The Man I Never Met

by Adam Schefter

  But then, after many years, Sharri confronted her fear. She decided she did not want to be a person who spent her whole life within driving distance of her house. And she did not want Devon and Dylan to be afraid of flying.

  The first time she got on a plane with the kids, and without me, was in March 2016. That was the day of the terrorist attack in Brussels. She didn’t want to get on the plane, but she didn’t want to cancel. She got through it.

  The more she flew, the easier it got for her, but she still gets anxious on planes. In 2017, she flew to Colorado, Florida, Arizona, California, Massachusetts, and Michigan—all in one year. That was impressive for her. The only real problem was when we went to Florida. I had purchased plane tickets for Adam Schefter, Dylan Schefter, Devon Maio, and Sharri Schefter. But Sharri’s license says Sharri Maio.

  So as soon as we went through security, TSA agents pulled her over and treated her as if she had broken the law. They pulled her aside for about twenty minutes. They patted her down. They found her diabetes pump and wanted to know what it was. I stood with Devon and Dylan and watched in horror. Devon kept saying, “Mom is going to be so mad at you”—all for booking her a plane ticket under the wrong name, a mistake I never will make again.

  For a while, we thought she wouldn’t be allowed on the plane. And Devon was right; she was furious at me. How about that irony? After all these years of being scared to get on a plane, she was mad because somebody wouldn’t let her get on one. Eventually, she was able to board, and we flew to Florida, looking every bit like a conventional American family of four.

  * * *

  I have taken Devon and Dylan back to Bellmore, where I grew up, to some of the places I used to go: Bagel City (now called Town Bagel), down on Merrick Road, and Hunan Gourmet, where I worked as a busboy in high school, making sixty or seventy bucks a night in cash tips, plus a plate of chicken and broccoli with a Coke at the end of the night. Man, did I look forward to that meal. Hunan Gourmet isn’t there anymore—it has been replaced by another store—but to me, that still is the place where my work ethic formed. I wanted them to see the spot.

  If Joe had lived, he would probably take Devon—and more kids, if he and Sharri had had them—to north Jersey, where he grew up. And then they would drive around, and Joe Maio would tell Joe Maio stories.

  He would take Devon to the house where he grew up. He would explain that his family was one of the first in the neighborhood to have a finished walk-out basement with a wet bar. He would host little Intellivision tournaments for his buddies. Maybe he would tell them about the pool party when his parents were out of town.

  He would say that when he was a boy, he would stack Chips Ahoy! cookies inside a glass, fill the glass with milk to the top, crush the cookies, and eat the concoction with a spoon.

  He would tell Devon about Waffles. Waffles was the Maios’ dog; when guests came, he would growl and hide under beds and really just wasn’t very nice. Joe would tell Devon that one time, his friend Cory Tovin said, “He’s just growling. He’s not really that mean.” Cory said he would put his hand under the bed.

  Joe said, “Cory, don’t put your hand under there. He will bite you.” Cory stuck his foot under the bed instead. Moments later, the sock was gone, and Cory had a puncture wound in his foot.

  Joe would laugh.

  He would say Cory became one of his college roommates, and he remained one of his best friends until he moved down to Atlanta, and they don’t talk as much as they should. Joe would make a mental note to give Cory a call, see how he was doing.

  He would tell Devon that he hoped he enjoyed being a kid as much as Joe did. He’d had a good childhood—a little wild at times, as most good childhoods are. He had an acute sense of wonder. He would find a rock or piece of plastic on the beach and think it was a treasure. He always seemed to find something and run to his mom and dad to show them what he found.

  Joe would show Devon where he rode his BMX dirt bike during the day and where he rode snowmobiles at night. He would see that the rink in Montvale where he used to roller-skate is gone now, but he would show Devon the pond off Hungry Hollow Road where he used to play ice hockey.

  He would not say that when he was a boy, all his peers wanted to be friends with him, and a lot of them wanted to be him. He was not the type to flaunt his popularity.

  Maybe Devon would figure that out about his father.

