Culture

An escape, a shot in the dark, a legacy: Here is Olympian Lilia Vu

Published

6 months ago

July 2, 2024

An escape, a shot in the dark, a legacy: Here is Olympian Lilia Vu

Around 1980, near the small village of Cần Giuộc in southern Vietnam, a single glass of water was centered on a table. Dinh Du and Hongyen Dao leaned in close, peering into it.

As a younger man, Dinh entered trade school and became a mechanic. He worked as a contractor for the U.S. Army while war raged through Vietnam in the late 1960s. One day, he repaired a bulldozer belonging to one of Hongyen’s relatives and was deemed “useful” by her family. Soon, the two were arranged to be married and bound to a life together. Dinh and Hongyen raised five children in Cần Giuộc, about 20 miles south of Saigon, what would become Ho Chi Minh City.

In the years after Saigon fell in April 1975, harsh government restrictions defined daily life in south Vietnam. Meals of soy sauce and oatmeal. Electricity limited to two days per week. The constant threat of being placed in re-education camps or relocated to New Economic Zones in the remote highlands. There was little work, less pay and no opportunity.

Dinh and Hongyen got by building and selling batteries. Dinh built them. Hongyen sold them. But desperation grew by the day.

So, there they sat, perched forward, looking at that glass. Out of options, Dinh and Hongyen sought the advice of a “coi bói,” or fortune teller. He was named “Mr. Seven” and revered by the locals. Dinh and Hongyen asked the only question on their minds: Should we attempt an escape?

Mr. Seven rolled up a piece of thread until it twined into a ball and told them in Vietnamese, “If it floats, you go. If it sinks, you stay.”

The ball of thread dropped. Then splashed. Then bobbed atop the water.

Mr. Seven nodded. He said that as long as Dinh built the boat, and as long as they stuck together, the escape would be successful.

Over the next two years, Dinh disappeared for weeks at a time. He drove two hours to Vũng Tàu, out by the coastline, and set about building his boat, acquiring one piece at a time. He strapped each board to his powder blue Vespa. Then drove it to Vũng Tàu. Then he got the next one. Back and forth he went. “Like an ant,” one daughter would later say.

Hongyen told the kids that their dad got a job far from home. In truth, he was working along the coast in secrecy, doing all he could to avoid police attention and the severe jail time if caught plotting a defection. Members of the công an, the public security branch of the Vietnam People’s Armed Forces, often came by the house looking for Dinh Du. Hongyen either lied or paid them off with money or food.

Dinh Du and Hongyen Dao raised five children, including daughters Kieu Thuy and Nga, in Cần Giuộc. (Courtesy of Yvonne Vu)

Bit by bit, week by week, a boat took shape in the brush near a fisherman’s wharf. Dinh, the ant, assembled a 32-foot wooden hull. Sturdy. Solid. Reliable. He built a top deck. He built and installed an engine.

Dinh planned for 50 people, enough to carry his household and extended family. But then word got out. Local villagers learned of the plan and begged for a spot. Dinh didn’t have extra space, but didn’t turn them away, either. He said yes to more than 30 additional passengers.

Finally, May 23, 1982, arrived. Three cars took the family from Cần Giuộc to Vũng Tàu. They gathered in a hut near the wharf. As darkness set in and the night turned still, Dinh told his five children, “When I say go, you go. No looking back!”

The moment came. A pitter-patter of feet darting through the jungle bordering the shoreline. Dressed in black, they ran through the rain, losing slippers in the mud and continuing barefoot. Nga, the family’s 8-year-old, grabbed her sister’s hand, yelling, “Where are we going?” Kieu Thuy, 12, pulling her sister along, burst, “We’re going to America!”

Eighty-three people packed tightly onto the boat, stuffing supplies underneath them. Dinh powered on the engine, snapping the quiet. The boat jolted, then built speed, heading into the open waters of the South China Sea. Hearing a buzz behind them, the passengers looked back. Two công an boats cut through the water, giving chase. Dinh cranked the engine harder.

“I remember the feeling,” Kieu Thuy says, “of the water on my face, as my dad sped up.”

An estimated 2 million Vietnamese fled by sea in the decades following the fall of Saigon. Rowboats. Flatboats. Fishing boats. Another million fled Laos and Cambodia. Some relocated via orderly evacuation and resettlement programs in North America, Europe or neighboring Asian countries. Many others took more desperate measures. Between 200,000 to 600,000 Vietnamese died from capture, drowning or starvation.

These asylum seekers came to be known as Vietnamese boat people, a name that has come to be regarded as pejorative — the sort of dehumanizing language often used in indexing immigrants. Other displaced people in recent years — be it Cubans or Haitians crossing the Atlantic to Florida, or Afghans fleeing to Australia — have also been deemed “boat people.”

Tracey Nguyễn Mang is the founder of Vietnamese Boat People, a non-profit that preserves stories of the Vietnamese diaspora in podcasts and public programs. Her family escaped when she was 3, and she recalls growing up with a stigma that was assigned to the older generations and inherited by the younger — the persistent idea that being a boat refugee meant “being inherently desperate.” The stigma created “a culture that you don’t show your vulnerabilities.”

“There’s a lot of unspokenness, not just from the public, but even within families,” Mang says. “Part of that is the trauma. Part of it is culture. Part of it is generational language barriers. It takes decades, when it comes to history like this, for communities to even be comfortable talking about it.

“When you migrate to a different country, your only focus is to survive. It’s to assimilate. It’s to give your child a life you risked everything for. You’re not worried about publicizing your hardships. You’re really just head-down surviving.”

Today, second, third and even fourth generations are unpacking what it took to come of age in a different world. Mang says they are reclaiming the idea of what it meant — and what it means — to be boat people.

“They were not desperate,” Mang explains. “They were courageous. They were survivors. And not only do they survive their journey, but they had the resilience to come to a country and rebuild their lives.”

The South China Sea is larger than the area of India. From Subic Bay in the north to the Strait of Malacca in the south, its 1.4 million square miles touch the beaches of Vietnam and Malaysia, of Singapore and Brunei, of the Philippines, Indonesia, China and Taiwan. Two-hundred and fifty-some-odd land features — islands, reefs, shoals — dot waters defined by a complicated history of critical geopolitical trade passages and conflicting territorial claims. Its edges both guard from outsiders and connect the Indian Ocean to the Pacific, linking one part of the world to the other.

