by Stuart Scott
The first time they both came to visit me at New York–Presbyterian, their mom drove Sydni into the city and they picked up Taelor at Barnard, not far from the hospital. Taelor came bouncing into my room first, smiling. Behind her, I saw Sydni, my ex-wife Kim’s arm around her shoulder, ever so slowly walking in, her face drawn and frozen in fear. You know how Scottie and I would bond over our instincts to instantly size up threats when we’ve been out with our daughters? We’d compare notes on how, in a nanosecond, we’d scan a room to take the measure of who or what might pose a danger to them, silently drawing up a worst-case-scenario game plan. Well, that instinct kicked in when Sydni was so tentatively shuffling into my room. I could imagine what I must have looked like to her: very thin, lying in a hospital bed, tubes and IVs coming out of every part of my body … I quickly jumped up and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Syd, come here,” I said, patting the spot next to me.
She didn’t look at me, but she shyly stepped over and sat down. I put my arm around her. She was shaking.
“Are you scared?” I asked.
She nodded yes. Her eyes started to brim with tears.
“I know,” I said, softly. “I’m scared, too.”
I squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned into me, ever so slightly. I don’t have to tell you if you’re a parent: It’s the worst feeling in the world to feel unable to protect your child from hurt and fear. You want to make it all better, but you can’t. All you can do is let her know she’s not alone, that you feel the same way. And I was filled with fear—but also anger. This was why I hated cancer. Because it messed with my girls and I was powerless to stop it.
I started keeping them up to date on what the doctors were telling me. Before I had the stent surgery, I gave them the background. “We’ve been waiting on these stents from Europe,” I told them. “They’ve never been used in the States before. I’m the clinical trial here. Mine will be the only intestine in North America with these stents in it. Hopefully, it’ll open the blockages I’ve been having.”
That was new for us—I was letting the girls in on the details of my care. I still tried to avoid scaring them, but I wanted to be open with them. No more bravado, false or otherwise. A lot of times, what I had to say was hard for them to hear. “You can see, I’m getting worse,” I told them both individually.
As for the future, I could make no promises. “I don’t know when I’m getting out of here, girls,” I told them. “The doctors can’t tell me. I still have blockages and swelling. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was worried.”
They were scared, too, though they put a brave face on it. Once, when Kim came to pick them up, she texted me that she was waiting for them in front of the hospital. “How are they doing?” she asked.
“They’re good,” I texted back. “We had fun.”
“You said they were good,” she later texted. “Once they got in the car, they were in puddles.”
Hmmm. “They were cool when they left,” I texted back. “I’m in puddles every time they walk out the door.”
I guess we were still protecting one another. But at least now I’d made them a part of my care. This wasn’t just something happening to me—it was happening to them, too. And I was no longer shutting them out with false optimism.
We started to have these moments in that hospital room—real moments, emotional moments, silly moments. They’d come by, and Kristin would sneak off to Barb’s apartment for a few hours so the girls and I could spend time together. In my whole life, I’ve never basked in the glow of the now more than during those visits. We could be watching some silly video on Sydni’s laptop and I’d say to myself: My girls are here with me now. Taelor could have her head buried in a book: My girls are here with me now. Even when they started snapping at each other, I’d have a bemused smile on my face: My girls are here with me now.
Once Taelor went away to college in August 2013, I didn’t see all that much of her. Oh, we’d talk, of course, but we were leading separate lives. That isn’t a complaint—it’s as it should be. When I was in the hospital in September 2013 for those hellacious sixteen days, I saw her twice.
But now something was different. She’d call and ask how I was doing. I’d tell her not so good. “I’m so sorry, Dad,” she’d say. At first, she’d text and ask if she could come by. Then she’d just start dropping in. One night she came in all dressed up, holding two big bags. She’d been shopping and was meeting a friend to take in a Broadway play: Could she leave her bags here? Uh, yeah. It started to feel like, instead of a hospital room, I had a little condo and she had a key and she’d pop in whenever the mood struck her.
