For the Right Reasons (2 page)

In our conversations, Emily always flattered me. She’d said I was a “nice guy” and that I was “good.” Even more, she frequently used the word
perfect
to describe me. She said I was perfect in every way—that I possessed the qualities any woman would want in a husband. When she went on my hometown date, she met my two dogs, who are admittedly very well behaved, and said, “Even your dogs are perfect.”

That was just one of the not-so-subtle hints that made me think we were destined for each other. Another was that—in spite of what the viewing public saw at home—I did see the inside of Emily’s “fantasy suite,” but more on that later. What I’m trying to say is that I was shocked when Emily called out Arie’s name instead of mine.

The producers had taken out the Suburban’s middle row to accommodate the cameramen and staff who would take this final trip with me. The cameras were positioned about three feet from my face. This production team had been together for ten weeks, and I had grown very close to them all. But the last thing I wanted to do was spill my heart to the cameras.

I put my hand on my face and didn’t speak. As the Suburban wound through the island, I went through the evening in my head.
What did I do wrong? Didn’t Emily give me every indication that we’d spend the rest of our lives together?

“Sean,” one of the producers gently said. “What’s going through your mind?”

There I was, in a moment that would be televised to millions, in the unenviable position of explaining one of the worst moments of my life.

“It hurts,” I said. “A lot.” I could tell they needed more for the cameras, for the viewing audience at home, so I went on. “A lot more than I can probably describe. I’ve had all week to think about this. Never did I think I’d go home. All week, my thoughts were consumed with being a father, being a husband.”

“Why do you think it hurts so much, Sean?” the producer prompted. I could tell he didn’t want to be asking me these questions almost as much as I didn’t want to answer. Almost.

“I want to love someone with every ounce of my being,” I said sadly before looking out the window.

At the time, considering Emily had kept bad-boy Arie, I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that nice guys finish last. Somehow my image of being “good” and “perfect” seemed to hurt my chances for true love.

Of course, that ride of shame was not the end of the story.

If you watch
The Bachelor
or
The Bachelorette
, you know everyone is on a
journey
. That word is thrown around on the show a great deal, even more than the phrase
the right reasons
. But this book is about the very real journeys we all have to take. More times than not, our personal journeys are big disappointments. If you’ve lived long enough, you’ve learned the hard lessons of life: being good is right, but it’s not enough; betrayal is so commonplace it’s almost expected; and that thing called perfection is a cruel myth.

But I’ve learned a few things from my two seasons on the hottest romance shows on television. I’ve learned that good does eventually win, that lies will be discovered, and that nice guys do ultimately finish first.

So, together, let’s take a trip toward life, joy, and—yes—love.

one

THE GUY WITH POTENTIAL

“What if we transferred you to Lamar?”

My spoon filled with Cinnamon Toast Crunch paused, halfway between my bowl and my mouth, and I looked at him. It was a Sunday morning, I was a junior in high school, and I was scarfing down a breakfast of champions. My mom and sister were getting ready for church.

I should’ve been surprised that my dad had suggested such a thing. He is so stable that we’d lived in the same house on Woodenrail Lane since I was two, we’d never changed phone numbers, and we’d sat in the same pew at the same church my entire life.

But there were two things my dad loved more than stability.

Me and football. Almost always in that order.

When I was seven years old, he signed me up in a community peewee league. I’ll never forget walking onto the field that first day, knowing nothing about the game. My coach taught us how to throw the ball and how to run for a touchdown. It was basic stuff, but I thought it was fun to hang out with my friends, and I grew to love the sport. Some of my fondest memories happened while tossing the ball with a neighbor before my mom called me to dinner. On Friday nights when my sister was in high school, we’d go to the football games, and I’d stand behind the end zone imagining what it’d be
like to play under those lights. I dreamed of being in the players’ cleats and wondered if I’d be tough enough to withstand my own bumps and bruises.

As much as I enjoyed playing football, my dad loved me being on the team and was thrilled I had a knack for it.

By the time I got to Irving High School, a Class 5A school with two thousand students, I’d gotten pretty good. When I was in tenth grade, I was one of two sophomores to start on varsity. I loved being a Tiger, going to the pep rallies, and helping my team win games in front of a loud home crowd. When I was a junior, colleges began actively recruiting me. Then my coach moved me to defensive end, and it threw me off-kilter. Defensive ends are usually big, sometimes 275 or 280 pounds. I was only 180 pounds, and maintaining that weight was full-time work. I’d take two sandwiches to school every day, along with protein shakes. I ate constantly and drank weight-gain shakes every chance I could. My frame just couldn’t maintain enough weight to make me a good defensive end.

