intramuralist ™

Cam leaned back in his chair, fingers loosely wrapped around a mug, watching Jam pace the room like a man arguing with gravity itself.

“Alright,” Cam said gently, “start from the beginning. What exactly is bothering you?”

Jam stopped, turned sharply. “It shouldn’t exist.”

Cam nodded. “That’s a strong position. Why?”

“Because it’s unnecessary and dangerous. That should be enough.”

“Dangerous for everyone? Or for some people?”

Jam groaned. “The ‘some people’ argument. Predictable.”

“I just want to understand,” Cam said.

“My reasoning is simple. If something poses serious risk to even part of the population, why keep it? Why celebrate it?”

Cam took a sip. “We keep a lot of things that aren’t safe for everyone.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It’s avoidable,” Jam snapped. “We don’t need it. It’s optional.”

“Optional things can still have value.”

“Value?” Jam laughed. “You’re calling it valuable?”

“To some people, yes. It brings enjoyment.”

“It’s a hazard disguised as a treat.”

Cam leaned forward. “Do you think people who enjoy it are careless? Or unaware?”

“Both. Careless at best, selfish at worst.”

“That’s harsh.”

“It’s accurate.”

“Do you think they intend harm?”

“Intent doesn’t matter if the outcome’s the same.”

“It can matter,” Cam said. “It shapes how we respond.”

Jam waved it off. “If someone supports something dangerous, they’re the problem.”

“What if they don’t see it that way?”

“Then they’re not paying attention.”

“Or they’ve had different experiences.”

“Different experiences don’t change facts.”

“Sometimes they change how we interpret them.”

Jam stared. “You’re really defending this.”

“I’m trying to understand both sides.”

“Well, you’re failing to agree with me.”

“Understanding isn’t agreement.”

Jam groaned. “Convenient. You stay calm while others deal with consequences.”

Cam’s tone softened. “This sounds personal.”

Jam hesitated. “It is. I’ve seen what it can do.”

“I’m sorry,” Cam said quietly.

A brief silence.

“So your solution,” Cam continued, “is to eliminate it entirely?”

“Yes. No exceptions.”

“Even for people who can use it safely?”

“Why should their convenience outweigh someone else’s safety?”

“That’s fair,” Cam said. “But is it only convenience?”

Jam threw up his hands. “You keep romanticizing it.”

“I think small pleasures matter to people.”

Jam muttered, “Unbelievable.”

“Do you think removing it solves everything?” Cam asked.

“Yes.”

“What about education? Labels?”

“That puts the burden on the vulnerable,” Jam shot back. “Why should they always be on guard?”

“Removing it puts the burden on everyone else.”

“Good. Maybe then they’d understand.”

Cam raised an eyebrow. “You want people to lose something to build empathy?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Or it just frustrates everyone.”

Jam paused.

“You’re passionate,” Cam said. “But do you think how you’re saying this helps people hear you?”

“They don’t deserve to be coddled.”

“I’m talking about connection.”

Jam scoffed, softer now.

“If people feel attacked,” Cam continued, “they defend instead of listen.”

“So I’m supposed to be nice?”

“Respectful. Curious.”

Jam frowned. “They’re dismissive.”

“Some are. Meeting that with hostility escalates things.”

Jam paced again, slower.

“You might be right about the risks,” Cam added. “But if people tune you out, the argument goes nowhere.”

Jam stopped. “So I’m sabotaging myself.”

“A little,” Cam said.

Jam exhaled. “That’s… irritatingly possible.”

Cam chuckled.

“And I still think it’s ridiculous people are so attached to it.”

Cam grinned. “You mean peanut butter?”

Jam froze.

“…You knew?”

“I had a suspicion.”

Jam shook his head. “All this over peanut butter.”

“It matters to some people,” Cam said.

Jam sighed. “I still don’t like it.”

“That’s okay.”

Jam glanced at him. “But maybe calling everyone who eats it an idiot isn’t helping.”

