Chapter Two

Growing up- Becoming.. Me

Since my history has been rewritten by others, I have no choice but to start at the beginning.

As people age, time becomes the most valuable word in their vocabulary. I don’t waste it on petty grievances or schoolyard nonsense. I’ve always preferred looking forward rather than backward—but reflection matters when the past shaped who you became. In this chapter, I’ll talk openly about that shaping, including the mistakes I made along the way. There is no other honest way to do it.

I was born on September 21, 1964, in Endicott, New York. My father was beginning his teaching career, and by the time I was young we had settled in Delmar, where both my parents worked in the school system. That meant eyes were always on me. It also meant expectations were clear, firm, and unavoidable.

Sports were a constant in my childhood. With a father who coached basketball and baseball, competition was less about winning than accountability. Outside of sports, some of my most formative time was spent in the woods—hunting, walking, learning patience and responsibility. I was introduced to firearms and bows early, and taught to respect them completely. That respect has never left me.

Middle school was where I first learned how poorly deception fits me. With both parents working in the same building, I tested boundaries in small, immature ways, mostly to claim a sense of independence. Looking back, the lesson was simple: truth always traveled faster—and landed softer—than dishonesty ever did.

One memory from that time has stayed with me for decades.

In fourth grade, I stepped between a friend and two bullies. Armed with nothing more than a sharp pencil and more nerve than sense, I walked him out of danger. Years later, at a reunion, that same friend greeted me with a single word he repeated twice: protector. He said he always knew that would be my path.

Two years later, I failed that standard.

Goaded by peers and eager to impress, I found myself in a circle of kids, confronting another boy—someone who posed no threat to me. I struck him. What I remember most is not the act itself, but the look in his eyes afterward. Not fear. Sadness. Embarrassment. Acceptance. A victim’s look.

That moment changed how I see people. To this day, I can recognize a victim almost instantly. That sensitivity was not inherited—it was learned, painfully, through regret.

Another lesson followed soon after, and it was far more consequential.

At fifteen, I made a stupid, immature decision that crossed a line. What mattered was not the prank itself, but the conversation that followed—the one where I was forced to face the harm I caused. I remember the woman’s trembling voice, the sadness, the violation. I have thought about that moment for most of my life.

Owning that mistake shaped me far more than any success ever could. It taught me accountability. It taught me empathy. It taught me that recognizing victims begins with acknowledging when you were the wrong one.

By my senior year, direction began to replace confusion. I became certified as a CPR and first aid instructor—teaching while others learned. Shortly after turning eighteen, I joined the Delmar Fire Department. Fire and EMS became my focus, my discipline, and eventually my calling.

I ran hundreds of calls in those early years. Many blur together. One does not.

In 1985, I responded to a cardiac arrest at the home of a close friend. I initiated CPR on his father before the ambulance arrived. He did not survive. He was healthy. Strong. Gone anyway. That call taught me something no training manual ever could: sometimes doing everything right still ends in loss.

Those years shaped me. They introduced me to the community, to medicine, to law enforcement, and to the shared culture of people who run toward trouble instead of away from it.

By the time I entered policing, I was no longer searching for who I was. I was becoming it.

And that path—once chosen—has a way of demanding consistency, even when the cost is high.