Dinh Du pushed his hand-built engine to its brink, charging into those waters. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the police boats fade behind. After all the prep, all the planning, the escape was no longer about running, but instead about surviving. Their hopes hinged on two options: rescue by a passing boat or making it nearly 700 miles to Singapore. The alternatives? Capture or death.

Two days and three nights passed. Chapped by the sun and low on supplies, the 83 aboard drifted along nearly 400 miles south of Ho Chi Minh City, somewhere east of the Malaysian coast. They spotted passing ships over the previous days but none stopped. By now, they were halfway to Singapore. There was no turning back.

That third night was a particularly calm evening, darkness divided by the glint of lapping waves reflecting a big moon slung low. Emptiness everywhere.

Then the leak began.

It was around 3 a.m. on May 26, 1982. The sea seeped in slowly, at first, soaking food and clothes stored along the bilge. Some flinched awake, feeling the ocean upon their feet. As the boat jerked, Dinh told everyone to remain calm. He was prepared for this, he said. He activated an electric pump he installed in case of such an emergency.

The pump gargled, burped, sputtered. Nothing.

Everyone aboard scrambled and flailed, cupping hands, scooping water. One distraught passenger, a villager, jumped overboard, leaving water rippling in place, never resurfacing.

In the chaos, Kieu Thuy watched her father wrench at a pump that wouldn’t respond. She saw the moment wash over him. Bare acceptance. In Vietnamese he said to her, “I can’t fix it.”

Dinh reached for the lone distress signal on the boat. Pressing his eyes closed in prayer, he raised one hand into the air and fired a single flare streaking into the night sky. The pop above lit up an empty sea.

The Brewton was home to 18 officers and 260 sailors, enlistees from all over the United States. (National Archives and Records Administration)

The USS Brewton’s six-month 1982 WestPac deployment set out from Pearl Harbor in late April, taking the ship and its men to Subic Bay in the Philippines. Commissioned in 1972, the 438-foot-long Knox-class frigate was a “sub-hunter.” Initially tasked with tracking Soviet submarines, by ’82, the ship was active, but growing dated. Its radar display amounted to indistinguishable green blobs on a black screen. More glaringly, it wasn’t yet equipped with satellite navigation.

“We were still shooting stars,” says Jack Papp, a surface warfare officer.

The Brewton was home to 18 officers and 260 sailors, enlistees from all over the United States. Some were there because they chose to be — young guys from the Naval Academy, ROTCs or officer training school. Others perhaps as a consequence, maybe having once stood in front of a judge who suggested he join the Navy instead of the correctional system. Some were young men seeing the world for the first time. Others were old-timers who saw heavy action in Vietnam. They were White, Black, Asian, Latino. They sent messages home using ham radios.

“We were probably more representative of what the country looked like than you’d imagine,” says John Popek, a main propulsion assistant on the ship.

That is, even if the country was unsure how to feel about them.

“You have to remember, at this time, people did not thank you for your service,” Popek says. “It was a different time. Morale was terrible. There was still a hangover from Vietnam.”

Crossing the Pacific, the Brewton in May 1982 arrived at Subic Bay, where it was scheduled to accompany the USS Ranger, an aircraft carrier, through the South China Sea to the Strait of Malacca. Days rolled together. “At sea, you sort of go into auto-mode,” says Papp, 24 years old then, 65 years old now. “You do division work. You take 12 off. You do it again.”

The early morning hours of May 26 were no different.

Until a single burst of light popped over a far horizon.

It was around 0400 when a call came from the signal bridge reporting what was potentially a distress signal in the distance. Capt. Owen C. Martin Jr., in his final night as Brewton’s commanding officer, had a decision to make. Pursue or stay the course.

In the engine room, Popek felt the boat lurch, its 35,000-shaft horsepower steam turbine powering down.

“I immediately knew something was happening,” he remembers. “Ships are not great unless they’re moving forward. You don’t just slow down.”

Word spread that something might be out there, somewhere. Martin sent a deckhand to wake up Capt. Robert K. Bolger, who was scheduled to be sworn in later that day to relieve him as commanding officer. If they were to attempt a rescue, any refugees taken aboard would be his responsibility.

As Bolger rose, Martin called for the captain’s gig and a utility boat to investigate, sending Brewton’s two smaller vessels out into the dark. A few minutes later, they radioed back, reporting a small wooden boat, roughly 30 feet, was located and in peril, taking on water. Given orders to inspect, the Navy sailors boarded the shaky craft. One of the Vietnamese passengers, a man who’d previously been jailed for working with the U.S. Army, translated between Dinh Du and the U.S. sailors. Those sailors radioed back to Martin that the boat posed no threat. Martin responded by declaring all 82 aboard as refugees and moved the Brewton next to the boats.

On deck, a row of sailors lined the railing, looking out into the black. Some pointed, making out some shapes in the distance.

The Brewton’s spotlight lit up the water.

The 82 refugees left behind all their belongings when boarding the USS Brewton. (USS Brewton cruise book)

“I just remember being up there as we pulled alongside it, seeing all the people on that thing and just thinking, ‘How the hell is that thing even floating?’” says Dave Taormina, a 20-year-old radioman at the time.

“They were in a state of shock,” Popek says.

The refugees climbed onto the two smaller naval vessels before boarding the Brewton, leaving all their belongings behind. The hull of the frigate rose like a wall in front of them. They arched their necks, looking up 50 feet to the deck above, seeing faces looking back at them.

One by one, the 82 climbed up the Brewton’s accommodation ladder, reaching the top, grasping at sailors’ hands to pull them aboard. Some Vietnamese-speaking crew members surveyed the refugees. Martin and Bolger urged everyone to gather whatever extra clothes or supplies were available. Seeing some babies among the rescued, Bolger searched the Brewton for humanitarian goods, knowing diapers were stored somewhere.

Other sailors set up a medical triage on the fantail. Some rushed to warm food in the galley. Others stocked showers with fresh soap. Mattresses were spread around the deck. Spare clothes were distributed, sending children scampering away in T-shirts down to their ankles.

Children were among the refugees taken aboard the Brewton. (USS Brewton cruise book)

The sailors set up a projector. Everyone settled onto the mattresses with bowls of Rice-A-Roni. “Saturday Night Fever” flickered upon a screen, making it the first American movie most of them would see.

Concerned about leaving an unmanned boat on the open sea, a few sailors shot 50-caliber machine guns into the water, sinking Dinh Du’s boat.

