Why we named our son Michael Scott

When people found out we named our son Michael Scott, many assumed it was because of the character on "The Office" played by Steve Carrell and created by Ricky Gervais.
Sure, I'm from the Scranton area. Sure, Molly and I love the show. But anyone who names their son after a bumbling boss from a sitcom has issues. OK, we have issues, but not those issues. Anyway, it's about time we explained how we chose his name.
The funny thing is that so many people thought I'd name our son after a Major League hero.
Everyone joked that we'd name our son Cole, Cliff or Roy after one of Philadelphia's Four Aces, or Chase, Ryan or James, after one of the Phillies cornerstone players (Utley, Howard and Rollins). Even Molly thought I might push for a baseball name. 
I told her that if I was ever going to name my son after a ballplayer that I could be talked into Christy Mathewson or Lou Gehrig, but the only player that means enough to me to name a child after him would be Jackie Robinson.


He stands for nearly everything I believe in. That any person, no matter his or her background, can succeed at anything so long as you give him a chance. That it takes more courage to fight back through integrity, character and grace than it does to fight back with fists and words. That you stand up for what's right.
What I never expected was that she'd almost take me up on it. After I told her what that name meant to me, she walked around the house saying, "Hey, Jack," practicing calling after our little guy.
But before he was Michael Scott Abdalla, or even Jack Roosevelt Abdalla, he was nearly Robert Martin Abdalla.
That name would have come from Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King. They are two American figures Molly and I really admire. I pushed for Martin Benjamin, because I also admire Benjamin Franklin. But Molly really liked the idea of chasing a little Bobby around the house.
Yet, I kept going back to a name I'd wanted to use since my senior year of high school: Michael Scott Abdalla.
Michael would be after my brother, the man I most look up to in my life. He's always been there for me. He's a wonderful brother, father and husband. He's loyal, honest, full of integrity and amazingly talented.
Not once in my life did I ever turn to him and end up being disappointed by the wisdom and support he provided.
But I also felt a strong urge to honor another person I'll never forget: Scott Kryeski.
Scott lived across the street from me growing up. He wasn't just the youngest kid on the block - one of the few younger than me - he was the slightest, and, seemingly, meekest kid on the block.
He didn't come out often. I remember him watching the fireworks on the Fourth of July and saying, "This is better than Nick At Nite." I remember he had a cool "He-Man" sword.
He was a sort of prepubescent Boo Radley.
Then, shortly after I turned 10, I started watching WWF wrestling. It was a fad that lasted about three years.
One of the gifts it gave me was Scott. The two of us bonded over the Big Boss Man, Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake and Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat. Pretty soon we moved on and were playing Wiffleball and baseball with the other kids in the neighborhood. We also played some basketball, Scott's favorite sport.
The problem for Scott was that he was three years younger than I and far younger than most of hte other kids. Brian Sweeney and Sean Durkin were three years older than me; Brian's brother Billy was four years older. A couple of kids - Jason Peck, Brian Marx, Marty Montoro, Dave Barrett - were in the same grade as me or somewhere thereabouts.
So Scott got pushed around on the basketball court and picked last on the baseball diamond,
but he never really complained. He was gritty, gutty and even a bit brash.
Most of the group would play sports during the summer mornings, hang out at my house, McDonalds or the Sweeney's for lunch, and play some more sports in the afternoon.
At night, we played hide-and-seek in the neighborhood yards. (A friend at work has repeatedly asked me how I grew up in the 1950s despite being born in the 1980s.)
Scott never played hide-and-seek, though.
He had diabetes and his parents were rightfully worried something would happen while he was hiding.
Scott's diabetes and my mother's irrational fears of causing his death became a joke among our crowd.
One time, she caught him eating a cookie in our basement - she didn't know it was a sugar-free snack he'd brought from home - and said, "Scott, what are you doing?"
The 10-year-old, looked her dead in the eye, said, "Oh shit. Sugar," dropped to the floor and started flailing about like he was having a fit.
My mom screamed as she watched her fears come to life. All the boys in the basement laughed.
"That's not at all funny," she said.
It was probably one of the few times my mother didn't spring for pizza or snacks.
Anyway, as we got older, Scott and I grew close.
We started a routine where we played basketball games, up to 100 points, nearly every day.
The games weren't good. Though I'm not a good ballplayer, I was bigger than him, older than him, stronger than him. He rarely broke 50 points.
His mom asked me to go to one of his eighth grade basketball game.