  Maybe Anthony would be with them, to explain.

  Joe would take Devon to one of his favorite old pizza places, DaVinci’s, and laugh at their “thin crust gourmet pizza,” which DaVinci’s promised “is an incredibly guilt-free way to get your ‘carb’ fix.” Back in Joe’s day, you got your slice, and maybe you put some parmesan cheese or garlic or red pepper on it, and that was that.

  Maybe he would point across the street to where he used to order a beer at Silo before he was old enough to legally do it, because he knew the owner.

  And he would take Devon to that overpass on Scotland Hill Road, the one that terrified him as a kid because he was scared of heights. Isn’t that strange? Joe would say. And I ended up working in one of the tallest buildings in America.

  19

  I spent the last weekend before 9/11 in New York. It was the opening weekend of the NFL season, but the team I covered, the Broncos, did not play until Monday night, September 10. I decided to visit my family on Long Island.

  The night before I left Denver, I went on a date with a woman named Annie. It went well—so well that I did not sleep much that night. My mind was racing. I went through my usual emotional cycle: Hopes are up; this is the one; let’s hit fast-forward. Before I showered, dressed, and packed the next morning, I was up at 5:45 A.M., talking to my mom on the phone about Annie.

  That relationship with Annie would fade, like all my others, but I didn’t know that at the time. I thought Annie might be the one. Then again, at various times I convinced myself a hundred women might be the one.

  My mom picked me up at the airport with Marni’s three-year-old son, Casey, in the back seat. He was wearing blue sunglasses and looked adorable. We met up with my family for dinner in Wantagh to celebrate Poppy Dave’s eightieth birthday.

  My weekend in New York was filled with people from my past but also with hints that I had an empty future. I went for a four-mile run with my dad, the same path that we always ran, from our house on Judith Drive, up to Merrick Road, and back. I ate at Bagel City, my favorite bagel place, where I loved plain bagels with whitefish salad. My mom and I took Casey and his younger sister, Sydney, to Sesame Street Live! at Nassau Coliseum, where I saw all the parents with all their kids and was reminded of what I was missing.

  I was only thirty-four, but my urge to find a wife never left my mind. My desire to meet the perfect woman was always foolish, but it was becoming more foolish as I got older. When you hit your midthirties, you have to accept that any woman you date might have kids, but that possibility made me squeamish. You don’t read many fairy tales that start with “She left her two daughters from a previous marriage with a babysitter for the evening and…”

  I wanted a résumé without blemishes. That meant no kids. I wanted to start from scratch.

  Part of falling in love is finding the right person, but part of it is when you find them. You can’t just want to meet somebody; you have to be capable of making a relationship work. You have to be in the right frame of mind.

  As I look back, I realize that for a long time I wasn’t capable. It didn’t matter who I dated. No relationship would have lasted very long. I would have botched it. I was so sure I was ready for marriage and everything that came with it, and I just wasn’t there, and I don’t know that anybody would have gotten me there. I even blamed Denver, the city where I’d had so many dating failures, but no city would have gotten me there. When you know something is wrong, it’s easy to look around and try to figure out what it is, but what I saw was the city and these women. I never saw me.

  The older you get, the more y
our guard drops, and the more open-minded you become, and the more you learn and grow, until you meet somebody at the right time who is a special person, and it works at that time in your life.

  I look back at it now and I realize I was looking for a boost from somebody else, but nobody should derive their happiness entirely from somebody else. It just doesn’t work. You can’t begin a relationship by placing that kind of burden on another person, but at the time, I couldn’t see it. All I could see was my dating failures and my dreams.

  We arrived at Nassau Coliseum. When we walked in, I saw a woman I’d had a crush on at Michigan. I ran into a good high school friend, met his wife, and wondered why I couldn’t find somebody like that. I described her in my journal:

  The type of woman I would have loved to meet … but that world is so different than mine. Family oriented, big groups. I’m out here in Denver by myself, all alone. Big difference.