All told, the refugees spent less than half a day aboard the Brewton. The USS Fox, an American cruiser, was deployed to pick them up for transport to Singapore. Under an afternoon sun, the 82 were lowered into a few small launches for transfer to the Fox. Drifting back out into the South China Sea, with life jackets cinched tight, they looked up and waved.

“Cảm ơn! Cảm ơn!”

Thank you. Thank you.

Leaning over the railing, the sailors waved back.

Dropped off in Singapore by the USS Fox, the 82 Vietnamese boat people entered the UN Commission for Refugees, hoping to be accepted, but fearing a quick return to Ho Chi Minh City. When resettlement options were presented in areas of North America and Europe, they felt profound relief.

Dinh Du, then 42, told officials he had a brother living in Southern California and hoped to join him there.

After three months in Singapore, the family was shipped to Galang Refugee Camp in Indonesia to await processing for relocation in the United States. They learned basic English and took classes on American customs and financial literacy.

After three months in Singapore, the family was shipped to Galang Refugee Camp in Indonesia to await processing for relocation in the United States. (Courtesy of Yvonne Vu)

Six months later, in the spring of 1983, Dinh and Hongyen, along with their five children, arrived in the United States. They were prepared. Hongyen had the family savings — roughly $7,000 saved up for years from the battery business — sewed into pockets of her clothes at the time of the rescue.

They settled about 30 miles south of Los Angeles, near the Little Saigon section of Orange County, what is now home to nearly 200,000 Vietnamese-Americans — the oldest, largest concentration of Vietnamese-Americans anywhere in the United States. The dominion is a point of pride for those forced to leave so much of themselves behind. Signage in Little Saigon’s major commercial area is almost exclusively in Vietnamese, as are television stations, radio stations and newspapers in the area.

When the time came to fill out U.S. citizenship forms, all the children picked American names. Among them, Kieu Thuy chose Yvonne. Her sister Nga chose Kandi.

In time, they created families of their own. Yvonne met her husband, Douglas Vu, a fellow first-generation Vietnamese immigrant, and had two children. They built a comfortable life in Fountain Valley, Calif., about five miles from her parents in Westminster, near Little Saigon.

As her children grew up, Yvonne shared stories that felt like fables. How grandfather built a boat with his own two hands. How they ran through that jungle in the rain. How that searchlight appeared way out in the distance, out in the South China Sea, turning in their direction from an American ship.

These were the bedtime stories.

The ones her daughter fell asleep to.

Hongyen Dao, left, and Dinh Du fled Vietnam to provide a better life for their children. (Jennelle Fong for The Athletic)

Hongyen Dao, 78, sits with perfect posture, smiling under smoke-gray hair, hands crossed upon her lap. She’s lived in this home in Westminster for 20 years. Her garden is spectacular, complete with orchids planted long ago.

It’s late in the day, that time when an afternoon sun hits just right, lighting up the shell inlays of ornate cabinets and the dark cherrywood of Hongyen’s hand-carved chairs. The living room is bright and one story turns into the next. A few pictures are shared with Hongyen and her daughters, Yvonne and Kandi; pictures recently pulled out of John Popek’s attic. Photos of American sailors and Vietnamese refugees milling about a crowded boat deck. Photos of children being lowered onto smaller boats. Photos of their family in life jackets waving goodbye to the men atop the deck of the USS Brewton.

All three women cover their mouths and fight back tears. Yvonne and Kandi shuffle through the pictures, narrating along.

“That’s my brother!”
“That’s my cousin!”
“Oh my god.”
“I’m going to cry.”
“Our uncle!”

Hongyen leans forward quietly, brushing a hand across each picture. She says nothing, but her eyes say everything. When the time came to leave Cần Giuộc four decades ago, she nearly called off the whole escape. Her mother, elderly and frail, was in no condition to journey into the South China Sea, and Hongyen couldn’t bear to leave her behind. There would be no one left to take care of her.

Explaining this quietly, Yvonne shakes her head and puts up a hand. “We don’t talk about that,” Kandi whispers.

Hongyen never saw her mother again.

Photos of the rescue shared with the family brought back waves of memories. (Jennelle Fong for The Athletic)

With each picture, every moment comes back to the surface. The room quiets as Hongyen speaks in Vietnamese.

“All we wanted,” Yvonne translates, “was a better life for the children.”

As afternoon turns to evening in Little Saigon, a car door shuts outside Hongyen’s house and all heads turn toward the door.

Here is Lilia Vu.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiii!” they all cheer.

Hugs give way to conversation and Lilia explains she hoped to have gotten here earlier, but an afternoon photoshoot with a new sponsor ran long. Then traffic from Los Angeles was brutal. She’s still in full makeup from the photoshoot and jokes that her face is sore from smiling. It’s been a hectic day and she’s barely eaten. Of course, Yvonne has a bowl of pho waiting on the table for her.

Lilia is a 26-year-old professional golfer. A former UCLA star, she’s spent the last five years navigating the highest highs and the lowest lows of the pro game. She has the disposition to match — charming and candid out of the spotlight, quiet and uneasy in it. She’s proud to say she spends half her free time devouring books, and embarrassed to say she spends the other half on TikTok.

Dinh Du, center right, stressed to Lilia Vu, pictured at age 4 with cousin Regina and brother Andre, that she needed to find joy in her game to achieve her goals. (Courtesy of J. Lindeberg and Yvonne Vu)

Navigating the world has gotten a little trickier of late. Lilia has spent most of the last 15 months in some sort of dreamscape. Five wins. Two major victories. Nearly $5 million in earnings. Endorsements. Fame. Attention.

She won her first LPGA Tour event in February 2023. Then won her first career major, the Chevron Championship, eight weeks later. Struggles followed, leading to fear those wins might’ve been flukes, but then a win at the AIG Women’s Open made Lilia the first American woman to win multiple majors in a single year since Juli Inkster in 1999.

All this from the same player who finished the 2020 season ranked 1,330th in the world.

Today, after 28 weeks ranked No. 1 in the world between August 2023 and March 2024, Lilia is a bona fide star.

But here, in her grandmother’s house, Lilia is still Kha-Tu Du Vu, her given name. The little girl who grew up speaking Vietnamese to both her parents and grandparents and copying the swing of her older brother, Andre, who would later play golf at UC Riverside.