One time, we were hanging late at night and she started dozing off. I told her to lie down. “Dad, I’m not going to lie down in your hospital bed,” she said. I coaxed her into it. She fell asleep, my firstborn cuddled up with me. I couldn’t take my eyes off her—just like I did all those years ago, when I’d sneak into her room and watch her sleep.
Another time, she pulled up a chair by my bedside and opened a book. It was written by one of her favorite authors, Roald Dahl. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“You read to me when I was little,” she said. “Now I’m going to read to you.” I closed my eyes and her voice washed over me.
Just before Thanksgiving, I got word that I’d be going home. I could tell Taelor was sad. She was more withdrawn, her eyes downcast. She had a confession to make. “In a way, I’ve liked you being in the hospital,” she said, sheepishly. “I can come see you a lot.”
She paused. I thought: I hate cancer, but it’s given me gifts like this very moment. “You’re not busy like you usually are,” my little girl said, her voice breaking just a little. “I can have you all to myself.”
• • •
IT’S HARD TO PINPOINT the moment you hate cancer the most. There are so many finalists in that game. But there was one time during my seventy-five-day hospital stay that just might qualify.
Sydni was starting at a new school and she was making her varsity soccer debut. And I wasn’t going to be there for it. “Dad, it’s no big deal,” she said. “We’re not very good. We’re probably going to get killed.”
I said all the right “Dad” things about how important it is not to have a negative attitude like that, but the truth is I was feeling pretty negative myself. I lay in that hospital bed and wallowed. Cancer was keeping me from being there for my daughter. Pure hate.
But then something happened. My buddy Brian went to the game and FaceTimed me from it. Suddenly, I was there. I saw my little girl start at left wing. I saw her lead a rush in the first two minutes and push the ball wide of the net. I saw her barely miss a header in the first five minutes. She’s faster than these girls.
A few minutes later, she juked her defender on the wing and kicked a ball low to the outside corner, beating the goalie. “SCORE!” I yelled, at the top of my lungs—nurses and doctors raced in while Kristin and I screamed and high-fived and hugged. “My daughter scored a goal!” I said. Some of the nurses stayed to watch.
At halftime, with the score tied 1–1, Brian went to his car to charge his phone. I knew his kids had games, too: “Dude, this is a great present,” I said. “But I don’t want you missing your games.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “This is fun.”
Early in the second half, Sydni led a rush on the opposing goalie. She dropped a trailing pass to a teammate, who missed the shot. That’s when I noticed it. They’re double-teaming her.
Didn’t matter, though. Five minutes later, another rush; Sydni banged it in. Now it was a party. Nurses were hootin’ and hollerin’ and high-fivin’. With six minutes left and her team ahead 2–1, Sydni led another charge. Can you believe this? A freakin’ hat trick. My little girl was dominating. She was the straw stirring that drink!
To watch your girl, a freshman, dominate in a game of seniors and juniors on both teams is one thing. To watch her get taken out with two minutes left and see
her swarmed by her new teammates, to see her accepted in her new school, that was another altogether. And to have seen it at all, despite cancer’s best intentions … that’s priceless, man.
Kristin put a hat on my head and took video of me to send to Sydni: “I’m so proud of you,” I said. “The way you played, the way you hustled. Thank you for giving me one of the best days I’ve ever had at a hospital.” And then I tossed the hat to celebrate the hat trick.
“Thanks, Padre,” came Sydni’s quick reply.
I started the day hating cancer with a passion, and I ended it with love bursting outta me. That’s what cancer does: It messes with you, but it also makes your love so much bigger.
