The Half Time Show
Switching responsibilities calls for a half time show
Leftwich rolls to his right slowly, taking five, then six, then seven steps outside the pocket. The pass protection begins to break down, and the precious seconds of relative safety provided by his offensive line start to slip away.
A linebacker breaks free from the left tackle and charges straight at Leftwich’s left arm, which holds his most valuable possession at this moment—the football.
However, the rollout to the right has created an opportunity. His slot receiver has had enough time to sprint downfield and elude the safety. Fifteen yards past the line of scrimmage, the receiver fakes cutting toward the sideline, planting his left foot hard while turning his shoulders in that direction. The safety bites on the fake, and as soon as he does, the receiver plants his right foot and accelerates upfield.
He then turns his shoulders to the right and raises his left hand, signaling to the quarterback.
Milliseconds before Byron Leftwich is crushed by the 225-pound missile of a middle linebacker, he catches a glimpse of his receiver’s waving hand. Without hesitation, he raises his arm and lets the ball fly. The next thing he knows, he’s lying on the ground, the roar of the crowd filling his ears.
Byron Leftwich had just thrown a 70-yard touchdown pass to a wide-open Darius Watts in the second half of the 2001 GMAC Bowl. But beyond the excitement of a long touchdown pass was the fact that this moment jump-started one of the greatest, yet often overlooked, comebacks in college football history. Before that touchdown, Leftwich’s Marshall team trailed 38-8 at halftime. They had been utterly dominated by the East Carolina Pirates in the first half. According to ESPN’s Win Probability Model (which uses historical data and real-time game stats), teams in such a deficit typically have a win probability of 0.05% or lower.
Then the 70-yard touchdown happened. Then another. Then an ECU fumble. Then another touchdown. And another. What followed was a wild, back-and-forth battle. When the clock hit zero, Marshall had not only won the game, but had also completed the largest halftime comeback in college football history, securing a 64-61 victory.
The Abba Halftime Show
Every weekday around 5:00-5:30 p.m., I perform one of my daily rituals: the commute home. For me, it’s a 30-minute highway drive from my office west of Denver down to our little suburban oasis in Littleton, CO. But this drive is more than just 30 minutes of enduring metro traffic.
It is the distance and time between my responsibilities at work and my responsibilities at home.
I used to dread the commute home. I still do sometimes, to be honest—not because of the drive itself, although the potholes on Colorado highways could test even the most virtuous.
No, it’s because I’m absolutely exhausted. By 5:00 p.m., I’ve already been up for 12 hours. I’ve exercised early in the morning, gotten the kids up, driven my oldest to school, and worked a full day packed with meetings, phone calls, crucial conversations, and decisions for eight to nine straight hours.
And when the drive is over, I’ll walk through my front door into a war zone.
A war zone of a tired wife who has been wrangling kids all day. A war zone of tired, grumpy, and hungry kids who, by 5:30 p.m., are a mix of annoying, fierce, cute, and aggravating. The youngest somehow always saves his poopy diaper for the exact moment I step through the door.
All I want to do is escape upstairs, lock the door, and only come out when the little monsters are finally asleep. I’ve been pouring myself out all day, and now I have to dig deep for the next two hours—getting through dinner, story time, pajamas, and prayers—before my wife and I wrestle them to sleep and claim our precious 90 minutes of rest before doing it all again the next day.
Most of the time, it feels impossible.
Orange Slices & Gatorade
Thinking back to Marshall’s incredible comeback, I wonder what that locker room was like at halftime. Down by 30 points in the last game of the season. Completely outplayed. Facing a win probability of less than 0.05%.
Something special must have happened in that locker room. Maybe it was the Gatorade and orange slices. Maybe it was an impassioned speech from Leftwich or the coach. Maybe it was simply a team culture that refused to accept defeat.
Or maybe they understood that the second half is what really matters. That no matter how badly you play in the first half, it’s the second half that defines winners and losers. That effort has to be sustained all the way to the end.
The Commute = My Halftime
I’ve realized that my commute home is my halftime. It’s my time to mentally and spiritually prepare for the second half of my responsibilities. To battle against the selfishness that creeps in the minute I open the front door.
This next 90 minutes is crucial to my kids, who have been looking forward to seeing me all day. It’s crucial to my wife, who has been carrying the burden of care in my absence. And it’s crucial to me, as a man who wants to lead my family well.
I used to spend my commute tuning out—listening to audiobooks or podcasts, enjoying a little “me time.” But that would be like Byron Leftwich eating a Big Mac at halftime of the GMAC Bowl. I need to prepare, not escape.
Now, I try to treat my commute like the halftime it is. I spend some time in prayer, asking for the grace to enter my home well. I allow silence, rather than filling my mind with distractions, so I can walk through the door with peace instead of stress. And when I pull into the garage, narrowly missing the bikes and scooters littering the floor, I try to see it as my tunnel, running out onto the field for the second half.
And sometimes I fail. I retreat to my phone to avoid my kids. I lack empathy for my tired wife. I snap at my kids during bedtime routines. But sometimes I win. And when I take halftime seriously, I win a lot more.
Where’s Your Halftime?
Maybe you don’t have a 30-minute commute. Maybe you don’t have a wife and kids waiting for you. But you still have halftimes—those transition moments between responsibilities.
The drive to meet a friend after work. The ten-minute break between meetings. The moment you close your laptop and shift from work mode to home life. The gap between the gym and your next obligation. The time before a Bible study you’re tempted to skip because you’re “just extra tired.”
Whatever it is, an Abba treats this time with reverence. He prepares himself mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually for what’s ahead. He doesn’t escape; he gets ready.
A wise man once said:
“Great souls pay much attention to little things.” (The Way, 818)
“Do what you ought and concentrate on what you are doing.” (The Way, 815)
This Substack is about fostering a community of men who don’t run from responsibility but embrace it. If this resonates with you, like and subscribe. And share it with others—because we need a generation of men who step up.
And if you know a man who needs this message, share it with him. It could be the moment he finally steps into his role as Abba—in his family, his work, and his life.
Next week, I will share my experience of initiation into Abba-hood at the macro and micro level and how it continues to shape me today.
Chasing What Matters
CHA,
John Michael Lucido