My Interview With Venus Williams

So I'm a journalist. Or at least I pretend to be. The type of writing I like doing is of the investigative type: investigating the personality of a person. I find the most interesting parts of people tend not to be about their stats, accolades or feats, but instead of how they laugh, how they interpret life, how they react to what I'm saying. Those are the moments I live for, the meats to the bones of my writing.

A little more than three weeks ago I got to interview Venus Williams. The mega-star athlete is, not surprisingly, a South Florida resident, Palm Beach Gardens to be specific. I absolutely love tennis, and I've followed her ever since she was a beaded-hair teen blazing onto the scene. Needless to say, I was pretty pumped for the interview.

I got 20 minutes, all on the phone, with her publicist hanging to every word of the conversation.

People ask me how the interview was. I'm truthful. It was OK. Venus was nice, succinct with her answers, exactly how she is on TV. She laughs a lot; she jokes, too. Without giving away too much away of the interview, she gives off the impression that she doesn't take herself too seriously and wants to be relatable.

When I tell people my interview with her was OK, the reaction is usually "That's it?! Just OK?" Yeah, I respond. In my head, I wonder all the time what I could have done differently to make the interview better. My boyfriend joked around that I should have asked more questions about little sister Serena. Not personally knowing Venus, I'm not sure I got the "real" Venus. Answers were, as I mentioned, succinct. There really was no elaborating nor strong character building. I've covered and watched tennis enough to know that the Venus Williams I got was the same Venus Williams that every other reporter gets. Even Bryant Gumbel when he interviewed her for his TV show "Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel."

Still, I've been kicking myself over what different questions I could have asked, what different interviewing techniques I could have employed. I teach young journalists all the time that they are conductors of their interviews and if it goes well, it's because of them. Conversely, if it goes poor, it's because of the interviewer as well. I teach these young'ins that it's their job to make the interview go smoothly and to get the subject to spill the beans. And now, I feel like such a hypocrite that I may have failed on my own advice.

My publisher keeps telling me "writing is thinking." Interviewing is thinking, too. The best interviewers make it look easy, effortless. For example, I'm really digging Tavis Smiley's interviewing skills these days. He asks such good questions and he does it in such a well-intentioned manner that's full of genuine interest. I've been fortunate to interview hundreds of people in my life (wow, I'm getting old!), and a couple dozen of those folks have been celebrities at or near Venus' stature. At times, interviewing really becomes second nature to me. It's like being an athlete: I heard that when Tiger Woods is "on" his golf game, the hole looks as big as a paint bucket. Same thing happens when you're interviewing someone -- questions and the delivery of them come with such ease and intrinsic interest. When I'm on, I'm on. I'm not going to say I was off when interviewing Venus (I'm too cocky to ever say I'm off), but I also can't say that I was on.

But in truth, after having more than three weeks to reflect, it's hard to pinpoint what I would have exactly changed. Maybe I should have demanded a face-to-face interview. Or requested the publicist get off the line. Either way, I didn't do any of that. And that's a lesson I'm going to insist I follow during my next interviews.

The Joy of (Not) Cooking

I just finished watching the movie "Julie & Julia." Decent movie, other than the fact the two lead female characters love to cook.

I'm not much of a cooker. It's a tad ironic as I'm a huge eater. I love over-buttered mashed potatoes as much as the next person; a perfectly crispy-top creme brulee is my best friend; and a week without bacon is a bad one in my book. Compound the irony with "Top Chef" being one of my favorite shows, and my disdain for cooking doesn't make much sense.

As I've lived by myself and grew as an adult, I've learned to cook. Basics food, yes; delicious, complicated meals, not so much. I've progressed from my college days of cooking boxed mashed potatoes to now adding fresh herbs to my hand-peeled and mashed petite red potatoes. But do I like to cook? Not really.

A few of my friends are self-proclaimed lovers of cooking. I've been lucky that two of my roommates were in that category. In my final year of college, my then-roommate was patient enough to teach me a few things. His mother was a magnificent cook, opening up her own restaurant in Jacksonville, Fla. If out of sheer desperate circumstances the producers of the TV show "The Best Thing I Ever Ate" were to ask me about the best thing I ever ate, I'd say it was his mom's vegetable sandwich, hands down. Being the benefactor of her son's talent suited me just fine. After he witnessed me adding dry pasta to a room-temperature pot of water, he knew he'd had to start at the rudimentary level with me.

