A Good Life

About this time each year I’d sit down over a beer and a pretzel to talk shop with James Craig - he was a good man, remarkable in many ways, unassuming to most, and an advocate for helping kids and struggling parents change behavior and manage through the tough early years of development, particularly when mom and dad got the word that their kid was on the autism spectrum. James would meet me about once a year every April somewhere in Philly or back in New York City where he grew up. We’d always seem to talk about the same three things - a hit and run play from last night’s ball game, our kids, and autism. That’s a strange but true collection of topics, but the familiarity made it comfortable. I’ll miss those talks. James passed suddenly from a late stage 4 cancer diagnosis back in January but left an indelible mark on his kids, his beloved wife, friends and the autism therapy community. He cut his teeth as a social worker spending much of his career helping raise the quality of care for autistic children maybe as much as anyone. He did it in quieter ways – one on with parents or in helping Beacon Health and Anthem figure out what centers of excellence could look like to help get kids to a goal in the most effective way possible. James would help me think through how to coach kids with autism spectrum disorders, how to understand their behavior and make the experience on the ball field a positive one. I once asked him for advice for an 8-year-old team I coached with Max who had the Tourette’s, Conor who had epilepsy and autism, and 4-5 others with varying degrees of development conditions. “Avoid too much instruction,” he’d say, “just keep it simple and, if I were you, I’d leave Max in the game and moving,” rather than chirping my ear off on the sidelines. We once came up with a bunt and run squeeze play involving Conor and Max that worked so darn well I had parents of children on the spectrum asking to move their kids onto our team. The Brooklyn native would always remind me some kids really need the help, some are misdiagnosed, and he’d discourage the idea that a one-stop-shop doing applied behavioral analysis, PT, OT, speech therapy and other things was best. “Each kid is different Bryan,” he’d say. “Just look at our own kids – but I’m not sure offering everything is the answer. The care and therapy have to be targeted, they probably have to change as the kid changes.” James helped me come up with a way to think about the weekly hours kids need, and the importance of progress and tapering. “Sometimes less is more,” he’d say. “I think a lot of the people have the right intentions, but this push to make the therapy an industry worries me.” You can’t hit and run with every baserunner every inning regardless of the count and score. He’d say autism therapy, like baseball, has to be situational and adapt to the conditions. I’d say James did that as well as any in his years. It’s tough that the cancer had to find him and take him just as he was easing into peaceful times in his community. “You want the rest of this pretzel?” he’d say, his left hand already holding it, his right eyeing the mustard. I’d smirk and get up from my chair and say, “You take it James - I’ll see you next year, same spot…”