

He nodded.

He nodded the whole way through. Kind, patient nods. The kind of nods you give an old man who's decided to preach on a par four. And when I finally ran out of breath, he looked me dead in the eye and said, "That's fair, Mr. Clifford. But it's still five to me."

Men, I have heard some belligerent things in my day. I have argued with my own father until the sun came up. But I don't think I have ever encountered anything as flat-out, cheerful, immovable as a fourteen-year-old convincing himself — and trying to convince me — that two and two make five.

Now here's my confession. Here's the part I've been sitting with.

I don't think my tangent was really about him.

I think I heard that boy bending the truth to fit what he wanted, and it scared me. Because I do it too. We all do. We tell ourselves the money will stretch when it won't. We tell ourselves we're fine when we're not. We tell ourselves the sin is small when we already know it isn't. We look at plain arithmetic — the math of our own lives — and we go, "well, for me, it's five." And we nod at ourselves the same way Tyreek nodded at me. Polite. Certain. Wrong.

Scripture says, "There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." I preached at a child yesterday. But that verse was written for me.

So here's my word to you, for whatever it's worth.

Watch what you're really correcting. Sometimes the thing that riles you up in somebody else is the thing you haven't dealt with in yourself.

Honor the truth even when it's inconvenient. Two plus two is four. It's four when you're up and it's four when you're down. Some things don't move, and thank the Lord for that, because a man needs something under his feet that doesn't shift.

And be gentle with young men who are still figuring out which things bend and which things don't. Because I was that boy once, certain of nonsense. Somebody was patient with me. I owe that forward.

I don't have this tied up neat. I'm still praying on the right way to talk to Tyreek — and to my own boy, who watched the whole thing. Maybe some of you have raised sons and know what that looks like.

Until then, I'm gonna do the thing I should've done on the third hole.

I'm gonna listen more than I lecture. And I'm gonna let two plus two stay four.

Amen.

-Clifford (as Deck & Mitch)

Epilogue: It’s remarkable how simple truths often uncover the most profound complexities in our lives. Two plus two is four. A statement so universally understood, yet it holds within it the tension between certainty and the human yearning to redefine. Clifford’s story reminds us that life will inevitably challenge the fundamentals we stand on, not to break us, but to refine us. Truth, in its purest form, is unyielding—not to stifle creativity or individuality, but to provide a compass. It’s the solid ground beneath shifting skies.

And yet, there’s another truth here, equally unshakable in its wisdom—patience. Patience with others, patience with ourselves. Growth rarely comes in tidy, linear progressions. Sometimes, it starts with a borrowed set of spikes and a notion about arithmetic that rattles more than reason. But patience teaches us that the seeds of today’s challenge may bloom into tomorrow’s understanding.

We are all, in some way, walking contradictions—clinging to our certainties while wrestling with our doubts. The path of growth demands humility. It calls us to listen more, preach less. To hold steadfastly to what’s immovable, even as we gently guide those who are still learning to discern what bends and what doesn’t.

Two plus two is still four, and thank God for the clarity of that. But perhaps, the greater wisdom lies in how we walk alongside those who are learning to see it for themselves.

Amen.

DEAR BENJI

We’re sitting here, immersed in the hauntingly beautiful melodies of "No Light, No Light" by Florence + The Machine, letting the reverberating beats and soulful lyrics weave through the air like a thread of emotion. It feels as though the song itself is painting a vivid backdrop for the images we’re pouring over—photos that carry a pulse of their own, captured with an eye for the exquisite by the brilliant Mitchell Royel. These snapshots, brought to life in the heart of the fashion district, tell stories of texture, movement, and style, blending the raw energy of the streets with an intimacy that draws you closer. Through Royel’s lens, each frame feels like a conversation, a fleeting moment that speaks to the convergence of art, expression, and the city’s unrelenting rhythm. Together, the music and photographs form a dialogue, connecting emotion with visual storytelling, creating a space where creativity breathes freely.

Hi Benji,

I'm not sure how to say all this, but I need to write it down and tell you, even if you never get to read it. You're my friend, right? At least, I hope you still are, even if something feels... strange. It all started about three months after we met on set—you know, when we were filming that silly pirate episode. You were so good at pretending to steer the ship; I remember wanting to be like you.

But it’s been different since then, like there's this cloud I don’t understand. At home, your name keeps coming up. Last night, my mom and dad got into another big fight. They’ve been arguing a lot lately, and it sounds like it’s about you... but I don’t know why. My dad said he was leaving, and my mom told me we should stand by the window together and watch him walk away, that we’d be better off if he didn’t come back. I felt stuck—like I was supposed to pick a side—but I don’t know what that side is.

