Lance Stewart

Last December Chris Spatola sent me a book. Entitled “Endurance”, the historical account meticulously narrates the plight of Ernest Shackleton and his 27-man team that set to make the first land crossing of Antartica in the winter of 1914. After 10 months at sea, the crew become stranded when their ship, Endurance, became frozen, and eventually crushed, within the massive ice sheet leaving the sailors and their life boats 850 miles from the nearest civilization. “I’ve always found inspiration within these pages.” Chris wrote on a small postcard tucked within the front cover. “I hope you will find similar insight into the power of the human spirit as you embark on your journey.” Earlier that year I had been asked by ESPN to lead the college basketball production team, a squad responsible for the personnel on both sides our seemingly endless cameras. While I would never compare 1,400 live broadcasts to 800 miles of open Antarctic Ocean, the task felt similarly expansive at times. Calm seas could roll into angry squalls without a moment’s notice. As our passionate, ambitious roster of hundreds rightfully campaigned for bigger and better assignments, Chris was one of the few to sincerely inquire during a crazy transition from game producer to executive: “How you holding up in all this?” Such perspective spoke to his training in West Point and the experience of open combat in Operation Iraqi Freedom, for which he was recognized with the Joint Service Commendation Medal. The JCSM is awarded for “meritorious achievement or commendable service while assigned to a joint activity or defense agency involving multiple military branches.” I’ll admit I had to look up meritorious. “Worthy of high praise, reward or honor.” Personally, I prefer Jay Bilas’ less formal scout. “Chris was an Army combat veteran. High character badass.” That combat wiring fueled Chris’ broadcasting career. He was as intense on air as any analyst I encountered during my time in the producer’s chair. Meticulous eye for the game combined with low tolerance for anything below execution excellence. In moments when things would go sideways, a regular occurrence in the broadcasting world, Chris could run hot, which made our first few shows together an exercise in patience. I always respected the passion, even if it tended to fray my last nerve. He wanted the pictures in his mind to match those on the screen. Once he realized the feeling was mutual, we found that producer-analyst groove. The last game we worked together was in Winston-Salem, two seasons ago. My last before pivoting to “suit” life. We watched practices for a couple hours talking about anything and everything, one of his kids at his side. I’ve found those “hurry up and wait” type afternoons to be the hidden gems of the broadcasting road. Sure you’ll talk the open rundown and scouts on each team, but in between you learn about the wide spectrum of experiences that makes each person uniquely them. What guides their eye and powers their voice. The type of stuff you rarely find on Zoom, Teams or while combing through a budget. Chris’s background made him one of a kind. The image of Chris and his little one getting up shots in the empty Joel after practice that day sits vividly in my mind on this gray morning. That afternoon at Wake Forest turned out to be a memorable one. Wake upset #8 Duke. Deac fans stormed the court and hurt Kyle Filipowski in the process. Chris and Mike Monaco were sharp in the moment. Detailing the scene and analyzing the bizarre moment with clarity and conviction. I didn’t execute at that same level, rushing off the air too quickly and missing an overhead replay that captured the stampede far better than what we had documented in our closing sequence. Such are the details broadcasters grind about, especially in big moments. As I made a discouraged drive back to Charlotte down I-85 South, Chris called me with an unexpected word of encouragement. “You’re too hard on yourself.” He offered. “We all did what we could do in the moment. Plus, you know that overhead look will be looped on Sportscenter for the next week.” He wasn’t wrong, but the sentiment made me chuckle once I hung up the phone. This from the guy who had worn me out for years about our standards never being high enough. We traded texts earlier this month about the coming season. “I’m really looking forward to the year. Can’t wait!” Now he’s gone. At 47. After a day on the phone with dozens from our ESPN team, the common theme is pretty clear. We are crushed. Sort of feels like being lost at sea. I haven’t finished reading Chris’ gift, but made it through another chapter last night. Needed the reminder of what real toughness and grit look like. The map is in the title. Endure. It’s all we can do during life’s darkest days. Rest well, Chris. I hope, in some way, you can see all the outpouring of support in your memory. You will be sorely missed.

A new journey starts now