I said sure.
What I saw amazed me. The kid who got pushed around on the court behind my house was nowhere to be found. I watched in amazement as Scott dominated the paint, pulling down rebounds with ease. He hit jumpers. He drove the lane. He made crisp passes. He blocked shots.
He was, without a doubt, the best kid on the court.
I noticed a girl in the stands checking him out. I was in a parallel universe.
After the game, he was all smiles.
Then one day, in one of our games to 100, he breezed by me on the baseline, threw in a reverse lay-up - I can still see him looking up at the ball through his glasses as it bounced off the backboard and toward the rim - and shouted "100" as the ball fell through the net.
He'd beaten me. There was no high-five. No congratulations.  I went to say something, but before I could, he'd started running into his yard, both fists in the air.
We continued playing regularly. Only he was becoming the better basketball player and football player.
Then came the pain. His elbow hurt. Tendinitis, they said.
They were wrong.
Scott had cancer in his elbow. Bad.
Pretty soon there were no more basketball games on the court behind my house, touch football games on Wylam Avenue, or baseball games on the sandlot field.
Scott was relegated to computer games. "NBA Jams," and such.
I would head over to his house after school and we'd play.  He dominated those games.
When the rest of us would play, he'd sit and watch. Sometimes he'd tease us about missing an easy shot. Tell us even he could make it.
But his left arm, well, it wasn't moving anymore. We were told he beat cancer, so we were happy for him. But along the way, his elbow was made useless.
So he would just sit on the curb while we played. Sometimes, he'd walk off to the side and dribble or shoot one-armed lay-ups while the guys chose up sides.
I arrived home from school one day when Scott called me and asked me to come over. He wanted to play.
As I walked across the street, I heard a familiar sound. Thump. Thump. Thump. Someone must have been dribbling a ball in the ally behind Scott's house, I thought.
I've never been more happy to be wrong in my life. I watched Scott dribble and shoot. I stopped in my tracks. He wasn't just shooting around. I had developed some moves. A one-armed push shot. A hook shot.
Scott didn't want to play "NBA Jam" but one-on-one basketball on a real court with a real ball and a real net.
I can't tell you what the final score was, but I can tell you this: Scott won that day. He might not have won the game. I remember being tentative at first. You don't want to bully a cancer survivor. But Scott didn't work that hard to have someone play soft against him. He yelled at me to play hard. So I did.
We continued playing like that. Scott went back to school. Life returned to normal for a brief while.
Then the cancer returned and it wasn't going to go away.
Scott was going to die, but because he was Scott, he wasn't going to go down without a fight. We played games on the computer, traded baseball cards. He became bed-ridden.
But in that summer and fall of my senior year, Scott taught me lessons I'll never forget. About loving life, cherishing friendships, to, as Don Quixote says, "reach for the unreachable star." All the stuff that makes cynics roll their eyes, Scott drove home and made true.
***
I was leaving the boys' lockerroom after school, thinking about cross-country practice. I remember the lights in the hallway not being on and thinking that was strange. I was making a joke with one of my teammates when I turned the corner and saw my mom. I remember her silhouette. Her purse hanging stiffly from her right hand.
I knew.
I walked toward her, hoping I was wrong.
She hugged me and told me Scott was gone. He would feel no more pain.
I should have felt relief at the last part. All my 17-year-old mind felt was pain and anger. My coach, Mr. Kearney, excused me from our practice - we were going to run at the opening of a rail trail in Scranton- with a pat on the back and some kind words.
I remember walking down the hallway, trying not to cry. Four classmates - Brian Marx (who would one day be my best man), Rhiannon Monahan (also in the wedding party), Steve Dowling and Missy Howells came up to me.
I had never felt so alone in my life. All four of them hugged me. It's amazing how the simple gestures stick with you. I'm not sure Rhi, Steve or Missy had ever met Scott. But I'll never forget that moment.
***
Today, a picture of Scott sits on our fireplace. It's after his first bout with cancer, but, I think, before his second. It's one of the few pictures of him I have.
Sometimes, when I'm alone with Michael, I carry him over to the picture and tell him about his uncle Mike, the most caring man I've ever known, and Scott, the braves child I'll ever meet.
We were at my sisters, before one of Molly's baby showers, when she said we should go with Michael Scott as the baby's name.
Maybe our next kid can be Jack Roosevelt or Robert Martin.
Maybe even Dwight Kurt after Eisenhower and Rambis.