Benji, I think you’re great. You’re funny, you’re smart, and the way you made me laugh after I forgot my lines that one time—yeah, you’re still my friend. But I don’t get what’s happening with my parents or why your name keeps coming up when they fight. Some things are hard to understand, and I’m just a kid.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all these feelings—being your friend feels normal to me, but maybe it’s not to them? You’re the first friend I’ve had who’s different from me in some ways—like your skin's a different color—but to me, that’s never been a bad thing. I just see you as Benji.

I hope nobody’s making you feel bad like this. I just wanted you to know, I still think about laughing with you and playing pirates on set. I hope we can still be friends, no matter what.

Your friend.

Epilogue

Dear Charlie,

I’m glad your mom found the courage to share your letter and brought it to someone like me so I could respond. The feelings you described, the confusion and care in your words, show so much about who you are—someone thoughtful and brave enough to express even the hardest emotions.

I wish I could tell you that everything will make sense one day, but the truth is, even adults struggle to make sense of the world sometimes. People can create storms out of confusion, fear, and even love—they act out in ways that may not always seem right or fair. But that doesn’t mean your feelings, or the friendship you share with Benji, are any less important.

The bond you described, those moments of laughter and connection, is something truly special. Friendships like that can be an anchor, something to hold onto during all the whirlwind moments life brings. Even if things feel complicated now, I hope you keep that joy close to your heart. It’s okay to not have all the answers yet, Charlie; growing up is about learning—even when it’s messy—and you’re already doing that in such an admirable way.

Your voice matters, Charlie. Never doubt that. Sometimes grown-ups forget how much children see, hear, and feel, but your perspective is valuable. Keep being the kind, courageous person you are. The love and goodness in your heart, Charlie, will take you far.

Take care of yourself, and never stop sharing what’s inside that bright, thoughtful mind of yours.

THE ATTORNEY’S CALCULATIONS WON’T SAVE WHAT SHE ALREADY LOST

Captured here in the heart of the Fashion District by Mitchell Royel, I find myself caught in a whirlwind of style and sound. We're tuned into the electrifying "All That She Wants," the Sound of Legend Siks Remix—a fresh take on the timeless Ace of Base classic. It’s the kind of track that amplifies the rhythm of the city, perfectly blending nostalgia with a modern pulse.

I've been sitting in this room, the kind that's crowded but loud in its quiet, with voices that carry no weight, just drift around the corners. Across from me, she's here. Just close enough that the scent of her perfume reminds me of another night. It takes me a second to remember we're not the only ones in the room. The attorney’s voice drones on about percentages, about numbers and calculations that never sound like a life, just figures on a page. Child support sounds clinical until you start comparing it to dinner tables and school shoes. And I have to admit, I wasn’t prepared when she suddenly said she’s moving. Out of state. "It’s for the best," she says, like it’s already been decided.

And I sat there, nodding slow like the weight of the words didn’t hit me square. The attorney glanced between us, like two opposing corners of a battlefield, not knowing what grenades sat behind our mouths, waiting. I coughed to fill the air, thought about Vegas. That night six months ago that came up so easily in my mind—her at the bar with the girls, her meeting my friends, laughing louder than she should’ve been. But I didn’t say it outright. Just tilted the conversation that way, hinted around the edges, like setting a trail of breadcrumbs.

“It’s funny,” I started slow, like I was testing how much I could drop into the room without tipping the balance, “how people find themselves at crossroads. Six months ago, I never thought you’d be talking about moving away. Not after everything.” I thought I saw her shoulders stiffen, and she changed the subject so quick it felt rehearsed. A class act deflection, turning the page so smoothly no one would notice the one before it. But I noticed.

By the time I brought up my other kids—my current wife, even—she smiled real polite, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the edges of a person’s eyes. “They could be close someday,” I tried to sound reasonable, like I wasn’t squeezing too tight on the things unsaid. “Maybe Haley and I could talk, get a plan worked up.”

And then, she dropped it again, harder this time. “I’m moving,” was all she repeated, as though this wasn’t already a low-stakes game of chess dressed up in paperwork and varnished professionalism. Haley wasn’t thrilled when I mentioned Facetiming the attorney instead of meeting directly—it felt detached to her, impersonal—but looking at her now, I wonder if it was just a way to keep the distance. Now I’m staring at my coffee. Cold twice because I’m nowhere near the kind of man who knows the next step from here. And I suspect she already knows hers. I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to watch her walk that far out of reach.

