My son, Lucas, was a certifiable train wreck in high school. His mother and I had separated, which shook his world. He was smoking pot several times a day and was one absence away from not graduating. Somehow, he pulled together a decent GPA and a respectable college entrance score. He got his diploma. Barely.
Despite growing up on the beaches of California, Lucas chose to attend my alma mater, Oklahoma State University. It had everything to do with the 2011 OSU football season, the postcard-perfect campus and the shiny new Greenwood School of Music ― nothing to do with Dad. I didn’t get much say in his housing choice. He picked an apartment with his own bedroom and bathroom ― essentially married-student housing. No roommates. No chaos. No connection.
Then came COVID. Classes were online. Campus was quiet. His freshman year ― what should have been a season of new friendships ― was a bust. I’ll never forget the day he hit bottom. He called after walking through a field in beach flip-flops and getting eaten alive by chiggers.
He wasn’t in California anymore.
When OSU told students they could go home after Thanksgiving, he packed up and left. He ended the semester with a 2.35 GPA and no plans to return.
I’d seen enough. I stepped in.
I called the recruitment chair at my old fraternity and told him the good parts of Lucas’ story. “What’s his Instagram handle?” the young man asked. Apparently, you can size someone up in 30 seconds on social media. After a few video calls, the Beta House offered him a spring bid. I sweetened the deal with a car, a Stetson, and a pair of cowboy boots.
When I asked whether he wanted to drive or ship the car, he said not to bother. “I probably won’t need it.” Not a good sign. He still had one foot out the door.
Then something happened. He moved into the Beta House on a Friday. On Monday, I got a call: “Hey Dad. I need my car.”
That’s when I knew. He was in.