Speaking of big love: That hospital time gave me time with the girls, and it gave me time with God. It was an opportunity to practice my faith. I spent a lot of time praying, talking to Him. You know what my will is. Give me the strength to accept your will. If yours is different from mine, help me accept your will. And, please, as much as you can, take care of Taelor and Sydni …
Yeah, despite it all, despite the surgeries, the chemotherapies, and the pain, as I lay in that hospital bed after Sydni’s stirring soccer performance … I felt lucky once again. How lucky was I? Lucky to have a girlfriend who loved me enough to sleep on a cot and watch an entire game on FaceTime; lucky enough to have an elder daughter who would come and read to me in my hospital room; lucky enough to have a younger daughter who faced her fears with me and showed courage and class on the soccer field; lucky enough to have a friend like Brian, to whom I texted: “I don’t know how to say thank you. I love you. This was the greatest gift of my life.”
At the time, I thought: Cancer tried to keep me from seeing Sydni’s game, but I won. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this journey, it’s that it’s more complicated than that. To paraphrase a suave-looking dude you all saw at the ESPYs, you don’t beat cancer just by living—you beat it by how you live.
Call me a sap, but I love to watch old couples, walking hand in hand or arm in arm. Eating at a restaurant and actually talking to each other. The wife leaning her head on her husband’s shoulder. I see that and it assures me there is something as real as undying love. You know these people have gone through tough times, vicious arguments, sorrows, bad medical news, and yet … they’ve persevered. They got the how you live part.
I know now that I won’t have the gift of many years, but I hope Taelor and Sydni conclude that that’s the only thing I lacked. I know they will be kind and successful adults; that’s been a given for years now. But I want them to take something else with them. I want them to take note of every moment and to make them count, just like those old couples that make me so sentimental. To refuse to live life on autopilot.
You know that saying I love? That life consists of two dates with a dash in between? I hope my baby girls take this with them: Make the dash count.
EPILOGUE
Stuart Scott spent Christmas 2014 with his daughters, girlfriend, and family. He delighted in every moment with his loved ones and never stopped plotting his return to television. Early on the morning of January 4, he passed away. Hundreds attended the funeral at Providence Baptist Church in Raleigh, North Carolina. As the casket was carried from the church, the sounds of the old-school song “Rapper’s Delight” by the Sugarhill Gang filled the air.
The Scotts, late ’70s: Synthia, Jackie, Ray, Stephen, Susan, and me.
Jackie and Ray Scott modeled a lifelong, loving relationship for all of us.
The sibling Scotts wearing our special T-shirts at dinner, ESPYs week 2014: left to right, Stephen, Susan, Synthia, and yours truly.
Celebrating our parents’ 50th wedding anniversary (2008).
My first love: Catching a tight spiral in stride.
In 1993, I made my debut on ESPN2, “The Deuce.”
They’re two of the greatest athletes in history, but when I get together with Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan, our realest moments come when we talk about our kids.
In 2008, candidate Obama took me to the hardcourt house of pain. Dude’s got game.
Three days after a chemo session, I ran a Savage Race five-mile obstacle course through mud, over blockades, and under barbed wire, before swimming in ice-cold water.
My life changed when these two knuckleheads came into it. That’s Sydni, left, and Taelor, right. Being a Dad? Best thing I’ve ever done.
Sydni, left, and Taelor, right. Grown, but still my baby girls.
The same pose, a few years apart: Sydni head-locking her ol’ man.
Charles Barkley and Taelor share a birthday: Not a year goes by that Charles doesn’t call her, just like he regularly checks in with me to make sure I’m holding up.
Clowning on the links with my boys: That’s Brian Gallagher on the left and Doug Ulman on the right.
Kristin and I would say that life consists of two dates with a dash in between—and our job was to make the most of the dash. Man, did we.
With my longtime best friend, Fred Tindal, during one of our annual Daddy/Daughter Week getaways.
Bring it, chemo!
My peeps, sharing the 2014 ESPYs with me. Left to right: Bottom row, Jackie Harris, Susan, Deedee Mills, Synthia, Kristin, Amy Bartlett, Matthew Vujovich. Middle: Gerry Matalon, Sydni, Me, Laura Okmin, Mike Hagerty, Barb Lee, Shannon McGauley. Top: Scott Organ, Brian Gallagher, Stephen, Jackie Barry.