Lilia eats her pho and then, as evening settles over Little Saigon, walks into the living room to join her grandmother. Side-by-side on the sofa, they lean close together, sharing words only one another can hear. They both smile. Then Lilia puts an arm around her and leans in close, giving a gentle squeeze.

Nearby, atop an ornate bookshelf, pictures of Dinh Du sit next to a burning candle. A gold urn sits under a red flower.

Growing up, Lilia looked at her grandpa — her “ông ngoại” — as a sweet old man who worked at an auto shop during the day and doted upon his wife at night. Dinh cooked dinner for Hongyen nearly every evening. He built her a green awning in the backyard and tended to a koi pond. He had a bad back and sore knees.

Only later did a different version come into view.

In March 2020, Lilia’s young career felt fully stalled. Once a college All-American and the No. 1-ranked women’s amateur in the world, she turned pro a year earlier and immediately earned status on the LPGA Tour. Then, just as quickly, she lost that status. Missed cuts stacked up. Bad thoughts crept in. Maybe she was never that good in the first place. Perhaps law school was a better option.

Amid a growing pandemic, Lilia was scheduled to play a low-level tournament in Florida, but needed to visit her grandfather first. He was in a hospital with some heart issues. Doctors expected a full recovery, but Lilia wanted some time with him before traveling. She opened up about how she was feeling.

“I told him that it was all too much, and I just — I didn’t have it,” she says now. “I couldn’t figure out how to have fun anymore.”

Dinh Du saw the stress in his granddaughter’s eyes and told her to stop worrying and start playing. He said to focus on her golf and ignore everything else, to find joy in the game again.

Lilia heard him, but maybe didn’t understand him. Not fully, at least. She was 22. The tournament in Florida ended with another missed cut, and Lilia returned home to learn she was too late. Her grandfather was in emergency care and unresponsive. He died March 9, 2020.

In that ending, a journey once foretold could finally be fully understood. How this mechanic from Cần Giuộc breathed life into generations. How a 32-foot boat built by his hands changed so much for so many. How he never once took credit for any of it.

“He didn’t get the family out of there because he wanted praise for it,” Lilia says. “He got them out of there because he had to get them out of there. It’s just mind-blowing to me that all this had to happen for me to have the chance to be here today.”

Four years after Dinh Du’s passing, his granddaughter, Lilia Vu — Kha-Tu Du Vu — will travel to Paris this summer. She’ll board a plane, cross an ocean, and stand upon the biggest stage in the world, one so big it can be seen from the villages of Vietnam and the shores of the South China Sea. Lilia will represent the United States in the XXXIII Olympic Summer Games.

“I’ve learned that if you want something, you have to go,” she says.

Epilogue

All told, five members of the USS Brewton crew, men ranging from 65 to 80 years old, were able to be tracked down for this story. Capt. Martin died in 2012. To a man, each said the same thing about May 26, 1982 – the rescue was the single greatest highlight of his military career. All were awarded the Navy Humanitarian Service Medal for their actions that morning.

“You drop them off and wonder, you know, are they gonna be OK?” Jack Papp said recently. “Where are they gonna go? What’ll happen to these people?”

“I’ve always thought about those folks,” said John Thompson, now a 68-year-old CFA, then a 26-year-old lieutenant junior grade, “and just wondered how things have turned out for them.”

Bob Bolger, who took over as the Brewton’s commanding officer the same day the Vusietnamese were transferred to the USS Fox, is 81 now. He likes hammy jokes, giving tours at the San Diego Maritime Museum, and hanging out with his 2-year-old grandson, Ryder. When contacted for this story this past winter, Bob didn’t quite believe what he was hearing — that a 12-year-old girl from that tiny boat in the South China Sea had a daughter on her way to becoming a U.S. Olympian.

He also couldn’t believe Hongyen, Kieu Thuy and Nga lived only an hour up the road.

So a reunion was arranged.

It was a Saturday morning in late May, nearly 42 years to the day that the Brewton came upon a small ship in a large sea. Bob ambled down a street along Coronado Island, not far from the Naval Amphibious Base.

Spotting “Capt. Bob” coming her way, Yvonne Vu brushed away tears and covered her mouth. Her sister Kandi did the same. Hongyen clasped her hands together, repeating, “Cảm ơn. Cảm ơn.” Thank you. Thank you.

Gathering on a small bench, all four shared stories of where they were and what they remembered. Yvonne told Bob she wished her father was still around to meet him. Bob said he wished the other men of the Brewton could meet the family.

Bob handed Yvonne his copy of the cruise book from the Brewton’s 1982 WestPac deployment. She leafed through alongside her mother and sister, all leaning together. Handing it back to Bob, Yvonne was met by an outstretched palm. No, no, he told her. You keep it.

“That should be in your family,” he said.

For the next generation.

(Illustration: John Bradford / The Athletic; graphics/motion design: Drew Jordan, John Bradford / The Athletic; photos: Jennelle Fong; Amy Remus / Getty Images; video: Brett Michel)

Culture

Why Bill Belichick abandoned hope of landing NFL job, pursuit of wins record

Published

8 hours ago

December 26, 2024

Press Room

Why Bill Belichick abandoned hope of landing NFL job, pursuit of wins record

Bill Belichick’s foray into college football drew plenty of double takes across the industry, but the logic behind his decision might have been as simple as it was surprising.

“He’s a football coach,” a source close to Belichick said. “He’s going to coach somewhere.”

After 49 seasons in the NFL, Belichick made a stark career change Wednesday when he accepted the head coaching job at the University of North Carolina.

Welcome to Chapel Hill, Bill Belichick!
The eight-time Super Bowl Champion has officially been named our next @UNCFootball Head Coach. #GoHeels x #ChapelBill pic.twitter.com/cnngQI7gnC
— UNC Tar Heels (@GoHeels) December 12, 2024
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The 72-year-old’s pursuit of Don Shula’s wins record has been put on hold, perhaps permanently. Belichick needed 15 wins to surpass the NFL’s all-time mark of 347.

The record meant a lot to Belichick, particularly in recent years when it appeared to be more attainable. So, why did he call off the chase?

It’s perhaps more important to assess the situation from the opposite viewpoint.

One NFL team with a coaching vacancy had already ruled out the idea of interviewing Belichick, according to a league source. Sources with a couple of other teams with potential head coach vacancies didn’t believe there’d be enough support within the building to hire Belichick. The New York Jets, who will be hiring a coach and general manager, were never considered a possibility due to their long-running shared animosity for each other.