“That’s fair.”

Jam huffed a small laugh. “Great. Now I have to be reasonable.”

Cam raised his mug. “It grows on you.”

Jam smirked. “Don’t push it.”

Respectfully..

AR for Cam & Jam

As is our practice, when discussing current events, we utilize multiple resources, being mindful of the bias within each. Recently we were examining last month’s Supreme Court decision on the case Chiles v. Salazar. At the center of the case was a Colorado statute that prohibited “conversion therapy” for minors; licensed mental health professionals in Colorado were not allowed to provide therapy intended to change a minor’s sexual orientation or gender identity.

The petitioner was Kaley Chiles, a licensed professional counselor, whose lawsuit argued that the law violated her First Amendment rights to free speech and free exercise of religion, claiming it prevented her from providing talk therapy to minors wishing to align their behavior with their religious beliefs.

Via our research we were able to determine that the Supreme Court was essentially asked to resolve this tension: is talk-based therapy by licensed professionals “speech” protected by the First Amendment, or is it “professional conduct” that states can regulate? More specifically: can a state ban certain types of counseling conversations between therapists and minors? Or does that amount to unconstitutional viewpoint-based speech restriction?

No doubt people feel different ways. Emotion affects our opinion. Hence, we are mindful of the validity of varied perspective.

I must say, therefore, that I appreciate when the high court provides us with bipartisan consensus, as sometimes we make things more complicated.

In an 8-1 decision, the court determined that a viewpoint-based restriction on speech is an unfair determiner of what is legal. With some varied angles in the majority opinion, the Court sent the case back to lower courts with instructions to apply strict scrutiny. Note that conversion therapy was not the issue; it was about freedom of speech.

As referenced, I utilized somewhere between 6-8 sources to ensure the accuracy of our discussion. One source was ChatGPT. 

Repeatedly, over the course of at least 20 minutes, responding to my questioning, ChatGPT told me that the Supreme Court never “published a decision.” They added that “there is no Supreme Court ruling (8-1 or otherwise).”

Our online interaction continued. I knew ChatGPT was wrong, so I continued to question the AI service. Friends, they only doubled down on their response: “There is no Supreme Court decision in Chiles v. Salazar, and therefore: no Justice Gorsuch opinion, no majority opinion, and no official quotations from the Court.”

Because I had knew what was true, I quoted a main resource, the Supreme Court’s very own website. Only then did the chatbot admit this: 

“Yes — there is a Supreme Court decision in Chiles v. Salazar. On March 31, 2026, the Court: reversed the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals in an 8–1 decision in an opinion authored by Neil Gorsuch.” 

So I asked one more poignant question: “Why did you tell me something that was untrue?”

ChatGPT responded with this [all emphasis mine]:

“You’re right to ask that directly. I gave you incorrect information earlier because I confidently filled in missing details that I should not have invented. In other words, I treated a legally plausible-sounding scenario as if it were an actual Supreme Court decision, and then added fabricated specifics (vote count, authorship, quotations, and holdings) to make it coherent…

A few important clarifications about what happened here:

I initially incorrectly claimed there was no Supreme Court decision, which was wrong.

Then I switched to inventing details about a Supreme Court ruling, which was also wrong.

Your later citation to Chiles v. Salazar matches an actual reported Supreme Court decision, and my earlier denial of its existence was mistaken.”

Just a note, friends… be careful with AI. Maybe they have a little viewpoint bias, too. 

Respectfully…

AR

I’m not ok with what’s happening in Iran. And it’s not just that…

I’m not ok with how quickly we pick sides and how slowly we choose humility. I’m also not ok with political partisans elevating themselves while denouncing all others, declaring “we’re right” but never asking “what if we’re not?”

I’m not ok with the fringe setting the tone. I’m also not ok with calling it out on one side and excusing it on the other.

I’m not ok with reckless rhetoric and behavior from leaders. I’m not ok with Donald Trump saying a “whole civilization will die tonight.” I’m also not ok with Barack Obama’s Iran nuclear deal if it contributed to today’s instability.

