FAMILY-

I hope you can join me in New Providence on Sunday, June 7, walk and celebrate Jerry as our hero….

For as long as I could remember, life moved in seasons—not just spring and fall, but football and wrestling, and basketball; the gentle rhythm of a sports family whose year was measured not by holidays but by tournaments, practices, and the beautiful chaos of game days.

With three children exactly three years apart, there was always someone warming up, someone competing, someone telling stories on the way home about what could’ve been or what almost was.

LJ, the oldest, carried quiet confidence. He was a leader without trying, leveling the field with calm. Jerry, the middle one, was all momentum—fast, fierce, and bright-eyed. He didn’t just play sports; he seemed born for them. A natural athlete with instincts you couldn’t teach. On the football field, he moved as if the turf understood him. Coaches noticed it. Teammates fed off it. And at home, even Julia—bundled in oversized jerseys—knew her brother was something special.

Jerry wasn’t just athletic—he was life itself in motion. He had an energy that lit up rooms, drew people in, and made them feel seen. He was the kid you could count on, the one who gave the best hugs, whose smile carried warmth and joy into every corner he entered. He was born at 6:57 AM, and in a poetic symmetry that feels like his signature on the universe, he passed away on June 16, 2022, at 6:57 PM. His football number was 6, his brother LJ’s number was 57, and together those numbers now symbolize the love, energy, and connection they will always share. He leaves that energy everywhere, all the time—in hearts, rooms, fields, and lives touched.

On May 30, 2022, life split in two. Jerry had snuck out late to help a friend who had tried drugs for the first time. He did what he always did—show up for others. But in the darkness of that night, on a road not meant for children to cross, he was struck by a car.

The next sixteen days were a battle. Jerry fought in the hospital with the same intensity he showed on the field and in life. Every heartbeat, every breath, every moment was a testament to his strength. But on June 16, 2022, surrounded by love, he succumbed to his injuries.

Even in passing, Jerry’s giving didn’t end. Through organ donation, his liver and kidneys went to two women—one twenty-two, one forty-five—who would otherwise have lost their lives. Two families gained more time with loved ones because Jerry, even at fifteen, chose to show up in one final, heroic way. His energy, his loyalty, his life-saving spirit continued in heartbeat after heartbeat.

The loss shook the family to their core. We had always been close—eating dinner at the dining room table six nights a week, traveling together, cheering for each other, arguing, laughing, living every day fully together. That rhythm, that sense of unity, had been the foundation of our lives. And now it was broken.

But love doesn’t disappear. It transforms. Myself, John, LJ, and Julia learned slowly that they are still a family—and that Jerry was still part of us.

We couldn’t return to old traditions, but we could create new ones, honoring him in everything they did.

We do things #JerryStrong: no matter how bad a day was, we look for one good thing in it. Even in the darkest moments, there is always one spark, one reason to keep going. We carry this motto into every new day, every new practice, every new milestone.

I began my JerCare Love Bags—small pockets of positivity filled with affirmations, keychains, and little reminders that even strangers deserved kindness. Because sometimes the people who seem the angriest, loneliest, or hardest to reach are the ones fighting battles unseen. A single act of love, a single gesture of care, could change a life. And in that, Jerry’s legacy lives on in everyone he touched.

Sports, too, became our language again—but different now. Not about trophies, wins, or rankings, but about heart, resilience, and showing up. LJ returned to the field, not to escape, but to honor his brother. Julia followed in her own way, carrying Jerry in every cheer, every sprint, every game. His jersey hangs in the hallway, not as a relic, but as proof that he had lived fully and that his energy continues in us

One spring, the first that felt like spring again, LJ had a game. The stands were full, the sky bright, and the family held its collective breath. He didn’t speak of the ache, the memory, the absence. He played—strong, steady, unstoppable. And when he crossed the finish line, I felt pride without pain for the first time in months. Julia cheered loudly, LJ smiled, and the flame of a candle burned for Jerry at the table that night—flickering, bright, alive.

“What do you think he’d say if he saw us today?” Julia asked.

“He’d say we looked soft because we didn’t cry enough during conditioning,” LJ said, and laughter filled the room. A real laugh—one that held both joy and memory.

Jerry’s life was short, but it was fierce. He left a legacy at fifteen: a legacy of energy, love, courage, and selflessness. He taught us to fight, to give, to be #JerryStrong. His presence became the foundation for our new traditions, our daily acts of kindness, and the small ways we move through the world with resilience.

Loss does not end life. It reshapes it. And in reshaping, the Walther 5 discovered something powerful: you can grieve deeply, but still choose love. You can miss someone fiercely, but still create, still inspire, still save lives through kindness.

Jerry didn’t just leave memories. He left life—in the women he saved, in the energy that still fills rooms, in the laughter at the table, in the kindness passed forward, and in the family who continues to carry his spirit with them, every single day.

We live, we love, we give. We do it #JerryStrong.