He taught me the "secret" to a well-cooked salmon was to sear it first and then put it in the oven. He even taught me the basics of coffee making. With travels in Italy and France under my belt, if there's one thing I really appreciate, it's a really, really well-brewed cup of coffee. He taught me how to use a French press, aka, the only way to brew coffee. He taught me how to buy good beans, how to simply know if your espresso-to-boiled-water ratio was just right by solely looking at the color of the mixture. He even showed me how adding orange peels to a French-pressed coffee could totally give it a beautiful kick of flavor.

And my last roommate I owe a lot to as well. Without him, I'd be at the drive-thru window of the nearby Boston Market most every night of the week. After part-time stints in the restaurant business during his high school and college days, he accumulated a lot of cooking knowledge. Beyond that, he really, really, really loved to cook. Even if he'd a had a long day at work (he was a general contractor in which long days can get longer when on a job site), he'd somehow be able to whip out a three-course meal that night.

I wonder if I'll ever get to that point. I would love to be like my mom when I become a mother -- work a long day and still be able to prepare a delicious meal for the kids. My mom is one of the best cooks I know. Her food is fantastic, always fresh and completely varied. No meal is ever the same. I'm no traditionalist, but I would see myself a disappointment if, as a woman and mother, I couldn't cook a good meal every night for my family.

I'm not sure why I don't enjoy cooking. I've analyzed the possibilities, but I'm not sure any are easily remedied. I don't particularly enjoy the labor that goes into cooking a meal. For example, I really don't like peeling and chopping onions or peeling and dicing garlic. Perhaps it's those are monotonous tasks don't engage me. Nor do I really like the exact science of heating and physically cooking things. I wish heating a piece of protein had more of a grace period or forgiving nature to it; if it did, a lot more of my food would appear less over- or undercooked. They might actually be edible.

Perhaps I don't like cooking for a very simple reason: I'm just not good at it. It makes sense. I mean, I don't like swimming because I'm no good at it, I don't like playing "Call of Duty" online because I can barely hit a target, and maybe -- just maybe -- I don't like cooking because I'm pretty awful at it.

I'm proud to say I've mastered a pretty capable beef bourguignon this year, and it's become a staple at dinner parties (yes, more irony as I've hosted a few dinner parties where I've contributed a dishes of my own). With the right tools and quality ingredients, my mashed potatoes are second to none. But a cook I am? Still, the answer is no.

People tell me that I shouldn't fret, that cooking -- good cooking -- will come as a necessity, if for no other reason. They tell me I'll learn to love cooking and that I will cook many a meals for my children and family. Maybe it's like gardening. I think it's pretty unexciting to garden, but maybe it'll grow on me. Just like cooking will.

The Best Ever Christmas Song

The best Christmas song ever: Stevie Wonder's "What Christmas Means to Me"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ga-qd5FYUjA

Kids These Days Part III

Some time ago I wrote a lil' blog entry about kids these days. In fact, I'm pretty sure that was the title of the blog: Kids These Days.

Anyhoos, the blog wasn't affectionately slanted toward the youths (or yuths, as Joe Pesci would say). I wrote it as we were looking to replace our former associate editor, and in our search, we found some folks who I felt did not exude the general respect and politeness I was accustomed to when I grew up.

Well, I'm slowly changing the way I see these yuths. I recently visited two college classrooms to discuss life in the real world. I was asked to give the students some tips to approaching an interview as well as answer any questions they might have. And so happy I was after meeting these students.

The first class was at FAU, a Women, Business and Power course. (The "power" part really trips me up as I really don't know if I'm the right person to talk about it.) Anyhoos, there were about 30 or so students in it, and my focus was to discuss how, as a woman, I've managed to work my way through the publishing field. I'm really not sure if I helped the students out too much; in fact, I may have actually devolved their knowledge base. Nonetheless, from my perspective, I was immensely impressed with each question the students asked. They really wanted to know what life was like on the other side of college.

Someone asked what my thoughts on tattoos were, if someone walked into a job interview covered in tats. My response? I could care less. That is, unless the tattoo was of a swastika.