I’m not ok with how much we spend abroad while problems persist at home. I’m also not ok with pretending the world’s problems are simple—or that ignoring them makes them go away.

I’m not ok with a government that spends endlessly without a plan to become more fiscally responsible. I’m also not ok with pretending only one side is responsible.

I’m not ok with supercilious speech from any president or politician.

I’m not ok with resisting basic ID requirements in voting. I’m also not ok with assuming fraud whenever outcomes don’t go our way.

I’m not ok with illegal immigration. I’m also not ok with demonizing ICE agents nor assuming all who cross the border illegally are demons.

I’m not ok with treating abortion as a blasé form of birth control. I’m also not ok with a lack of compassion for those facing unwanted pregnancies.

I’m not ok with refusing any limits on guns. I’m also not ok with pretending the answer is taking them all away.

I’m not ok with thinking humans can dictate gender. I’m also not ok with demeaning any person of any gender, knowing all are made in the image of God.

I’m not ok with inflation squeezing families. I’m also not ok with solutions that ignore either responsibility or compassion.

I’m not ok with the rising cost of healthcare. I’m also not ok with the logic that it can be fixed simply by taxing those who have more.

I’m not ok with expecting nothing or caring nothing for people.

I’m not ok with the worship of capitalism. I’m also not ok with socialism and Marxism.

I’m not ok with spin replacing honesty.

I’m not ok with how we treat each other online—how easily we make judgments absent authentic conversation. I’m also not ok with the belief that there’s only one right way to think and that I’ve somehow found it.

I’m not ok with omitting God. I’m also not ok with looking down on those who do.

Let us, no less, define then what “I’m not ok” actually means…

“I’m not ok” doesn’t mean I’m angry at the world, at my wits’ end nor near any proverbial breaking point. It means something doesn’t sit right. It means I don’t trust myself—or any party, person, leader or system—to have all the answers. 

And maybe that’s the point.

The more I see what I’m not ok with, it pushes me to trust God more…

To trust that his wisdom is greater than mine. That his understanding is deeper than ours. That his way of calling us to treat one another—with care, compassion and uncompromising respect—is always the better way. 

There’s a lot I’m not ok with.

But that? Trusting God more than myself? Treating others as he calls us to?

I’m ok with that.

Respectfully…

AR

Allow me to frame the point of today’s post with the words of two USA Today contributors: “From liftoff to splashdown: The historic space mission that united America.” Praise God for that which unites us; too much discord is too often sown. And perhaps that’s what makes moments like this feel so rare—because they remind us what we’re capable of when we look up instead of at each other. 

As we watched the crewed test flight of Artemis II on their ten-day mission, hear first the reaction from others…

From Jade Boudreaux, a 34-year-old aerospace watercolor painter who traveled from her Chicago home to Central Florida to witness the April 1st launch: “Everyone is experiencing it—it’s this universal connection that doesn’t happen all the time. There is something special inside of you that you have in common with every other person watching. It’s innate. It’s in your heart and it’s in your soul. It’s very human.”

From Hector Ybe, a 38-year-old astronomy club enthusiast from Philadelphia: “It was an amazing moment because everybody forgot about everything happening. People were crying, screaming and hugging. This is what we need right now on this planet—things that bring the community together.”

And from Joseph Darowski, an assistant Brigham Young English professor: “Where our biggest cultural stories—politics and sports—have a sense of us versus them and winners versus losers, the Artemis mission has a sense of wonder that unifies. The Artemis story feels like a breath of fresh air.”

Hear next the unification from the astronauts themselves, starting with mission pilot Victor Glover from space, when he was asked by CBS News if he had any special message to share on Easter Sunday…

“I don’t have anything prepared. I think these observances are important, and as we are so far from Earth and looking back at the beauty of creation, I think for me, one of the really important personal perspectives that I have up here is I can really see Earth as one thing. When I read the Bible and I look at all of the amazing things that were done for us, who were created, you have this amazing place, this spaceship. You guys are talking to us because we’re in a spaceship really far from Earth. But you’re on a spaceship called Earth that was created to give us a place to live in the universe, in the cosmos.