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And among the seven coaching vacancies last year — excluding the New England Patriots, who fired Belichick — the architect of the greatest dynasty in league history only drew serious interest from the Atlanta Falcons. Several of those teams quickly dismissed the idea of interviewing Belichick, according to league sources. Some even expressed relief Belichick wouldn’t disrupt the organization’s power structure.

Belichick, the most prepared figure in the NFL for so long, had to recognize a chilling reality: He’d once again be a long shot to get a job in the league’s upcoming hiring cycle. It’s common for coaches to put out feelers to gauge their attractiveness to organizations.

“(Belichick) burned a lot of bridges over his career,” a high-ranking team executive said.

Belichick still wanted to coach, though, so it was important for him to act. North Carolina, which employed his father in the 1950s, was the most high-profile program with an opening. Belichick turns 73 in April and couldn’t run the risk of being shut out of another hiring cycle.

“If he wanted to coach again, he almost had to take this job,” another team executive said.

Another longtime Belichick associate thought the move to UNC made sense for other reasons, too. Belichick will essentially have unilateral control over the program, which wouldn’t necessarily be the case if he had gotten another NFL opportunity. And a handful of Belichick’s closest friends — Nick Saban, Greg Schiano, Chip Kelly, Kirk Ferentz and Jedd Fisch — have enjoyed success at the college level. He can use them as resources as he acclimates to a different football world.

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Also consider that Belichick could have waited to see if there’d be openings with the Dallas Cowboys, New York Giants or Jacksonville Jaguars — among other teams — but they ultimately might not have been great fits. Cowboys owner and general manager Jerry Jones isn’t ceding control of his front office, and it’s too early to know what the upcoming power structure will look like within the Giants and Jaguars if more drastic changes are on the way.

“There might be some owners who want (Belichick’s) structure and stability, but he is 72,” another longtime executive from a team that was involved in last year’s NFL hiring cycle said. “I think a lot of teams want to build something long-term, and he clearly has a capped timeline.”

Belichick’s resume still stands alone. He is viewed by his peers as the greatest coach of his era, if not in history. And last season, even as the Patriots wallowed to a 4-13 record, a couple of personnel executives said Belichick’s defense still displayed some revolutionary concepts.

But they had fair and objective criticisms about the way things ended with the Patriots, with their record worsening in each of his last two seasons and failing to win a playoff game over his final five years. Parting with quarterback Tom Brady was a head-scratcher, but the failure to find a suitable successor made the matter exponentially worse.

Belichick’s push for organizational control has also been at the center of discussion with teams. One executive referred to the Patriots as a “unicorn” during the Belichick era, as he won three Super Bowls in his first five seasons, gained considerably more control after Scott Pioli’s departure in 2009 and was able to run the team how he saw fit. That’s not a common structure for much of the league.

Plus, the model had deteriorated in Belichick’s later years with the Patriots. There was a push for more collaboration with the 2021 NFL Draft, but that collaboration fell apart in 2022, according to league sources. Patriots scouts were often frustrated by their lack of involvement after the annual combine — nearly two months before the draft — or their general inclusion in the building throughout the season.

“I think people would be concerned about the culture in the building,” a fourth executive said. “(Belichick’s) culture worked when they were winning, but he got fired because they weren’t winning.”

Of course, the culture also extends to the locker room. Modern-day players don’t relate to the old-school coaching approach the way they did 10 or even 20 years ago. As one of Belichick’s former players recently said, “It’s nice to go somewhere and not get told how much you suck every day.”

That player was not alone in that sentiment. And adding to that, coaches and executives from other teams were turned off by Belichick’s public alienation of former Patriots quarterback Mac Jones.

Belichick has enjoyed unprecedented levels of success throughout his career. No one around the league would ever deny that.

But while teams eye a long-term solution with their next head coach, they have a lot of fair questions about the way it fell apart in New England and whether Belichick would be the right fit within their organization. And even if Belichick did turn around an NFL team, his age limits his longevity.

Naturally, the same questions will exist at North Carolina, but here’s the difference: UNC was offering a job, and it was anything but guaranteed the NFL would do the same.

(Photo: Timothy T Ludwig / Getty Images)

Culture

How Jared Goff hitting rock bottom became his and the Detroit Lions’ salvation

Published

20 hours ago

December 25, 2024

Press Room

How Jared Goff hitting rock bottom became his and the Detroit Lions’ salvation

ALLEN PARK, Mich. — First came the beating, another desultory setback in the rapidly degenerating professional life of Jared Goff, the face of a flailing franchise’s enduring futility. That was torture enough. What Goff truly dreaded, however, was The Meeting. Summoned to Detroit Lions coach Dan Campbell’s office on a late-October Tuesday in 2022, Goff feared the worst, and with good reason. Two days earlier, in an ugly road defeat to the Dallas Cowboys, he’d been responsible for almost as many turnovers (four) as points (six). The Lions were 1-5, and 4-18-1 since Campbell had taken over as a rookie head coach and Goff had become the starting quarterback. It felt like the whole world wanted him benched, and that Campbell, if only out of self-preservation, would imminently grant that wish.

If the perception was that Goff was broken, well, it was a fair assumption. At 24, he’d gone head-to-head with Tom Brady on Super Sunday. Now, having just turned 28, he’d lost his mojo. He was getting booed by the home crowd, and his failings were constantly flaunted. Los Angeles Rams coach Sean McVay, the man who’d rejected Goff, had just hoisted a Lombardi Trophy in his home stadium, validating his wunderkind status. And he’d done it in his first season with Matthew Stafford, the Lions’ longtime starting quarterback who’d been swapped out for Goff. In dating terms, Goff had been dumped by his partner and was now eating ice cream alone on the couch while watching the ex escort a radiant new flame up the red carpet.

As Goff entered Campbell’s office, he braced himself for bad news. “I know how this thing goes,” he told himself. “I’m not naïve. Is this it for me?” Yet Campbell, an outside-the-box hire with an unflinching nature, told his struggling starter he was sticking with him. And as Goff began to exhale, he had an epiphany.

“Man, I’ve got to stop trying to do too much,” Goff told Campbell. “I’ve been trying to overcome certain things throughout the game, constantly thinking that this is the moment we’re gonna turn it around. I’m squeezing so hard trying to help us win, because we all want it so badly. I have to release that a little bit and just do my job, one play at a time. I’m just gonna do my job and not worry about the rest of it.”