The next class I spoke with was at the Art Institute of Fort Lauderdale, a public relations and fashion merchandising class. Again, another good class with several students really interested in propelling forward in their careers.

I can't say everyone was an angel during my visit -- yes, I did see some texting in the middle of the talk -- but I guess I can rest assured the world is preparing these students pretty well. Kids these days aren't that bad, huh?

Mama

So I saw mama this weekend (and daddy, too, but this blog will be about mama). Like a lot of human beings, she's far from perfect -- she's too short (and actually shrinking... I think she lost about 4 inches of height within the last three years), snores every once in a while, and has a funny blemish on the back of her left knee. But if I had my way with life, I would absolutely love to be just like her. Seeing her during the Thanksgiving break kind of just solidified my life goal to be like her.

My friends and I talk about how funny life is, how we girls somehow eventually start becoming our own mothers. If any of that were true, then I'd be a very lucky person. You see, my mom's pretty awesome. Like, ridiculously awesome. And being even an ounce like her would be considered a success for me. Writing about how amazing she is would take me a couple lifetimes, so here's my Cliffs Notes version of it.

She puts up with us. All of us in the Do family. I've been told parenting is defined as putting up with shit and not getting paid to do so. I guess that's what every parent does, so my mom's not that much different. But because she's my mama, I kinda am a little partial. None of us Do's -- of the parental or child variety -- are very easy to deal with. We all have a little chink (some a heck of a lot bigger than others) that somehow builds into a major attitude problem. And guess who had to deal with it the entire time? Mama. She dealt with all our blow-ups, all our negativity (many directly unjustly right at her), and she's even been the brunt of a lot of our jokes (ugh... I'm soooo not proud of any of that). And she's put up with us. What a saint.

She's sacrificed her happiness for her family. I can point out a billion examples. There's the minute ones -- like, cooking the family chicken for dinner when she'd prefer to eat pork -- and then there's the big ones. I remember one time when I was in high school my mom got a great chance to go with some friends to China. She really wanted to go. I remember how excited she was when her friends mentioned it. But upon thinking, she said no. I can't remember her exact words that reasoned why she declined, but knowing my mom, she didn't feel comfortable leaving her family for more than a week, didn't feel comfortable spending all that money that could have been put toward the family. We don't talk about it much (actually, I don't remember having much of a conversation with her about it at all), but I remember seeing a moment of sadness on her face the day she told us she decided not to go.

She's sooooo nice. Like, really nice. When she likes you, all she sees is a really great person. She can't stop talking about how great you are. Someone could say something negative, but she finds a way to spin it into a good thing. Like, their neighbor's little terrier Maggie. They dog-sat Maggie once and apparently she had a few accidents around the house. My mom's response (and mind you, my mom's a neat-freak)? "It's OK... She at least went on the tile and not the rug."

People have asked me what I'd do if I ever won the lottery. The first thing I always say is, "I'd make sure my parents are taken care of first." Again, I guess that's what most people would say. But I really do mean it. That's my mama, and I'd do anything to take care of her.

Who's Afraid of Ronnie Brown?

Seems like I've interviewed a lot of former Auburn running backs these days. Here's another one of my favorite pieces. This time it's about Ronnie Brown of the Miami Dolphins. Printed in January 2009, I still remember how grueling it was getting the answers out of this shy, reserved guy.

One of my favorite parts of the article is the opening spread. We actually won an award for the for the headline and subhead. The awesome photo was taken by Jason Nuttle, and without it, I really don't think the piece would have worked so well.

Who's Afraid of Ronnie Brown?

By Nila Do

"Hi, my name's Ronnie Brown," the Dolphins running back says with a warm smile, introducing himself with a handshake.

As he enters the offices of the soon-to-open Broward Bank of Commerce in downtown Fort Lauderdale, where he’s a board member, the 6-foot Brown glides into the room nearly unnoticed. A little surprising for one of the NFL’s most explosive offensive threats.

Dressed in a crisp periwinkle blue dress shirt with understated Louis Vuitton cuff links and black pinstripe pants, Brown arrives early for the bank’s board of directors meeting. He has no entourage with him, no publicist and certainly no ego. He arrives empty-handed and greets everyone in the room, individually, no less.