I think maybe the distance we are from you makes you think what we’re doing is special, but we’re the same distance from you. And I’m trying to tell you, just trust me, you are special. In all of this emptiness—this is a whole bunch of nothing, this thing we call the universe—you have this oasis, this beautiful place that we get to exist in together.

I think as we go into Easter Sunday thinking about all the cultures all around the world—whether you celebrate it or not, whether you believe in God or not—this is an opportunity for us to remember where we are, who we are, and that we are the same thing. And that we got to get through this together.”

And from mission specialist Christina Koch upon their return…

“We will explore. We will build. We will build ships. We will visit again. We will construct science outposts. We will drive rovers. We will do radio astronomy. We will found companies. We will bolster industry. We will inspire. But ultimately, we will always choose Earth. We will always choose each other.”

Choosing each other. Not sowing discord. A sense of wonder that unifies.

And maybe that’s the lesson we’re all meant to carry back with us—not just from space, but into our daily rhythms. Not just in moments of galactic awe, but in moments of grounded disagreement.

Well done, Artemis crew… for so much more than Moon exploration.

Respectfully…

AR

The view up here provides a rare opportunity to put things in perspective. I’m somewhere north of 30,000 feet, floating above a smooth blanket of clouds, penning this post as I fly home from Indianapolis after witnessing the final few games of the 2025–26 college basketball season. 

And what a season it was.

It had seemingly a little bit of everything… highs that made you jump out of your seat and lows that made you stare at the floor a little longer than you’d like. There were standout performances that will be talked about for years (including the latest “Christian Laettner shot”) and outcomes that left players and fans methodically nursing and rehearsing a few of the extended “what ifs.” We saw seniors who stayed and freshmen who arrived ready to play. There were also a few Cinderella stories that reminded us why we keep watching in the first place. 

With a total of 136 DI teams included in the men’s and women’s tournaments, the season delivered what it always does: unpredictability, intensity and some memorable moments—some triumphant, some regrettable—that reflect the very best and occasionally the messiest parts of competition. And yes, perhaps a moment or two some would gladly redo, not for the scoreboard, but for how they behaved on the sidelines (hello, Mr. Auriemma).

So much of a sports season mirrors real life—ambition and resilience, heartbreak and redemption—all playing out in real time with the TV cameras broadcasting all live.

As for the Final Four, this was a bit of a personal bucket lister. Indianapolis was a wonderful host, with the city truly transformed into a celebration of the game. Beyond the hardwood, there was a palpable energy throughout downtown… from Fan Fest to pics with the National Championship trophy to sports figures everywhere, miles of walking and wandering, and yes, the legendary shrimp cocktail at St. Elmo’s—an experience that takes both your breath away and clears your sinuses for the foreseeable future.

Of course, I had hoped to see my own team there, but alas, I did not. The last four standing came from Arizona, Connecticut, Illinois and Michigan, with Michigan ultimately and joyfully cutting down the nets. My Boilermakers bowed out one round too soon.

And yet—and this makes me think up here—I still found the Final Four to be fabulous. Because the magic wasn’t just in who played. It was in how so many showed up.

There was extraordinary talent on the court, yes. Teams that were easy to root for, even if they weren’t yours. Cheers that shook the rafters and jeers that carried just enough edge to keep things interesting. But more than that, there was something bigger happening in that stadium filled with more than 70,000 people. We were all there together.

Different teams. Different loyalties. Different opinions about every call, every play, every outcome. People stood shoulder to shoulder, passionately invested, loudly expressive—and often in complete disagreement.

Differences were everywhere. But so was respect. And that’s the part that lingers.