Campbell stared back at his quarterback and smiled. “Jared,” he said, “that’s all I’ve wanted you to do this whole time.”

It was a mental shift that helped Goff manage the emotions he’d experienced since being traded to the Lions after the 2020 season, a move that blindsided him and crushed his confidence. The conversation fortified his bond with Campbell and laid the groundwork for a connection with a famished fan base that would come to view his redemption story as its own. Long before Goff became an MVP candidate and the Lions (10-1), who host the Chicago Bears on Thanksgiving, became the betting favorite to win Super Bowl LIX and inspired an iconic chant, the embattled quarterback unlocked the mystery in the nick of time.

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“It’s like you squeeze so hard, and the actual answer is to release,” Goff explained last week while sitting in an upstairs room of his Bloomfield Hills, Mich., home, which doubles as a film-watching sanctuary and memorabilia alcove. “Everyone wanted to fire Dan, fire (general manager Brad Holmes) and bench me. If we’d kept losing, of course they would. (But) it’s funny — you do your job one play at a time, and a little momentum starts to build. You do it 10 plays in a row, then 15, then 20, and the other 10 on offense are doing their job, and good things start to happen.

“It’s ironic that when you try to do less, more happens.”

Goff is a rock star in the Motor City, a pinpoint passer in the midst of a career year for a team laying waste to its opponents. He may have walked into Campbell’s office with trepidation that day 25 months ago, but he emerged with a bounce in his step that has morphed into a strut.

The day after that fateful meeting, Lions owner Sheila Ford Hamp showed up at practice, spoke to reporters and gave Campbell and Holmes a vote of confidence. Four days later, Goff threw for 321 yards in a 31-27 defeat to the Miami Dolphins. And then, somewhat abruptly, the plot shifted and the losing stopped. The Lions are 32-9 since, a tally that includes their first two postseason victories since Jan. 5, 1992, and Goff’s job security rivals Red Bull driver Max Verstappen’s.

In May, the Lions signed Goff to a four-year, $212 million contract extension, with $170 million guaranteed. In late November, Goff is armed with eye-popping numbers that serve as a sharp rebuttal to any remaining doubters. His 109.9 passer rating is the league’s second best, as is his 72.9 percent completion percentage. He’s averaging an NFL-high 9.02 yards per attempt, and he’s part of an MVP conversation that includes fellow quarterbacks Lamar Jackson and Josh Allen and running backs Saquon Barkley and Derrick Henry.

“Jared Goff is operating with as much command and poise as any quarterback in the league,” said San Francisco 49ers assistant head coach/defense Brandon Staley, who was the Rams’ defensive coordinator during Goff’s final season with the team. “They’re putting a lot on his plate pre-snap, and they’re using his experience and knowledge to get into premier plays almost every snap. The timing and ball distribution has been elite all year long. His swagger, unselfishness, and toughness are leading that football team.”

Indianapolis Colts defensive coordinator Gus Bradley, whose team suffered a 24-6 defeat to the Lions on Sunday, views Goff’s success as a direct result of his comfort with Detroit’s offensive scheme: “He has the answers. He knows what he’s looking for. They know how to attack. He and his coaches just see it the same way.”

“He has taken efficiency to a whole new level,” added Atlanta Falcons head coach Raheem Morris.

Since being drafted first overall by the Rams in 2016, the former Cal star has relied upon elite accuracy, a quick release and a penchant for remaining cool under fire. What’s different now, as Staley and Bradley suggest, is Goff’s mental grasp of the position, which deepened when Ben Johnson took over as the Lions’ offensive coordinator after the 2021 season.

“I like to say it’s as much his offense as mine,” said Johnson, who has turned down head coaching opportunities in each of the past two cycles. “It’s really based on what Jared does well, what he felt most comfortable with. And we’ve tried the last two and a half years to challenge him and push him outside his comfort zone.”

Campbell noticed an appreciable difference in his quarterback this past offseason. “When he came in,” Campbell said, “you could tell there was a different feel — like, he wanted to have even more ownership in the offense and to take it to a different level. So now the offense is evolving because of his ability to process and see it.”

Jared Goff’s ownership and understanding of the Lions offense has grown exponentially under offensive coordinator Ben Johnson. (Ryan Kang / Getty Images)

Last month, Johnson told Goff that he’s “now asking these PhD-level questions over the course of the week” that the quarterback hadn’t broached previously. “The game’s slowing down for him, too,” Johnson said. “He can recognize coverages right off the bat. He’ll say during the week, ‘Hey, I know we think that they’re doing Cover 2 in this situation, but if they go man, where do you want me to go with the ball?’ Or, ‘I know it’s not a Cover 0 team, but we’re in this exotic formation, and if they do it versus this and I see it, what do you want me to get to?’”

Two Sundays ago, in the third quarter of the Lions’ 52-6 thrashing of the Jacksonville Jaguars, Goff, en route to a 412-yard passing performance, threw a 5-yard touchdown to tight end Brock Wright that particularly stood out to Johnson. The plan was to deliver a backside throw to wide receiver Tim Patrick, who was lined up to the right of the formation. Goff started by looking left, attempting to get Jags safety Darnell Savage to drift toward Wright, who was running to the far left corner of the end zone. When Goff looked back to his right, he noticed Savage had instead moved to his left toward Patrick — as if the Jags knew exactly what the Lions were planning. Rather than proceeding to his third read, Goff alertly turned back to his left and found Wright, abandoned by Savage, wide open for the easy TD.

“It’s just an example of where he is now,” Johnson said. “It wasn’t like that when he first got here.”

Brock on 🤘#JAXvsDET | 📺 CBS pic.twitter.com/9M4hdMMovV
— Detroit Lions (@Lions) November 17, 2024

Goff’s commitment to intensive film study makes sense, given his physical limitations. Unlike peers such as Jackson, Allen and Patrick Mahomes, Goff can’t rely on his athleticism to get him out of jams and make off-schedule plays. “You do have to find different ways to win in the pocket because you aren’t as fleet of foot,” Goff said. “I have to play disciplined. And the work that I have to do from Monday through Friday, I feel like has to be more. That’s where I feel like I’m able to get my edge, whereas other guys have their athletic ability as their edge.”