After every game, I was frustrated. “If I want to get a scholarship to a good school,” I told my dad, “I need to be a linebacker. It’s what I know . . . what I’m good at doing.”

It was halfway through the year, and I’d been wearing Irving’s black and gold for my entire high school career. I had a schedule, friends, and—honestly—a lot of fun at Irving High School. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my new field position was going to limit my college choices.

That’s why my dad brought up the far-fetched idea of transferring schools. Irving was the only home I’d ever known. More than just a Dallas suburb, we were a community in our own right, a community that loved football. In fact, our town hosted the Dallas Cowboys in our notable Texas Stadium with its iconic hole in the roof. Originally the roof was supposed to be retractable, but the engineers had misjudged how much weight it could bear. Instead, they left it open, which caused all kinds of problems—and jokes. People said the hole existed so God could watch his favorite team.

We lived about three miles away from that landmark, in a modest neighborhood. Mom never let me sit inside playing video games like some of my friends. “Go outside and play,” she’d say. My friends and I played basketball, football, and anything else every day until dinner. My sister, Shay, had graduated from Irving High in 2000 and was living with us as she attended college. Dad operated his State Farm office on MacArthur Boulevard. And we attended Plymouth Park Baptist Church every time the doors were open.

I had a strong lineage of Christian believers. My grandfather, a pastor, had the entire New Testament memorized. He baptized me when I was eight years old.

“I take Jesus into my heart,” I said before my grandfather plunged me into the cool water. Looking back, I’m not sure I really understood those words. I knew I shouldn’t lie, cheat, or steal, but I’m not sure I was quite old enough to understand fully what it meant to be a Christian. It didn’t hit me until a few years later, when I was at Latham Springs Camp and Retreat Center. We had scheduled events during the day—recreational time when we played softball and kickball, followed by group activities.

One night, the camp brought in a guest speaker who stood at the front of what was probably a pretty smelly group of kids. His message cut through the excitement of camp and washed all over me. It’s hard to recall the details of that night, but I vividly remember I cried at the thought of Jesus and his sacrifice for me. The gospel wasn’t about the fact that my parents were churchgoers or that I could—sometimes—make it through the day without lying or being mean to my sister. This is what sank in that day: I messed up all the time, but Jesus lived a perfect life. He loved me so much that he was willing to pay the penalty for the things I’d done wrong. He did that by dying on the cross. That meant I was forgiven. The cost had been paid. I was saved.

As he spoke, I felt forgiveness—and joy—wash over me. At the end of his talk, the guest speaker gave an invitation for us to come forward to commit our lives to God. As a sixth grader, I made my way out of my metal folding chair and went forward. Tears streamed down my face.

So I’ve known God pretty much all my life. Even when some of my friends veered off course during high school, I still believed. It’s interesting that Dad posed the question about switching high schools on a Sunday morning.

Sometimes you forget God is always there, nudging you in certain directions and planning good things for your future.

If I did transfer to Lamar, it would be a big change for my whole family. Lamar had a thousand more students than Irving. We’d have to move into a different school district, which would affect my dad’s commute to work and my sister’s drive to college. But mostly it would affect my mother. An interior designer, my mom had made our house into her little kingdom, and she made sure it was as beautiful and comfortable as possible. Did it make sense to uproot my family because of high school football? I looked at my dad standing in the door, and he seemed serious.

“Really?” I asked.

Dad nodded.

“Sure,” I said before stuffing the cereal into my mouth and taking a gulp of orange juice.

And that was that. Looking back, I’m not sure why I didn’t question this decision more. People sometimes pray more for parking spaces than I prayed about leaving my school a year and a half before graduation.

My parents put the house on the market. I was excited about the future and eager to get established in Lamar’s football program. Of course, that didn’t stop me from being a little choked up as I stuffed my clothes into a cardboard box and took down my Michael Jordan poster and my mini hoop. We found a new place to live within the school district—a temporary townhouse about fifteen minutes away from Lamar. Mom, I now realize, must’ve hated trading our home for a townhouse, but she never let on that she had been inconvenienced.