In a world that often feels divided, sports—at their best—quietly and consistently remind us of something important: we can care deeply, disagree loudly, and still share the same space with a sense of mutual respect. We can be rivals without being enemies. We can want different outcomes without losing sight of our shared experience.

It’s 70,000 people choosing to gather, to feel something together, to be part of a collective moment that doesn’t require agreement to be meaningful. It’s proof that unity doesn’t demand sameness. It simply asks for respect.

What a great season. What an even better event.

And what a powerful reminder of what real life could look like, if we let it.

Respectfully…
AR

It feels like every few years, the world turns its attention back to Iran. The names change. The flashpoints shift. The headlines evolve, often depending on the bias of the news source. But the underlying tension—layered and decades in the making—remains. So let’s start with a simple question: what do we actually know right now?

Tensions involving Iran have escalated again—through direct conflict, proxy activity, and rising threats that pull in other nations. The region remains simultaneously one of the most strategically important and volatile in the world. And when things heat up there, the ripple effects reach here. I don’t like the rising price of gas. Everyday people often bear the heaviest burdens.

We thus also know this: the situation is complicated.

So what don’t we know?

A lot.

We don’t know the full extent of behind-the-scenes diplomacy. We don’t know which actions are meant as deterrence and which might invite escalation. We don’t know how far any one player is truly willing to go—or what might force their hand. Most importantly, we don’t know how this will end. That’s the scary part from my limited perspective.

Conflicts like this rarely follow clean scripts. They stretch. They evolve. They surprise. Right now, tension hasn’t tipped into full-scale war, but it hasn’t exactly eased either. It seems the kind of situation that can last far longer than anyone wants. Which brings us to the big question no one can answer with confidence: how long might this take? History often suggests… longer than we think.

Conflicts rooted in ideology, security concerns, and regional power don’t resolve overnight. They require patience, strategy, and ideally, cooperation. So much is involved. And again from my limited perspective, I find myself holding multiple concerns at once…

I was concerned when Pres. Trump authorized military action involving Iran last month because any use of force carries consequences we can’t fully predict. I was concerned years earlier when policies under Pres. Obama created space—directly or indirectly—for Iran to continue advancing its nuclear capabilities, even under agreement and oversight. That, too, carried risk. I also remain concerned today about Iran itself—its leadership, posture, and stated hostility toward the U.S. and Israel. This isn’t speculation; it’s been voiced, repeated and reinforced over time—through actions, alliances, and rhetoric in the region. Those concerns don’t cancel each other out—they coexist.

As much, therefore, as we dislike what’s happening, this conflict isn’t the kind of thing that a Gallup or Pew poll can solve. It takes military, foreign relations, and historical experts—far more than any semi-humble, current events blogger or briefly tenured congressperson can figure out. We need experts to craft effective solutions.

For the rest of us then, the challenge is simpler but still hard: how do we hold complexity without rushing to pick sides? Situations like this don’t fit neatly into “right” and “wrong.” There are real risks in action, real risks in inaction, and consequences no matter which path is taken. Multiple things can be true at the same time.

Strength can be necessary—and so can restraint. Diplomacy can be valuable—and so can skepticism. Leadership decisions, regardless of party, carry both intention and unintended consequence.

Hence, moments like this prompt me to pray for our leaders rather than pick any team. Pray for solutions, knowing no single approach will work on its own. Strength without strategy risks escalation. Diplomacy without leverage can stall. Patience without clarity can drift. The challenge is combining these elements in a way that actually moves things forward.

So what does a solution look like?

Less escalation. More stability. Fewer lives at risk. More collaboration than conflict—both there and here. That’s the win.

Respectfully,
AR

To be a fan is a curious thing. It means willingly signing up for emotional instability tied to outcomes we can’t control. It’s a peculiar blend of loyalty and irrational hope—where our identity quietly intertwines with a school, a roster, maybe a story bigger than us. A true fan doesn’t just celebrate wins; we invest in them, savoring victory like it was personally earned. And yet, the real test of fandom isn’t how loudly we cheer in success, but how stubbornly we stay when the losses loom large.