There’s another reason Goff is so intent on trying to master his craft: He’s aware of his reputation, and still a bit sensitive about the prevailing perception that McVay, known for his schematic acumen, discarded him because the coach needed an upgrade in that department. It’s a narrative that began in 2017 when it became clear that McVay, then the youngest coach in modern NFL history, was giving his second-year quarterback cues via the in-helmet communications system as Goff waited to receive the snap. It intensified after Goff’s poor performance in L.A.’s 13-3 defeat to the New England Patriots in Super Bowl LIII.

Because McVay had become the brightest young star in his profession — the joke in league circles was that even his acquaintances were getting head-coaching interviews — it was easy to conclude that Goff wasn’t good enough to bring the coach’s brainy schemes to life. The Rams’ decision to deal him just weeks after he’d come off the bench to win a road playoff game with a broken right thumb seemed abrupt and suggested that there were deep-seated reasons for McVay’s dissatisfaction.

“Everyone externally just assumed that I suck,” Goff said, “because why else would this be happening? People thought, ‘He’s done. He’s damaged goods. His story is over. His career will end in this way. This will be the end of the road.’”

Most of the NFL world, including Rams coach Sean McVay, seemed to think Jared Goff was “damaged goods” by the end of his time in L.A. (Abbie Parr / Getty Images)

The trade hit Goff like an earthquake. The Rams, who’d signed the quarterback to a massive contract extension only 17 months earlier, were so desperate to get out of that deal and land Stafford that they included two first-round draft picks and a third-round selection. Goff got the news while hanging out at his Hidden Hills, Calif., home on a Saturday night in late January, via a phone call from McVay — who was in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, celebrating the deal in real time with Stafford and then-Rams left tackle Andrew Whitworth, one of Goff’s closest friends on the team.

The news broke instantly, before Holmes, the Lions’ newly hired GM, could get ahold of his new quarterback. Eventually, Goff took phone calls from Holmes — who’d been the Rams’ director of college scouting when he was drafted — and Campbell, both of whom were still at the Lions’ facility as midnight approached.

At first, Goff seemed shellshocked, but when he heard the excitement in Holmes’ and Campbell’s voices, he became fired up and defiant. The next morning, he told me, “I’m just excited to be somewhere that I know wants me and appreciates me.” His phrasing was intentional. McVay’s reproach over the past two seasons had beaten him down, and this was a stark juxtaposition.

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Most of the football world viewed him as a declining quarterback who’d be a stopgap starter — at best — for the Lions, but Holmes and Campbell saw things differently. “Everybody created that monster and that was never the case with us,” said Holmes, who called it a “lazy narrative.” Goff, who’d gone 1-11 as a true freshman starter for Cal in 2013, viewed it as a chance to do something epic.

“The opportunity that I have to be at the ground floor of something is something that most guys don’t get in their career,” he recalled thinking. “You can either see it as something that’s happened to you or something that’s happening for you.”

The turnaround didn’t happen quickly — and Goff’s self-esteem suffered along the way. “It felt like he got traded here to never be talked about again,” said Goff’s wife, Christen, who was his girlfriend at the time. The model and actress relocated from L.A. to Detroit after the trade and had an up-close-and-personal view of the struggle. In 2021, the Lions didn’t win their first game until December, beginning with an 0-10-1 stretch that included a 28-19 road defeat to the Rams.

In February, a week before Stafford and the Rams would defeat the Cincinnati Bengals in Super Bowl LVI at SoFi Stadium, I visited Goff at his Hidden Hills home, and he did his best to put a positive spin on the situation. “We all run our own race, whatever that may be,” he told me then, expressing excitement at the prospect of working with Johnson as his coordinator. “It’s part of the journey, and this year obviously was a tough experience. My time will come, whenever that may be, to get another crack at it, and in order to get there, there’s a lot of work that needs to be done.”

So Goff did the work — schematically and psychically. He felt stung by the way his Rams tenure ended and experienced conflicting emotions as they won a Super Bowl without him, but he refused to let bitterness be his driving force.

“It’s not vindictive for me,” he insisted. “And I think that was a big part of the journey, that it couldn’t be. Because that’s not enough. That’s not enough to motivate you to get through the hard times. It was never that. … It truly became, how can I help this team and help this city and be a part of this rebuild and do everything I could for Dan and for this coaching staff?”

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Even as the losses mounted, and Goff sensed he might be out of time, Campbell and Holmes never wavered in their support. Both men had long admired Goff’s mental and physical toughness. As things turned around in 2022, Goff’s grit and refusal to fold began to resonate with a fan base conditioned to wallow in enduring misery. The Lions rallied to make a late playoff push but were eliminated on the final night of the regular season — when the Rams lost to the Seattle Seahawks in overtime. Goff got the news during pregame warmups at Lambeau Field, where the Lions’ NFC North rivals, the Green Bay Packers, still faced a win-and-in scenario. Intent on spoiling the Packers’ party, Goff and his teammates earned a 20-16 victory that ended an era for another former Cal quarterback: It was four-time MVP Aaron Rodgers’ final game with the franchise.

It took 12 games before Dan Campbell and Jared Goff celebrated their first win together, but the Lions never wavered in their support for their QB. (Rey Del Rio / Getty Images)

Last season, as the Lions closed in on their first division title and home playoff game in 30 years, it became clear that Goff might have to confront his demons in a conspicuous setting. Sure enough, as if the bracket were drawn up by screenwriters, the third-seeded Lions hosted the sixth-seeded Rams in a first-round playoff game at Ford Field. If Detroit was going to break an NFL-record nine-game postseason losing streak, Goff would have to get past McVay and Stafford.

In the lead-up to the game, Goff tried hard not to make the story about him. As it turned out, tens of thousands of empathic observers would adopt a different approach.

When Goff entered the tunnel to take the field for pregame warmups 50 minutes before kickoff, his image was projected onto the stadium’s video screens. Spontaneously, fans began chanting his name, increasing the volume minutes later when Stafford, who’d spent 12 years as Detroit’s starter, took the field. It was an acknowledgment of the stakes, of Goff’s difficult journey and of a region’s unmitigated embrace of a player who’d won the respect of the paying public.

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“That’s what it felt like,” Goff recalled. “It was very surreal. I was like, ‘Holy s—; this is incredible.’ … They knew I was dumped by this team. They knew that basically (the Rams) said I wasn’t good enough. And they were saying, ‘No, you’re our guy. You are good enough for us. Let’s go win it.’”