Scheduled to open in January, the Broward Bank of Commerce’s current décor gives suitable insight to its most famous board member. The design is simple, masculine and rather quiet, much like Mr. Brown himself.

The second overall pick of the 2005 NFL draft, the 27-year-old Brown has become a household name in most every South Florida home. But to some, Brown is the quintessential sports star who doesn’t see himself as a quintessential star. While some players with multi-million-dollar salaries flaunt it both on and off the field, Brown considers himself just another Dolphins player who’s still working to help his team get over a nasty hump of a 1-15 season.

In street clothes, the 232-pound running back looks rather unintimidating. From the neck down, Brown appears the part of a professional athlete – a solid, compact body that’s ready to take a hit, and ready to hit. But from the neck up, Brown’s a big little boy with a sincere smile to go along with his baby-face countenance. While opposing teams spy on Brown’s every moment before the ball’s snapped, off the field poses a stark contrast for Brown where he’s unassuming, hardly garnering attention or much more than a glance.

And thank goodness, because he wouldn’t want it any other way.

A self-described homebody, Brown has an easy way. In contrast to certain teammates (ahem, Mr. Joey Porter), the fourth-year running back is barely audible when he speaks, sometimes shading his mouth while resting his hand near his jaw line. His anti-loquacious demeanor makes assignments nightmarish for Dolphins beat reporters (“He’s not our go-to quotes guy,” Sun-Sentinel reporter Harvey Fialkov declares). He’s polite, holds the door open for others, and wants nothing more than to give a kid an opportunity to better his or her life.

So, it begs the question: Who’s afraid of Ronnie Brown?

Ask his closest friends, and it’s doubtful you’ll get an answer. Ask his tight-knit family, and chances are they’re baffled for a response. Ask any South Florida reporter, and they’ll tell you he’s never once brushed them off.

“You think of football players as fierce and fired up, and Ronnie’s always laid back and always smiling,” says Fialkov, who’s been covering the Dolphins for about 20 years. “Pretty much what you see is what you get. He’s very calm, he’s never angry. He never gets really down when the team has lost, never really up when they’ve won.”

But don’t let his good nature be mistaken for anything except that – good nature. Fialkov says, “At first impression, hard-nose coaches don’t like his personality because he’s not as vocal, but then he shows them how hard he gives it in practice. He grows on them with his work ethic and talent.

“The way he came back from his knee injury shows how fierce he is,” Fialkov continues, referring to last year’s torn ACL Brown suffered in week 7. “That injury can sideline someone for a year, and he came back within eight months and is doing a great job this season.”

Blessed with the strength of a fullback and the speed of a sprinter, Brown no doubt incites a bit of fear in undersized secondaries, bowling over them like a bull tossing aside an inept matador (ask New England cornerback Ellis Hobbs, who Brown repeatedly trucked in week 3). To date, he’s rushed for nearly 4,000 yards, has 23 touchdowns, has more than 1,000 receiving yards, and the lefty even threw a 19-yard TD pass this year. (And, there’s no doubt the numbers would be significantly higher had he not missed games due to injuries in 2007 and 2008.) His combination of size, speed and football intelligence has created match-up problems throughout his entire football career, making the answer to the above question more rhetorical than anything else.

On this Tuesday, like most every Tuesday (the players’ day off), Brown just wants to relax. He anticipates a quick board meeting, a good thing as he wants to recover from the pounding he received on Sunday. Developed to serve the needs of small to mid-size business, professional, executives and real estate investors, the Broward Bank of Commerce opened under the auspices of banking veterans Keith Costello, Mark P. Snelling and Kim M. Scarlett. Brown was recruited to the bank by its chairman Dr. D. Arnold Tillman, who is from Brown’s hometown in Georgia.

His parents are in town, as they usually are during football season. Born and raised in Cartersville, Ga. (but born in a hospital in Rome, Ga., he clarifies), Brown can attribute his laid-back ways to the small town’s family-oriented and humble lifestyle. With a sub-25,000 population, Brown says, “somehow everyone knew each other and supported each other.” The youngest of three children, Brown excelled at each sport he played, always rubbing it in whenever he’d beat his older brother Kevin, seven years Brown’s senior. With cousins and close friends constantly available for pick-up games, it was rare for Brown to not have an athletic apparatus of some type in his hands.