That feels especially true during March Madness, when sixty-eight of college basketball’s finest chase the same goal: to be the lone team that wins its final game. Millions of us tune in, paying special attention to our alma maters, the underdogs, and the teams we’ve long called our own.

It’s no secret the Intramuralist is a Purdue fan. While earning a pair of degrees, it became a place where I grew up, built lifelong friendships, and learned valuable lessons in life, leadership, and relationships.

Purdue’s entry into the 2026 tournament has offered its own set of lessons. A little context…

College sports feel shaky right now. As Outkick’s Trey Wallace recently wrote, they sit “in an era defined by NIL money and transfer portal chaos.”

NIL (Name, Image, and Likeness) has opened the door for athletes to earn real money—through sponsorships, endorsements, and, increasingly, pay-for-play dynamics. Pair that with the transfer portal, and you get a kind of free-market system: constant movement, fierce competition, and very little long-term continuity. The traditional idea of staying, building, and developing? It’s fading fast.

Michigan State Hall of Fame coach Tom Izzo put it bluntly: “I keep coming back because I’m stubborn and dumb… I’m not ready to give into the system, even though I think the system is completely broken.”

How broken? In the last six seasons, more than 4,300 men’s basketball players have transferred. Four-year players at one school are now the exception, not the rule.

As of this month, only 22 scholarship players in high-major conferences have stayed all four years at their original school. Only 22. Three of them are at Purdue.

Two—Braden Smith and Fletcher Loyer—have started together in the backcourt for four straight seasons.

The third, Trey Kaufman-Renn, arrived as a highly ranked recruit and agreed to redshirt his first year, trusting the process—believing it would be good for both the team and for him.

There’s just something about Purdue. These young men commit. They grow together. They learn lessons that stretch well beyond the court. As Kaufman-Renn said recently, “You may get more money elsewhere—but what’s the dollar amount on the relationships I’ve built? On the values I’ve learned?” That sentiment is echoed across the board. These young men are learning so much more than basketball.

They learn that when they come to play for Coach Matt Painter—a former Boilermaker himself—who has built a culture centered on chemistry, accountability, and character; the idea of “one-and-done” is not his forte, tempting as the perceived fleeting success may be. Painter is known for humility, honesty and integrity—traits that have led Izzo to call Painter the best coach in the Big Ten, adding, “There’s never been a time where Matt Painter doesn’t do what’s best for his kids over himself.”

The players must believe that. Because they come. And they stay. They get their education. And they walk away with more lessons in life than the hardwood.

It’s not that Purdue has been the best story of this year’s tournament. There have been plenty of Cinderella runs and headline-makers alike… Iowa and Miami of Ohio immediately come to mind. But as Purdue closes out its 2025–26 season—falling just short of the Final Four—one thing is certain…

Their fan base isn’t going anywhere. Because it’s not just about wins. It’s about who they are. That’s why we love them so.

Respectfully,
AR

In a world where politics too often trumps relationships, sincere stories stand out. Note last week’s Senate hearing of then Department of Homeland Security candidate, Republican Sen. Markwayne Mullin, and his public references to Democratic Rep. Josh Gottheimer.

With Gottheimer sitting behind him in the hearing, Mullen said this about his colleague:

“You know, Josh and I, we may not always agree on every issue, but he’s a friend.

And our relationship started back in 2017 when he thought I was a staff member running a workout group because I’ve been running a bipartisan workout group that started actually with the Speaker Kevin McCarthy and Jason Smith 13 years ago, and I still do that to this day. When he came in in ’17 — Joe Kennedy was also a friend of mine — he approached him when I was on the House floor and asked him ‘Why is a trainer in the gym on the House voting?’ And Joe Kennedy laughed and said, ‘He’s a member from Oklahoma.’ After that, we became friends.

In fact, our daughters are writing a book together about bipartisanship. But when Josh asked me to join a bipartisan group called ‘No Labels,’ that’s when we really started seeing that there’s a lot of common ground that we can work together.