Robin Roberts gets it, because she’s been there. She’s not only been a friend, but a shoulder to lean on.
My littlest angel, Sydni, on the ESPYs stage with me as I get the Jimmy V Perseverance Award. “This is why I needed you here,” I told her, as we hugged tightly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Everyday I Fight was a labor of love, performed by an all-star cast.
THE PROFESSIONALS
David Black is much more than the Michael Jordan of literary agents. For this project he served as Stuart’s true advocate and visionary. The Black Agency’s Sarah Smith was a consummate, ever professional problem-solver.
David Rosenthal’s editing was rivaled only by his compassion and wisdom throughout this process. Stuart often described him as a “true mensch.” His Blue Rider Press team often went above and beyond: production editor Janice Kurzius, art director Jason Booher, designer Claire Vaccaro, managing editor Meredith Dros, associate publisher Aileen Boyle, and editorial assistant Katie Zaborsky. I also want to thank Hannah Keyser for her invaluable research and transcription assistance.
THE PERSONAL
Foremost in Stuart’s heart, Sydni and Taelor, his parents, Stuart’s closest friends in the “Tribe,” and his siblings, Synthia and Stephen, contributed tidbits, nuances, tone, and veracity in his absence.
Specifically, three special women contributed to finalizing matters in Stuart’s absence. Kristin Spodobalski shared insights and support for many experiences chronicled in Stuart’s last year. Under very trying circumstances, Susan Scott and Jackie Harris shepherded this project to completion, with great love, honoring Stuart and the way in which he lived at every step along the way.
Finally, a note about Stuart’s lasting legacy: As the preceding pages illustrate, Stuart was about family and was aware of how privileged he was in his fight against cancer. When he fought and worked out he always believed he was fighting for himself and other cancer fighters. Stuart’s wish was to continue the fight by starting a patient and family services foundation that gives cancer fighters and their families opportunities to lead normal lives—as he did throughout his battle. The Stuart “SOS” Scott Foundation, supporting cancer patients and families, will launch this year.
PERMISSIONS
Blue Rider Press gratefully acknowledges permission to reprint from the following material quoted in these pages:
“Cameosis,” words and music by Lawrence Blackmon and Aaron Mills. Copyright © 1980 Universal Music Publishing International B.V. All rights controlled and administered by Universal–PolyGram International Publishing, Inc., and Univ
ersal–Songs of PolyGram International, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
“What’s Up Doc? (Can We Rock?),” words and music by Kevin McKenzie, Roderick Roachford, Joseph Jones, Lennox Maturine, and Shaquille O’Neal. © 1993 EMI April Music Inc., Skratch & Source Publishing, Willesden Music Inc., CPMK Sounds, Zomba Enterprises Inc., Chrysalis Music, and Shaq Lyrics. All rights for Skratch & Source Publishing controlled and administered by EMI April Music Inc. All rights for Chrysalis Music and Shaq Lyrics administered by BMG Rights Managements (US) LLC. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission. Reprinted with permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
“What’s Up Doc? (Can We Rock?),” written by Kevin Harold McKenzie, Roderick P. Roachford, Joseph A. Jones, Lennox Maturine, and Shaquille O’Neal. © 1991 EMI April Music Inc., Skratch & Source Publishing, & Publisher(s) Unknown. All rights on behalf of EMI April Music Inc. & Skratch & Source Publishing administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
“I’m Bad,” words and music by James Todd Smith, Bobby Ervin, and Dwayne Simon. Copyright © 1995 Universal Music Corp., and Dwayne Simon Publishing Designee. All Rights on behalf of Dwayne Simon Publishing Designee controlled and administered by Universal Music Corp. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Ok, Here’s the Truth,” by Javier Colon and Tommy Sims. Copyright © 2011 Javier Cake Music Publishing. Reprinted with permission.
“The Most Moving Thing About Stuart Scott’s Speech at the ESPYs.” Copyright © 2014 . Reprinted with permission.
PHOTO CREDITS