“The Real Deal Holyfield”

Weathering Loss, Chasing Sunsets and Cherishing the Real Deal

When I moved to West Michigan more than seven years ago, my late husband Matt wasted no time introducing me to the many memorable charms of what he called “the land of sunshine and rainbows.” Of course, I was skeptical of this ever-present sunshine he joked about. But he was right about one thing: living just a half-hour from the beach was undeniably awesome.

I will never forget it—our family of six clustered around the dinner table, when someone would say “isn’t it the perfect night for Lake Michigan?” In no time, we’d pile into the car, and in less than an hour the kids were launching themselves into the waves while Matt and I soaked in the view of our children having the time of their lives. And the pier and gorgeous sunset weren’t too shabby either.

Before heading home, we’d treat ourselves to ice cream from the Pier Peddler (Matt and I, anyway—the kids always went for those high-priced, neon-shaved ices). And as we cruised home from our lakeshore adventure, Matt would always point out the new-to-me, local phenomenon known simply as “the weather ball.”

About half-way through our trip back, Matt would smile and point out the quirky landmark proudly maintained by a local TV station. For decades, this glowing orb has been a reliable staple in the West Michigan community, its changing colors forecasting the weather at a glance, complete with its own little rhyme: “Weather ball red, warmer ahead; weather ball blue, cooler in view; weather ball green, no change foreseen; blinking bright, rain or snow in sight.”

Empty Seat, Heart Full of Memories

Since Matt’s passing, my emotions shift much like the weather ball. Always changing, always unpredictable. Some days, grief rolls in like a thunderstorm—sudden, loud, drenching everything. Sometimes it lingers like a heavy fog, refusing to lift and obscuring any sense of direction. But every now and then, a shaft of sunlight breaks through the overcast, and in that rare calm, I find myself able to breathe more easily, warmed for a moment by memory or laughter before the winds shift again.

I’ve discovered that my best line of defense as I weather this grief storm has been the power of memories—and laughter is my secret weapon. Swapping stories about Matt with family, friends or even total newcomers has become my lifeline. This past year and a half, I’ve found myself sharing tales about him with people who didn’t really know him (this blog being one of those outlets), and it makes my heart happy when they say things like, “I wish I’d met him” or “he sounds incredible.” Whenever someone asks to see a photo, I show them that classic grin of his, and their faces say it all: Matt was the “real deal Holyfield,” a line he would always say about something or someone that was one-of-a-kind. And he certainly was.

I was reminded of Matt’s legacy just this past week. One of his lifelong best friends, who was a rockstar baseball player throughout high school (and beyond) was finally going to be inducted into their school’s Athletic Hall of Fame—recognition Matt had thought was long overdue. I was honored to attend the induction ceremony, which not-so-coincidently was held at a venue where Matt used to work. Throughout the night, countless people approached me to share Matt stories – some hilarious, some touching – about the laughs, the loyalty and the pure goodness he brought into their lives.

During the ceremony, with a seat painfully empty next to me, the ache was real. He should’ve been there, showing his pride for his “brother” and cracking jokes with his best buddies. But as the stories poured in, what hit me was this—Matt’s impact rippled far beyond our circle of family and friends. He wasn’t just missed; he was unforgettable.