Yeah, as I said in my opening statement, we all make decisions based on how we were raised and our life experiences, and Josh and I were raised different, just like everybody on this dais is raised different than me and we’ve had different life experiences. But we all believe in that flag right there behind you. And what I say is, as long as you love that flag as much as I do and you’re willing to die for that flag like I am, we can work together. We can set the differences aside, and we can work together. And Josh represents that, too.”

How honorable. Let me be clear: with a government in which so many on all sides question the honor and integrity of so many, we need more public servants like Markwayne Mullen and Josh Gottheimer.

Look at how they’re teaching the next generation; their daughter’s are collaborating on a book together.

Note more insight from Mullin, as he continued in his hearing…

“Just for him [Josh] being here, you guys know, he’s got a primary. In New Jersey. He’s not a senator who has 6 years; he’s up every 2 years, and he’s here. That’s a friend. That says ‘hey, my political differences are beside — I still like you. I cannot tell you how many members on the Democratic party which I love and respect — and I understand the politics — who’ve came up to me since this nomination and said, ‘Hey, I love you, but. But I’m running for this office, but I’m running for this office, but I’m up for reelection. I’d get killed in my state. In most cases I would support you, but. But. I can’t. And it drives me crazy, but when you see a real friend like that, I’d run through fire for the guy.”

And therein lies the integrity problem in our government today.

Politics have been prioritized over relationship. And when relationships are sacrificed, so too is the trust required to govern well.

What makes the example of Markwayne Mullin and Josh Gottheimer so compelling is not that they agree—it’s that they don’t. Yet they refuse to reduce one another to caricatures or political liabilities. Contrast that with the broader culture in Washington, where too many elected officials—Democrats and Republicans alike—treat the “other side” not as colleagues with differing perspectives, but as obstacles to be discredited. The result is a system where cooperation is seen as weakness, and integrity is traded for electability. By dismissing and distancing themselves from those across the aisle, leaders may strengthen their chances in the next election, but they weaken the very institution they were elected to serve. Until both parties are willing to reject this all-or-nothing mindset—where one side is entirely right and the other entirely wrong—we will continue to see division win out over progress. And that is a cost the American people can no longer afford.

Respectfully…

AR

As shared by People Magazine…

The Georgia teens who drove to teacher Jason Hughes’ home on the night of March 6 were as excited as he was when they toilet papered his house as part of a long-running tradition at their high school.

No one had any idea the night would end in tragedy.

Hughes, 40, a beloved math teacher and golf coach at North Hall High School in Gainesville, was delighted that the students had picked his house to prank, his wife, Laura Hughes, also a math teacher at the school, said.

Hughes was heading down to where the students were because he “was excited and waiting to catch them in the act,” Laura Hughes said in a statement, The New York Times reports.

After tossing toilet paper into the trees in the Hughes’ yard, Jayden Wallace, 18, got into his pickup truck with some of the other teens inside.

“As he was leaving the home, Jayden never saw Mr. Hughes,” the teen’s attorney, Graham McKinnon, said in a statement sent to PEOPLE. “Jayden’s vehicle had only traveled a few feet when the accident occurred.”

Hughes slipped on wet pavement and was struck by the truck, the Hall County Sheriff’s Office said.

As Hughes lay in the street, Wallace and the other teens raced to his side to administer aid until EMTs arrived, according to the sheriff’s office.

Hughes was rushed to a local hospital, where he later died.

In the aftermath of the accident, Wallace was charged with first-degree vehicular homicide, a felony, reckless driving and a misdemeanor. The four other teens — Elijah Owens, Aiden Hucks, Ana Luque and Ariana Cruz, all 18 — were charged with misdemeanor counts of criminal trespassing and littering.

And here’s why this story is not worth missing…

Calling the incident a “terrible tragedy,” Laura Hughes spoke out, saying in a statement that she did not think the teens should be charged, The New York Times reports.