-Clifford (as Deck & Mitch)

Epilogue: Howard Stern knew the art of airing out raw, unpolished moments—the kind the rest of us try to tuck away. If he were narrating this mess, he’d probably lead with some biting commentary, something sharp and irreverent to cut through the heaviness. He’d spin it like a circus of human flaws, pointing to the attorney as the ringmaster, droning on with numbers that didn’t add up to anything resembling a family. Maybe he’d call me out for the quiet desperation, for the way I tried to anchor things in half-recalled memories of Vegas nights and unspoken regrets. He’d say I was caught up, tangled in my own web of half-truths and attempts at looking noble.

And her? He’d probably needle in on how composed she was, how the only cracks in her calm were the quick deflections, the practiced lines that didn’t leave room for argument. He’d latch onto that—the way she said “I’m moving” like it was etched in stone, while I sat there trying to outmaneuver a decision already made. Stern would call it what it was without sugarcoating—the kind of half-baked hope that only prolongs the inevitable. By the time the segment wrapped, he’d have turned the whole thing into something bigger, a commentary on losing battles we don’t even realize we’re fighting until it’s too late. And I’d be left there, coffee cold for the third time, realizing I’m just another guy caught up, still too stubborn to take the loss gracefully.

BLESSED BE THE POLE

Captured in the Fashion District by Mitchell Royel, the atmosphere hums with an electric energy that defies the ordinary. The streets pulse with a kaleidoscope of colors, textures, and styles—each one a testament to the boundless creativity and individuality of those who walk them. It's as if every corner and every glance tells a unique story, all converging in a harmonious celebration of self-expression.

The evening began with the haunting notes of Elley Duhé's "Middle of the Night," the hypnotic melody weaving through the air as if it were a soundtrack to the district’s cosmopolitan heartbeat. Its alluring rhythm drew people into its spell, blending seamlessly with the rich tapestry of streetlights and expression around. Slowly, like the natural transition of dusk into night, the soundscape faded into Joseline Hernandez's "Sex Drive."

I've been sitting with this all morning. Coffee's gone cold twice. And I figure if I'm going to be honest with the Lord about it, I might as well be honest with you men too.

Something happened last night. A friend of mine — a woman from our congregation, not my wife, let me say that plain — she got herself into trouble at a bar. A real mess. The kind of thing you hear about and your stomach drops.

And here's where I went wrong.

I decided I was the man to fix it. To correct her. To sit her down and tell her what she should've done, what she ought to do next, how she needed to walk from here. Like I'd been appointed. Like wisdom was mine to hand out just because I felt strongly about it.

Brothers, let me tell you something I learned the hard way. There is a time to speak, and there is a time to keep your mouth shut. Scripture told us that long before I ignored it. When a person is already low, already ashamed, already carrying more than they can hold — that is not the hour to stack your opinion on top of the pile.

I didn't lift her up. I stood over her. There's a difference, and I couldn't see it until it was too late.

And it didn't stop there.

I had money set aside for my boy. Tanner's travel league. Money I'd promised him, money he'd earned my word on. And I took it — I redirected it — to help her. I told myself it was charity. I told myself we're called to help those in need, and that's true, that is true. But I never asked. Not my wife. Not my son. Not the Lord, not really. I just did it and called it generosity so it would feel holy.

Men, hear me. Giving is good. But giving out of guilt, giving to look righteous, giving with money that wasn't fully mine to give — that isn't generosity. That's pride wearing Sunday clothes.

Now she won't speak to me. Not at church. Not anywhere. I reach out and there's silence. And I earned that silence. I keep waiting to feel wronged, and instead I just feel foolish.

So here's my word of advice, for whatever it's worth from a man who got it wrong.

Know when you are not the one to speak. Sometimes the most loving thing you can offer is your presence and your quiet, not your judgment.

Guard the promises you've made to your own house before you go rescuing everyone else's. A man who neglects his family to look charitable has his priorities upside down.

And when you give, give clean. Give in the open. Give what's yours to give, with a right heart, and then let it go without needing credit for it.

I don't have this fixed yet. I'm not standing up here with the answer. I'm asking the Lord to show me how to make it right — with her, with Tanner, with my wife, with all of it. Maybe some of you have walked this road and can tell me what mending looks like.

Until then, I'll do the one thing I should've done first.

I'll be still. And I'll listen.

Amen.

-Clifford (as Mitch & Deck)