Cartersville High School was a popular spot during Friday nights in the fall. The town came out to support the Purple Hurricanes, where young Ronnie Brown starred as running back and even pulled a stint at free safety. A two-sport athlete, Brown was drafted by the Seattle Mariners in the fifth round of the 2000 MLB draft. Brown declined. He wanted to enjoy the college experience instead of working his way up through farm teams with slim expectations of making it to the MLB.

As he looks down at his hands, Brown says, “Growing up, there were some guys who were better than me, faster, stronger. Some guys were a lot faster on the football field and a lot better on the basketball courts. So, I never really accepted the fact that I was better.”

Huh? Wait, never accepted you were better? But aren’t you the one with the NFL contract? Please, do explain.

“It wasn’t until my sophomore season at Auburn when Cadillac [Williams] got hurt that I knew I was pretty good,” Brown says, referring to his former college teammate and current Tampa Bay Buccaneers running back. “I took most of the carries from then on, and I finished the game with two or three touchdowns. That’s when I knew.”

Up until college, Brown always wore the number 20. “It’s because my idol is Barry Sanders,” he explains, referring to the former Detroit Lions rushing phenom and one of history’s best tailbacks. “I looked up to him.”

When upperclassman kicker Damon Duval called dibs on that number, Brown picked another, um, rather famous two digits to wear: 23.

Still, Brown has developed a similar path to his football idol. Both on hard-working football teams whose record never showed it (while with Detroit, Sanders & Co. only once advanced to the NFC Championship), the two have been consistent bright spots in the team’s offense. And while Brown has a long way to go to eclipse his icon’s staggering 15,269 rushing yards and 109 touchdowns, Brown hopes to one-up Sanders by winning a Super Bowl title.

“That would be my dream,” he says, flashing that signature smile. “I’ve never thought about not being a football player, and winning the Super Bowl is every player’s dream.”

Brown remains close to his Auburn Tigers teammates, phoning Carnell “Cadillac” Williams on a weekly basis and hanging out with former roommate and current Washington Redskins quarterback Jason Campbell during the off season. And as his former teammates rack up their own stats with their respective teams, Brown doesn’t look to be overshadowed.

So how do you evaluate your play since you’ve turned pro, Ronnie?

“I feel like I’ve contributed, and I feel like I have a lot more to give,” he says plaintively. A typical Ronnie Brown response. An honest, concise answer that never veers on boastful. That’s just who he is.

A superstar in the making with the anti-NFL personality, Brown has stayed grounded, a refreshing notion in this world of Ocho-Cincos. To him, his job is no different than any other working-class American, say except for his face being blasted on every South Florida high-definition television set every fall Sunday. He seems to remain what he’s always been at the core: a big little kid. Known for his perennial dancing in the huddles, Brown’s the only grown man in the NFL who doesn’t mind when the jumbotron catches him shimmying between plays (“I like to keep things light in the huddle, not so serious,” he says). And while an appearance on “Dancing With the Stars” is not in Brown’s sight, perhaps a Pro-Bowl bid is.

He is the kinetic energy the Dolphins and its fans seem to feed off. Brown still has a long way to go to earn the respect and recognition afforded to names like Jim Brown, Emmitt Smith, Walter Payton and, yes, Barry Sanders (“I don’t think little kids in Minneapolis are wearing Ronnie Brown jerseys,” writer Fialkov jokes), but he intends to do so, with a smile.

“I’ve gotta go now,” Brown says, politely excusing himself. “I’m taking my mom and dad to the airport.”

Saint Heath

This is one of my favorite stories I've written so far in my career. It appeared in the March 2010 issue of Jupiter Magazine, right after Heath Evans' New Orlean Saints won the Super Bowl. He's is a great guy and one of the easiest people to interview. His story was also one of the easiest ones I've ever written. His wife and he have persevered through so much that telling their story and plight to end child sexual abuse became sort of my responsibility. Their story is below:

Saint Heath

By definition, NFL fullback Heath Evans’ role is to clear the path ahead. Little did he know, the hometown hero had to clear a personal path much greater than any obstacle the gridiron could offer.