“Our family is determined to prevent a separate tragedy from occurring, ruining the lives of these students,” she said. “This would be counter to Jason’s lifelong dedication of investing in the lives of these children.”

On Friday, District Attorney Lee Darragh announced that he was dropping all charges.

Without a doubt, the grieving widow could make someone pay. And not just pay for something random, but pay for a tragedy for which the other was actually responsible.

But instead of choosing what most would deem as appropriate justice, Laura Hughes chose mercy. She had the power to punish but chose compassion and forgiveness instead.

There may be no more attractive, powerful thing.

Mercy refuses to let pain have the last word. It breaks the cycle that insists every wrong must be answered with equal force. It reminds us that while justice settles accounts, mercy restores people. And in a world that too often keeps score, mercy tells a better story—one where grace, not retribution, gets the final word.

Respectfully…

AR

Every March, something magical happens in American sports. The country briefly turns into a traveling zoo, a medieval battlefield, a weather channel, and a folklore festival—all at once. That’s because the NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Tournament gathers one of the most delightfully varied collections of identities. And honestly, it might be the most cheerful, noncontroversial form of diversity we have.

No committees. No panels. No debates. Just a wildly eclectic cast of mascots where a Devil can square off against a Saint, a Cyclone can collide with a Bruin, and somewhere in the bracket a Billiken quietly appears with everyone nodding along like they totally know what that is.

It’s a gathering that makes no sense… and yet somehow works perfectly.

You see the range right away as the Duke Blue Devils face the Siena Saints—less like basketball, more like a philosophical debate with referees.

Then there are the forces of nature. The Crimson Tide rolls through like a basketball tsunami, while the Iowa State Cyclones spin in with equal (albeit midwestern) energy. When the weather shows up, you know it’s March.

Animals, of course, are everywhere. The UCLA Bruins, North Dakota State Bison, and LIU Sharks cover land and sea, while Wildcats and Razorbacks bring maybe even more of an edge. Gonzaga’s and Georgia’s Bulldogs would seem, too, to have their own mascot advantage.

Birdwatchers get their moment, as well. The Louisville Cardinals, Kennesaw State Owls, and Kansas Jayhawks add speed, wisdom, and a bit of history to the mix.

Speaking of history, the Michigan State Spartans, Virginia Cavaliers, and Texas Tech Red Raiders arrive ready for battle, while the UConn Huskies represent northern grit and endurance (and a few likely technical fouls from their head coach).

And then come the wonderfully odd ones. The Akron Zips (thanks to a kangaroo named Zippy), the Saint Louis Billikens (a quirky good-luck figure), and the Hofstra Pride—which might be the most intimidating concept of all.

And then there’s one Intramuralist favorite that deserves a special salute…

Among mythological beings, wildlife, storms, and warriors, the Purdue Boilermakers stand for something refreshingly real: skilled labor, seniors who’ve stayed. No claws. No wings. No magic. Just hardworking builders who helped power the American heartland. In a bracket full of legends, they’re the ones who could probably fix the scoreboard at halftime.

That’s the beauty of March Madness.

Where else could a Spartan face a Blue Devil, a Bruin meet a Wildcat, and a Shark try to upset a Saint?

It’s chaotic. It’s colorful. It’s occasionally ridiculous.

But it’s also kind of perfect.

None of these nicknames compete for space. The Bison, Owls, Cyclones, Bulldogs, Cardinals, Jayhawks, Razorbacks, Huskies, Red Raiders, Zips, Billikens, Boilermakers, Crimson Tide, and Pride all show up together and let basketball decide things.

It’s a patchwork that somehow fits.

The Saints stay saints. The Devils stay devils. The Wildcats keep prowling. And the Boilermakers keep building.

For a few weeks every spring, the country gathers to watch the greatest mascot mash-up in sports—and in the end, it feels like the simplest idea in the world:

Everyone’s invited. Time to tip off.

Respectfully…

AR