  I immersed myself in football, first by watching Michigan lose at Washington, then by going online to see if there was anything new on the Broncos front. I found that they had signed running back Mike Anderson to a four-year deal, to my surprise. Work stress briefly replaced personal stress. Then I went back to personal stress.

  I saw my friend David Simon’s dad, Arnie, and he said I looked like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I did. I was anxious to find the right woman for me.

  Just about anyone can pick up on it, I’ll bet, I wrote in my journal.

  I went home and fell into my usual routine. I watched football, knowing I should pull myself away from it but unable to do so. I called Annie. I wrote a story. I wondered why Annie hadn’t called back. I paid a bill and made some work calls. I wondered again why Annie hadn’t called back. I tossed and turned that night.

  The next day was a highly anticipated one in Denver. The Broncos were opening their new stadium, then called Invesco Field at Mile High, against the defending NFC champion Giants. It was a big moment for that football-crazed town, and the atmosphere was electric. Nine retired Broncos legends walked on the field before the game, linking the past to the present. If you are a sports fan at all, you understand why that was a really cool moment.

  The Broncos won, but the enduring memory of the game was of violence: Wide receiver Ed McCaffrey, one of the most popular players in the city, broke his leg. It was one of those gruesome injuries that casts a pall over the rest of the game. Ed would never be the same player again.

  While I was in the press box, Annie called back. I was mostly annoyed that it had taken her so long—not excited that she had called back. She did not want to hit fast-forward like I did.

  After the game, I drove my friend Thomas George of The New York Times back to the Renaissance Hotel by the old Stapleton Airport. It was 12:30 A.M. Mountain Time on September 11, 2001.

  Thomas was a longtime friend and mentor. He, more than anyone, was responsible for me pursuing a career in journalism. Back when I was working for The Michigan Daily, Thomas was a sports reporter for The Detroit Free Press, covering multiple Michigan sporting events. He was kind enough to take me under his wing, guide me, influence me, and convince me that I could make a living as a reporter, which was something I never before realized. Thomas and I got closer over the years, and he had gone from helping me professionally to helping me personally. He asked me about my dating life. I told him about Annie. I said I had called her the day before, and she took more than a day to call me back. It really bothered me.

  Thomas gave me some advice. He said I had to accept that not everybody was as punctual as I was. He told me I couldn’t carry past relationships into future ones. He said I needed to keep an open mind.

  He said, “People bring their baggage to the Lord, and then they bring it back with them. They need to leave it there.”

  Sound advice, I wrote in my journal, and I climbed into bed in Denver feeling buoyed by what he’d said.

  In a house on Long Island, Joe Maio was asleep next to his wife. He had less than eight hours to live.

  20

  On the morning Joe Maio died, he was supposed to drive to Connecticut with one of his coworkers at Cantor Fitzgerald, Keith Coleman. They had a meeting there that afternoon. Joe had three options:

  1.  Stay home that morning, then go straight to Connecticut for the meeting.

  2.  Drive straight to Connecticut and work there all morning before the meeting.

  3.  Go to his office in the World Trade Center in the morning, then go to Connecticut in the afternoon.

  He chose number three.

  He still had to figure out how he would get to the World Trade Center before heading up to Connecticut. Joe usually drove to work, but on this day, he did not want to drive there, then drive to Connecticut, and then drive home afterward. That was too much driving. He decided to take a ferry to Manhattan, a train or car service to Connecticut for the meeting, and then a car service home from Connecticut that night.

  Now he had one more decision: How should he get to the ferry stop? He did not want to leave his car there, because he would not be taking the ferry home that night.

  So he asked his wife to drive him to the ferry early that morning.

  Sharri was annoyed. She thought about Devon.

  You want me to wake up a fourteen-month-old at 6:00 in the morning to take you to the ferry?

  They argued about it. Joe won. Sharri woke up, piled Devon and their dog, Riley, in the car, and drove Joe to the ferry for the first and only time. They never had done that before, not until this 9/11 morning. By the time they got to the ferry, the argument had faded away.

  “I love you,” she told Joe.

  She kissed him goodbye, forever.

