jlc

Atlanta, by nature and geography, is a city of boundaries. ITP or OTP? Fulton or Dekalb? Lenox or Phipps? Was it wrong or right when we let that gorilla watch TV?

But the spirit of Atlanta is unity, singularity, solidarity and strength because of our diversity. It’s lemon pepper and chicken wings. It’s the Journal and the Constitution. It’s Antwan Patton and André Benjamin. Bones and The Varsity. The Plaza and the Fox. Bankhead and Buckhead. It is the Cyclorama and the “Squidbillies” episode about the Cyclorama. When Atlanta comes first, all other differences do not matter. 

And that’s why we need to bring back Izzy, the set-up-for-failure mascot of the 1996 summer Olympics. 

Izzy’s only real shortcoming was being completely ahead of their time. And really, that’s on us. 

The 90s were not the heyday for new mascots. After the Phanatic and the San Diego Chicken, we, as a nation, definitely slacked off in that area. We probably felt like we had succeeded and could move on to more important or serious things. But what is more important or more serious than the opportunity to represent our unique and multifaceted culture to the entire world through one, singular, six-foot-tall creature?

But how do you do that, exactly? How you you distill the culture of a city like this into one furry costume? How do you combine all of our disparate parts into something that resonates around the world? 

The answer, at the time, was this Frankenmascot of marketing executives’ opinions. You can practically see the art director’s exasperation in Izzy’s own eyebrows. The national and international media didn’t get it; talked shit about Izzy every chance they got. And then one of our own, Mike Luckovich, made fun of Izzy in our hometown paper, our daily operations manual, the Atlanta Constitution. Izzy wasn’t included in the Opening or Closing Ceremonies. Izzy was a victim of bullying from his own clique. The people who should have stood up and said something didn’t. And what happens when good people don’t fight back? Their weird mascot vanishes, never to be heard from or seen again. 

Atlanta is a city that, if anything, acknowledges failures out loud and pushes forward, hard. And just as there is no phoenix without a fire, there is no Izzy redemption arc without a rock bottom. 

Here and now, in 2024, I think Izzy would receive a much more polite welcome, honoring the hospitality the South is supposedly known for. In a time where we appreciate the esoteric and the abstract, and embrace Gritty, The Stanford Tree and that hideous abomination Mr. Met, I think we could give Izzy the chance they deserved. Because while Izzy may not directly represent much about our city — the Civil Rights Movement, President Jimmy Carter, Magic City, the world’s busiest (and most intuitively laid out) airport, Coca-Cola, the So So Def billboard, Fontaine’s, Killer Mike and Ted Turner — Izzy represents something you can’t categorize. Something you need to see to believe. Something that somehow shouldn’t work, but instead works just fine, thank you very much, and if you don’t like it, there is a Delta airplane waiting to take you, non-stop, anywhere else you’d rather be. 

So Izzy, if you’re out there, think it over. We’re not perfect, but that’s part of what makes you one of us. 

Last weekend, at a lake house, while everyone else was outside, my three-month-old niece and I had a nap on the sofa.

I wish and I hope she never has to fight for anything.

But I know she will.

Because when it was time to wake up, she had a fistful of my shirt in her hand and would not let go.

And I wanted to tell her she never has to let go. The future will need that fist and that grasp more than it needs almost anything else.

But she already knows.

The job I have, I mean, there’s something transcendental about it. I can’t really explain. It’s kind of like being in a cult? But it’s not a cult. We don’t have a compound. Actually, the way our job works, we all end up spread out, maybe just handful of us at each place who really get it. My last job I was basically on my own for almost ten years. My new job, I have a team of three (including me). 

In December, 2020, I applied for a new job. One of my friends was leaving her role, and thought I might be a good fit, so I applied. It took seven months, but then I got to move to Richmond, Virginia. While I was moving, all my stuff packed up in my old condo, en route to my new apartment, waiting on emails and calls from real estate agents and brokers, I watched “Ted Lasso.” I wept through the entire first season. (If you haven’t watched the show, basically, it’s about an American football coach who moves to England to coach a soccer team, in Richmond. Yeah, kismet.)

I have often compared my career — advising college student media — to college athletics. I can run the drills, the practices, give feedback after the games, but I’m not allowed on the court. Actually if I go on the court, it’s a foul. This is the way I explain it to outsiders. And my parents. 

But, I mean, the weeping, it wasn’t really sadness. It was recognition. Somebody, a lot of somebodys, they get it. What it means to be a fan, a supporter, the adviser. The Adviser. The person who straddles the fence, professionally, between college administrator and student advocate. It’s not easy, but for some people, it’s natural. It works. And we love it. 

And my friend Kelley loved it. And I am heartbroken she can’t see the next season. 

But, I’m also OK. If, in Kelley’s world, “Ted Lasso” never has a final season, then Kelley Lash never has a final season either. 

Kelley was it. Service leadership, students adored her, ultimate volunteer. I remember a convention where the airline lost her bag so she just went out and bought all her same clothes. She was most upset about her hair straightener. 

And she was a Georgia girl. We’re like a cabal, the Georgia faction of college media advisers. I don’t even work in Georgia anymore, but I’m still in the clique (shhh). Journalism is hyper-local, so our vibes are, too. 

But what Kelley really is, enduring, is kindness. Yes, I’ll add another slot of volunteering. Yes, I’ll talk to your yearbook students. Yes, I’ll go get cheesecake with you at midnight. Yes. Yes. Yes. The spirit of yes. The spirit of more, more, more. 

And that Kelley loved “Ted Lasso,” and that Kelley’s Twitter will forever be “Be curious, not judgemental,” well, it makes me want to cry just like “Ted Lasso” does. But it isn’t sad crying. It’s “I know” crying. It’s worry. How can I live up to her expectations? How can I honor her? How? I mean, I know how because I know I have to.

I can show up. I can work hard. I can think about her. I can think about her smile and know that if she was here, and I said hi, she’d smile at me. And that’s how I know I knew the real Ted Lasso. 

That’s it. That’s the post.