The Saints’ training room erupts with laughter on this recent Friday afternoon. Snickers, chides and jokes are all directed at one man: fullback Heath Evans, the nine-year NFL veteran who’s rehabbing from a torn ACL and medial meniscus suffered in week seven. He just announced to teammates that he e-mailed producers of “The Real Housewives” reality TV show series, who were looking to cast down in the Big Easy, throwing his wife’s name into contention for the possible New Orleans cast.

“You wouldn’t be mad at your wife for being on TV?” someone asks.

“Man, I’ve got the most beautiful wife in the world,” Heath challenges. “There’s not an insecure bone in her body about how much I love her, nor in my body about her.”

But what his teammates might not know is at one point, insecurity did threaten Heath’s relationship with his wife Beth Ann. You see, Beth Ann Evans was molested when she was in the third grade.

And that changed everything.

* * *

After playing for the Seahawks, Dolphins and Patriots, it’s fitting Heath is now on a team called the Saints. A member of the Who Dat Nation and the Super Bowl-winning Saints, Heath undoubtedly lives up to the team’s moniker. A good-natured, quasi-Southern boy with an easy charm and affable personality, he’s approached his wife’s recovery from sexual abuse just like he would a linebacker – at full strength.

A 6-foot, 250-pound behemoth of a man, Heath grew up in West Palm Beach and was a two-time All-State tailback for the private school, The King’s Academy. Raised in what he describes as an “action Christianity” home where his family lived the Christian faith “out to the best of their ability,” Heath says he dreamed of playing in the NFL since he was 4. He left South Florida to enroll at Auburn University, becoming a featured back on Tommy Tuberville’s team. While at school, he met a pretty blonde from Alabama named Beth Ann.

“Heath and I officially met my senior year at my dad’s [automotive] business,” Beth Ann details in an e-mail. “Heath came in while I was working at the front desk, and he told me he was going to marry me. I laughed at him! He then asked my dad for permission to ask me on a date, which completely won over my entire family. Our first date was a Bible study at FCA [the Fellowship of Christian Athletes], and the rest is history.”

The two met on March 4, 2001, and by July 14, 2001, they were married. By all standards, Heath and Beth Ann were in the perfect marriage: two kind, generous, all-American lookers with huge aspirations, both as individuals and as a couple. But as their marriage progressed, they both knew something wasn’t right.

Heath remembers first hearing of Beth Ann’s painful experience during a car ride from Auburn to Florida to visit his parents while the two were still dating.

“She literally just said it so nonchalantly, just in passing: ‘You know I was sexually abused when I was a little girl, right?’” Heath recasts. “I remember leaning over to her and saying, ‘I’m so sorry, Beth.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I expressed my remorse for her, but I didn’t dive deeper. I had only known her about a month and a half at the time, and didn’t really want to hurt her or wound her worse.

“Call it my stupidity or call it naivety to the subject, but I never brought it up again. By the world’s standards, she was a 5’8 ½’’, 5’9’’ smoking hot, beautiful blond woman who was a 4.0 college student in marketing, wanted to go to law school as soon as she graduated, with the world by its tail. So visibly – even to the degree that she let me into her emotional world – I saw nothing.”

As the Evanses reveal, an emotional wall was built between the two. “The first couple of years were tough, it was emotionally trying. For me, I couldn’t do anything right,” Heath, 31, says. “I thought, ‘I don’t know how to touch her, I don’t know how to talk to her, I don’t know how to love her, I don’t know how to communicate with her,’ all these different things.”

Heath stayed by his wife’s side and did what he always does best: barrel through the massive roadblocks ahead to clear the path for Beth Ann. As a couple, they sought guidance and help from family members and church leaders, and Beth Ann later went to professional therapy. The couple found a Christian-based counselor who Beth Ann says gave her newfound hope. She began peeling off the two decades-plus of self-loathing and guardedness that made close relationships difficult for her to achieve. Slowly, very slowly, Beth Ann got better.

“I thought this was going to take decades to fix because, really, she had close to 20 years of ‘thinking-thinking,’” Heath says. “But I’m telling you, man, her progress really has so surpassed what I envisioned.”