  * * *

  What if Joe Maio had stayed home that morning?

  He would have lived, presumably for several decades. Devon would know his father. I never would have met Sharri. Dylan would not be here. One seemingly mundane decision ended this great man’s life and altered so many more.

  I am fascinated by it. Sharri is not.

  She thinks Joe died tragically for the same reason that Keith Coleman died tragically. Sharri says, “Joe was supposed to be at work that morning. That’s where he was supposed to be.”

  She was always attracted to hardworking men. Joe Maio was one until the end.

  This is how Sharri has lived her post-Joe life. She doesn’t play the what-if game; she doesn’t wonder how small decisions led to his death. She also doesn’t go to the other extreme, like some people do: telling herself that Joe was not only supposed to work but he was supposed to die that day.

  A few years ago, at a baby shower, Sharri was talking to a deeply religious woman who had also lost her husband on 9/11. The woman said that God wanted three thousand people in heaven. Sharri thought, What? People can grieve or cope in whatever way works for them, but Sharri could not understand how somebody could say any death on 9/11 was “meant to be.” She has a clear-eyed view of how he died: He was living his life, and terrorists took it away from him.

  Sharri does not believe in fate. I do—to an extent. I believe in it more than Sharri does. I certainly don’t believe Joe’s death was “meant to be” or that Sharri was fated to be a 9/11 widow and then meet me. But I do think that after she became a 9/11 widow, she was supposed to meet me. That’s what I want to believe.

  Thousands of people died on 9/11. All are missed, but none were perfect. The more I learned about Joe Maio, though, the more impressed I was. I could tell people were not just saying nice things because he had died young. They would have said the same if he had lived. He was a golden boy. He was enormously successful but didn’t flaunt it. Women loved him, and men understood why.

  I had always heard about finding the One, and I never knew how people knew. Were there signs from above? Did lights flash? When I heard that Joe and I had the same birthday, I liked that. It was this little hint that Sharri and I were supposed to be together. It was a nudge. You can’t build a lifelong relationsh
ip on a nudge, but it’s a nice start.

  And as I continued dating Sharri, and as I heard so much about Joe, I thought, If she was good enough for Joe Maio, she was good enough for me. I know that sounds crazy, leaning on a man you never even met, but I had that thought, more than once, before I decided to propose to Sharri. It affirmed my beliefs. It was almost like taking a test when you already know the answers. I knew I could do it.

  I feel honored to be married to the woman who was married to Joe Maio.

  George thinks of it in his own way. He says that he feels like Joe sent me.

  * * *

  Joe is buried next to Anthony at St. Anthony’s Catholic Cemetery in Nanuet, New York. George goes to the cemetery sometimes. Paula can’t bring herself to do it. Sharri has not gone there at all since Anthony died.

  Sharri never has visited the 9/11 memorial and has no intention of going. She has no desire to go. It doesn’t matter how tasteful or beautiful or moving it is—to Sharri, that’s just the place where she lost Joe, and going back there would bring her back to the most devastating moment in her life. She sees the new World Trade Center building and thinks, Who wants to rent space there?

  She does not need any reminders that he died; she lives with that every day. It is her reality. Over time, the pain gets less acute. Living gets easier. But the reality does not change. The scar tissue does not go away and never will.

  In the summer of 2017, Devon did an internship with CNBC’s Jim Cramer, who founded TheStreet, a financial news-and-analysis site. Devon has a real passion for business. I was hoping this would inspire him toward a career he loves.

  I took him into Manhattan on the first day of his internship to show him how to get to the office by train. Devon may look back on it as the first commute of a life full of them. We got on a crowded 7:27 A.M. train—for a while, we weren’t able to sit together because it was so busy and all the seats were taken—and went into Penn Station. Then we took the No. 3 subway downtown. I took pictures of Devon on the subway, which is a very dad thing to do. We asked strangers on the subway about the stops where we might get off, and they were kind and helpful. I wanted Devon to feel like he knew exactly what to do the next day when he went to work in New York City on his own.