I wear my forklift keys and St. Christopher chain around my neck every day.
One is a reminder of where I come from—the dock, the fire, the work that doesn’t move unless you move it.
The other is a reminder of what protects me when the world goes insane.
Years back in Kansas City, I walked onto a dock with my boss and straight into a scene out of Hoffa. A Teamsters BA and SOA were waiting—furious about scab operators. My boss didn’t even know if he’d ordered them. I had to step in.
Because of my lineage, my connections, and my ability to communicate, I figured out the other guy with his name had made the call. That day, I walked out with the KC Teamsters as allies. Later, I shook hands with the CEO of one of the biggest fast-food chains in the world. Both rooms. Same day.
That’s where my crazy shows up—in the fire. It’s hard for me a lot of times to take minor things seriously. People leadership is hard, it’s like having hundred kids. I didn’t want any of them. Now they’re the only thing that keeps me going. Sure ain’t Bama.
Morgan Wallen said it best: “I’m a little crazy, but the world’s insane.”
The world hurls chaos, and my crazy catches it before it burns the whole dock down. That’s why it feels like I’ll always be anchored here. We’re the conduit—between underworld and overworld, dock and boardroom, freight line and skyline. More important than anyone dares admit. We’ve seen the future.
Before I ever rolled a crate into a convention center, my dad (youngest of 14 kids from middle Georgia) was already on the dock—moving freight for the world wide leader in events. The kind of work where the show doesn’t open unless the freight makes it. My mom was in the middle of the action in Chicago in the early ’80s, working for Joseph G. Kordsmeier—a Hall of Leaders legend in an era when names like Bob Lozier were redefining what hospitality meant. Back then, freight crews and executives didn’t just trade emails—they knew each other’s kids’ names.
Somewhere between McCormick Place’s loading docks and the ballrooms upstairs, the Southern freight man and the Chicago hospitality woman met. And that’s where my story began.
This week, I found myself back in Chicago—and then in St. Louis—covering two major events. On paper, they’re just stops on my route. In reality, they’re part of my family’s map. When the coal mines in Kentucky dried up, my mom’s family split three ways. One brother stayed in Kentucky, one headed north to Chicago, and one went west to St. Louis. Survival turned into roots, and those roots shaped the paths that would eventually cross and create my own.
Walking those streets, working those halls, I could feel the overlap—family history layered under industry history. Chicago, with its grit and skyline, holds one chapter. St. Louis, with its riverfront and steel backbone, holds another. And the Southeast? That’s still in my blood, the ground my dad stood on before he ever came north.
This industry has polished me in its own way—the kind of polish you get from running with gangsters and executives in the same week. I have just as many friends seeing parole boards as I do friends sitting on them. That’s what this business is: where the underworld and the overworld meet. And me? I’ve always been the seal of transfer between those two worlds.
Being in those two cities this week wasn’t just travel—it was a reminder. The freight line I run today isn’t just about moving crates from point A to point B. It’s a line that runs back through coal towns, loading docks, hotel ballrooms, and family kitchens. It’s the line that brought my parents together and, in a way, set my own purpose in motion.
If all that talk about purpose is real—maybe this is mine.
I was raised in and out of Atlanta. This is my pops. He’s from Techwood.
Zone 6 to Marietta. Different houses. Move in around all the time until setting in the suburbs. I think my pops moved to ATL when it was for the poor and moved us out to the country when the A got taken by the rich again before the 96 games.
Mid-’80s through the early 2010s.
Before it got curated. Before it got safe.
It was loud, dangerous, and beautiful in its own way.
You learned early how to walk, how to wait, how to speak when it mattered — and how to survive when it didn’t.
That kind of upbringing doesn’t leave you.
It sharpens you.
And it teaches you how to move through places where most people would rather lock the doors and look the other way.
Now I run freight through five of the most violent cities in America:
Memphis. Cincinnati. St. Louis. Louisville. Indianapolis.
You don’t have to take my word for it —
just read the data.
This is not a real photo of me and ZBO. Go Grizz!!
Year after year, these cities land in the top ten for homicide rates in the entire country.
Memphis was number one not long ago. I’m
St. Louis held the top spot for years.
Louisville and Cincy stay hovering in that top tier.
Even Indianapolis — cleaner on the surface — has quietly climbed the charts.
We’re talking about major American cities where the murder rate rivals international war zones.
And still — the show must go on.
Trade show freight doesn’t pause for gunfire.
Labor calls don’t reschedule for neighborhood shootings.
The rig still rolls in.
The dock still opens.
The freight still lands — on time.
Because it has to.
I don’t run freight through quiet towns and polished markets.
I run it through cities that are breaking and rebuilding at the same time.
Where mayors hold press conferences while crews patch bullet holes in the loading dock wall.
You think that’s dramatic?
Ask anyone who’s worked a show in North STL.
Ask a dock boss in South Memphis.
Ask a steward in West Louisville.
This ain’t fantasy.
This is business in 2025 — in America.
And this business?
It doesn’t care about your comfort.
It only asks:
Can you deliver in a city that’s falling apart?
Because if you can’t — someone else will.
Someone tougher.
Someone local.
Someone who knows how to lead not in theory, but in chaos.
There’s nothing polite about these cities.
Nothing predictable.
But I don’t run from that.
I run toward it.
Because someone has to.
The show has to open.
The freight has to move.
And the city — no matter how bloody it gets — still needs the work.
So no, I don’t operate in sanitized environments.
I operate in statistical murder capitals —
with real risk, real labor, and real lives on the line.
And still, we get it done.
Every. Single. Time. Oh yeah BUY A SHIRT in the store!!!