Today, the Evanses – parents to 5-year-old Ava Grace and 3-year-old Naomi Reece – look to help others ease the pain and anguish of being sexually abused. In 2006, they set up the Heath Evans Foundation in Palm Beach County with the goal of bringing hope and healing to families and victims of sexual abuse by way of professional counseling and through programs and services to treat those at risk, free of charge. Staffed by two full-time administrative members and a dozen or so volunteers, the foundation has helped close to 80 families.

“Once we found that kind of the counseling care that Beth Ann needed and responded to… we said, ‘How can we keep this to ourselves? How can we, knowing that the statistics are one out of four young girls in this country before the age of 18 is going to be sexually abused, and one out of every six young boys?’” Heath says with a sense of agitation. “If those are the statistics we are battling, how can we afford to keep our mouths shut and say, ‘We got Beth Ann help, and that’s all that really matters’?”

To raise funds and awareness, the foundation holds two major events every year. In the summer, Heath holds his annual 7-on-7 high school football championship, one of the largest of its kind in the nation. Florida schools are invited to compete and also meet some of the biggest names in football. Past football celebrities include Randy Moss, Wes Welker and Zach Thomas. There, Heath also gets the chance to speak to the more than 400 youths, motivating them to be upstanding citizens.

The second event is the Softball Showdown. Born out of a running joke between Pro-Bowl wide receiver Randy Moss and members of the Palm Beach County SWAT team, the event pits athletes like Moss and Dolphins players Channing Crowder and Tony Fasano against the officers in a good ol’ fashion slugfest. The showdown takes place at Roger Dean Stadium, and, as Heath aptly puts it, takes “the game of softball to an all-new low.”

Last year, the foundation raised about $400,000, an amount that foundation president Glenn Martin says is a good start and one they can build upon.

Martin, who incidentally was Heath’s former teacher at The King’s Academy, says seeing the now-NFL star mature from a young student to a professional athlete and community activist has been exhilarating. At last year’s 7-on-7 championship, Martin remembers a mother and father of two young boys, both autistic and both victims of sexual abuse, walk up to Heath.

“The mother was literally hiding behind the father when they walked up to Heath,” Martin says. “They told him how their family was affected, and they just broke down in tears. Heath hugged both of them and said it was going to be OK. And, they believed him.”

For Heath – who stays in Palm Beach Gardens during the offseason – it’s just a way to give back to his hometown. As he puts it:

“We just want Palm Beach County to be saturated with the name Heath Evans; to know that there is a kid from our county who came back and gave back and wanted to protect the younger generation of Palm Beach County from pedophiles.

“Ten years down the road in this nation, when [people] hear of Heath Evans, I could care less if they think of the 10-, 12-, 14-year NFL veteran, whatever it ends up being when I retire. But if they say, ‘Oh, that’s where you go if your child is sexually abused,’ I will be the happiest man in the world.”

And as for Beth Ann, she’s come a long way from suffering the constant stomachaches that prevented her from going to school, developing close relationships and connecting with her husband in the early years of their marriage. Heath says some days are better than others. But that’s not enough for this Saint. No, he’ll keep marching on until all her days are better.

Weekend Warrior

Two significant things happened to me this weekend: 1) I cycled more than 8 miles. Continuously. 2) I met Dan Marino.

For the former, I had the inane idea that to get to this year's Fort Lauderdale Boast Show, my boyfriend and I should cycle the 8+ miles. The original thought was to avoid the craziness of finding parking and the hike-up parking costs. It sounded like such a great idea. It really did. But about 5 miles in, it really didn't sound that good of an idea. My poor fitness and endurance combined with a near cloudless sky kind of did me in.

The worst part about it all? I didn't factor in that we needed to trek the 8+ miles back home. Arg!

Anyhoos, the Boat Show was beyond extravagant. After bypassing the yachts, I decided the mega-yachts were the way to go. Right.

Check out the newest addition to my holiday wish list:

And yes, that is a waterslide on the yacht. I mentioned to my boyfriend that kids would love that amenity. His response? "Kids?! Shoot, I'd use that slide all the time."