Said Christen Goff: “That was so incredible. Everybody here got it. It’s not like they’re cheering his name because they are obsessed with him and they think he’s just everything. It’s because every single one of those people have been him before, or they just get that story, and it resonates with them. … It didn’t feel like fans; it felt like family.”

On the sideline, Goff sidled up to Johnson and told the coordinator, “Dude, I feel great! Let’s go!”

“Yeah,” Johnson answered, “I’d be feeling pretty good if the whole stadium was chanting my name, too.”

Goff delivered, sealing the Lions’ 24-23 victory with an 11-yard pass to star receiver Amon-Ra St. Brown just after the two-minute warning — a typically bold Campbell second-down call — and the chants got even louder. When he reached the locker room, his teammates were joyfully mimicking the “Jared Goff” mantra. He cherished the moment, believing it was a one-off.

Ja-red GOFF! Ja-red GOFF!#AllGrit pic.twitter.com/NGBoC8KRMN
— Detroit Lions (@Lions) January 15, 2024

“I thought that was the end of it,” Goff said. “But yeah, it’s taken on a life of its own.”

The chant resumed a week later at Ford Field as the Lions defeated the Tampa Bay Buccaneers to reach the NFC Championship Game. Soon after, it went viral, surfacing at a University of Michigan hockey game, a Grand Rapids Griffins hockey game and a high school cheerleading competition in eastern Michigan. The chant has since been busted out at Red Wings and Pistons games, at most Lions road games and at Green Day and Creed concerts.

“Now it’s just a fun thing that everybody’s doing when they’re drunk at a bar, which is honestly just as amazing,” Christen Goff said. “I’ve seen it everywhere. People send me videos; I think somebody got married in Italy and a chant broke out. Now I think it’s Michigan’s inside joke.”

Campbell’s wife, Holly, doesn’t see the phenomenon ceasing anytime soon: “I think 50 years from now, Jared Goff chants will still be happening. I think it’s just a thing now. And it’s beautiful, because it is about the underdog fighting adversity and coming out on top.”

Jared Goff has come to be the perfect representation of Detroit. (Cooper Neill / Getty Images)

Last January, it appeared that Goff’s amazing journey would land him back on the sport’s grandest stage. The Bay Area native returned to his home region for the NFC Championship Game, and Detroit took a commanding, 24-7 halftime lead over the 49ers at Levi’s Stadium. A furious San Francisco comeback dashed that dream — or, quite possibly, delayed it.

The Lions have looked like a legitimate contender from the jump in 2024, and Goff has continued to slay ghosts and smash narratives. In the season opener, he beat the Rams again at Ford Field. In early November, Goff — who as a Golden Bears freshman was pulled from a game at Oregon because he couldn’t throw in a driving rainstorm — completed his first 11 passes, and 18 of 22 overall, in similarly wet conditions in Green Bay.

The following week, in a Sunday night road clash with the Houston Texans, Goff threw five interceptions — more than half his current total for the entire season. Yet the Lions, trailing 23-7 at halftime, rallied to win, 26-23, on Jake Bates’ 52-yard field goal as time expired. Afterward, in the visitors’ locker room, Goff channeled another California native, Kendrick Lamar, and essentially dropped a “Not Like Us” remix while addressing his teammates: “If that ain’t a f—ing lesson that it ain’t over until it’s over, that’s what it is, boys. Way to fight all day. We’re f—ing different. We’re f—ing different than all 31 in this league.”

We found a way pic.twitter.com/lzSSpJVMfM
— Detroit Lions (@Lions) November 11, 2024

Later, Goff harkened back to the trying times he, many of his teammates and their coaches have experienced together, and the resolve it fostered.

“Yeah, we are (different),” Goff said, leaning forward in the chair where he sits during his marathon film-study sessions at home. “There aren’t many teams who can go through that and win, on the road, on ‘Sunday Night Football,’ with five turnovers — the whole thing. It took everyone to win that game.

“There are no other teams like us. You can’t replicate it unless you go through what we’ve been through. Which is not fun. And most people don’t survive. And most head coaches don’t stand firm with it — and stand in the s—, and stand in the mud, and take all the criticism.”

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Goff’s voice rose as he continued.

“I think there were moments where Dan could have turned his back on me,” the quarterback said. “He was the head coach on a team that was 0-10-1, and then at the end of the season we were 3-13-1. Could’ve done it then; could’ve done it in the middle of that first season; could’ve done it the next year when we were 1-6 to start. And he never did. And I’m thankful for that. ‘Cause you see it all over the league, where somebody’s head’s got to fall. They were calling for his head. They were calling for Brad’s head. They were calling for my head. And Dan just held the line and said, ‘No, I believe in what we’re doing here, I believe in Jared, I believe in what we have going on, and he’s our guy.’ And here we are.”

As he continues his unlikely comeback story, Goff is exactly where he wants to be, in a place that appreciates every bit of adversity he has overcome. His name may be chanted all over the world, but the 30-year-old quarterback belongs to Detroit and its appreciative fans, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

“I think they relate to the journey a lot,” Goff said. “Especially the last four years of everyone telling you you’re not good enough, and you kind of turning away from that and saying, ‘Hey, watch me. Let’s see. Let’s see what happens.’ And that motivates me. But I’m not motivated by that as much as I am motivated by wanting to win for this city.”

(Top photo: Cooper Neill / Getty Images)

Culture

The 2024 Baseball Trivia Extravaganza: Take our mega quiz to test yourself!

Published

1 day ago

December 25, 2024

Press Room

The 2024 Baseball Trivia Extravaganza: Take our mega quiz to test yourself!

When last we saw a Major League Baseball game, the Los Angeles Dodgers were celebrating a World Series title at Yankee Stadium. If you’re a trivia lover like me, you might have noticed a historical oddity: The Dodgers have now clinched a championship at three different versions of Yankee Stadium — the original (in 1955), the renovated original (in 1981) and the current one (in 2024).

Yet how many times have the Dodgers clinched on their home field? Just once, in 1963 — also against the Yankees, naturally.

Those kinds of connections are everywhere in this wonderfully zany sport. To score well on our annual holiday Trivia Extravaganza, it’s best to keep them in mind. Good luck with the nifty fifty questions for 2024, my baseball friends. You may need it.

(For the best results on mobile, you may want to take the quiz directly at this link.)

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(Top illustration: Will Tullos / The Athletic; Luke Hales, Nick Cammett, Mark Cunningham / Getty Images)