For the second significant event, it involved my childhood football hero, Dan Marino. Growing up near Jacksonville, Fla., I watched the Dolphins every fall Sunday. It was before the Jacksonville Jaguars became an expansion team, and the Dolphins were the closet to us. My father, brothers and I (invariably my mom excused herself Sunday afternoons) were glued to the T.V. watching Marino lead the Dolphins. Not to get all profound or anything, but I'm not sure if I'd be such a big football fan without watching Marino throw to O.J. McDuffie every week or cheering the defensive play of Troy Vincent.

So when I actually got the chance to converse with Marino, well, it was pretty awesome. We were at the Fort Lauderdale Historical Society's Founder's Dinner honoring Wayne Huizenga this past Friday. Marino was one of the event's presenters. But before the program began, cocktail hour (ah, the omnipotent cocktail hour and open bar) was to be held. And, that's where I met Dan the Man.

My boyfriend and I were at the bar waiting to order a drink (we were maybe second or third in line). And then Dan Marino walks up. Er, saunters up. I've heard stories about Dan from friends and friends of friends. Unfortunately my childhood football idol was not seen in a favorable light to them (i.e., bullying his way through traffic lanes on U.S. 1, etc.). Still, I'd like to make up my own mind about people, and tonight I was getting the chance to finally do so.

After about 20 seconds of awkwardness knowing that Dan the Man was literally 1 inch away from us, my boyfriend broke the proverbial ice by saying, "Hi, I'm Josh," and extending his hand for a shake. Surprisingly, Dan the Man shook hands with us and was a complete gentleman. We conversed. Small talk, sure, but we conversed. I even asked #13 to QB my flag football team. And, he didn't say no! "I can throw, but don't count on my to do much running," he said. Awesome. Really awesome.

Final thoughts on Ireland

To wrap it up, Ireland is definitely not the place where my family comes from. Far from it. However, I wouldn't have been all that upset if they had.

To copy an Esquire column, here's what I've learned about Ireland:

1. Bring a coat. No matter the time of year. The strongest wind I ever saw was the wind from Ireland.

2. Go cycling. I went cycling in Galway and County Clare, and, to quote my cycle guide Noel, it was unlike any experience one could feel from the motorcoach. Your touch on the land is uninhibited. It's ridiculous how beautiful the terrain is. Mountains are reflecting off the water's top in absolute clarity.

3. The cycling ride is better when your guide looks like a cross between George Clooney and Owen Wilson.

4. The cycling ride is even better on high-end Cannondales. This Florida gal's not used to riding bikes on all these hills and inclines, so undoubtedly my quads appreciated the good steed.

5. Bring your camera. Everywhere. I forgot mine at key moments. And no, I'm still not over it.

I managed to get some more photos in, though. Enjoy!

Me at The Burrens

A sign at the Cliffs of Moher, a range that's 400 feet high and overlooks the Atlantic Ocean (and apparently the final destination of those who aren't very careful)... I was told some tourists fell over the cliffs last year when the wind picked them up. Don't know if it's true, but as the Irish say, "Never let the truth get in the way of a story."

Another sign at the Cliffs of Moher

The watchtower at the Cliffs of Moher

Me at the Cliffs of Moher

Ah! The sport of kings, falconry, comes alive at Dromoland Castle. Here, Dave Atkinson (who runs the School of Falconry) holds Limerick, a rescued peregrine.

Day 3 in Ireland: Fly fishing

The hotel I'm staying at, Ballynahich Castle, has a resident fishing instructor, or ghillie as the Scots call him. Cyril Baggins is his name, and fishing is his game.

For those who've never fly fished, it's a funny sport. I was told time and time again that "the rod and you are one," meaning the fishing rod should just be an extension of my arm. Well, I don't know about you, but it's odd thinking a 9-ft pole is an extension of my appendage. Unlike spin-casting, there's little to no use of your wrist. There's no bait, just a fly.

When done properly, casting is a very graceful action. I kept on awkwardly casting and casting my line on the river that's just outside the hotel. The salmon and trout were probably thinking, "What the heck is going on up there?"

Needless to say, I didn't catch anything. However, I felt a snag -- or at least that's the story I'm sticking with.

The fish were no match for me and my Wayfarers!

Mr. Baggins and me (and yes, he's trying to cover up his laughter at my awkward technique)

The river we fished in, Ballynahich River