Looking back at that week on my calendar, it was madness: coordinating flights and airport pickups, renting chairs, realizing we didn’t need chairs, figuring out the seating chart, trying to stay out of the kitchen while still pretending to help, making sure Manny registered for next semester’s classes, two community nonprofit dinners, two college football games in person, and countless on TV, an orthodontist appointment, a haircut, my annual physical, my parents’ anniversary, two friends’ birthdays, a dog training class, and three shopping center closings at work.

It was a championship week of life management. For many of us… that’s how we roll — full calendars, full hearts, calling audibles all day. We’ve trained to handle it all: careers, families, logistics, and goals. We call the plays, execute the routes, and somehow get everyone to the table on time.

And the trophy? Thanksgiving was fantastic! Twenty-four family members and friends around beautiful tables, eating delicious food, laughing, telling stories, and taking turns sharing what we were grateful for. We ran a thousand plays that week — but none of them were the one that mattered most.

There are dangers in looking back. The first is the “what if” trap — what if I had just… fill in the blank with any of the hundred things that might have made a difference in hindsight. The “what if” trap leads straight into guilt and blame. Be careful there.

The other trap is “we’re different.” That’s when we look at someone else’s tragedy and comfort ourselves by finding reasons it won’t happen to us. Well, Manny XYZ, that’s not our situation, so we’re okay. Whatever explanation you’re holding onto that makes your family different from Manny’s — I’ve met a parent who lost a child to suicide under those same “different” circumstances. The “we’re different” trap is the root of the “it’s not my problem” problem. Be careful there, too.

But there is an important reason to look back — not to find blame, but to learn. After every football game, the next day is filled with highlight reels, analysis, and commentary. Not to dwell on the loss, but to learn how to play better next time. That’s why I keep watching the film from last year’s game in my mind. Here’s what I see now.

Manny suffered from chronic depression. It began after his wonderful mother, Deena, died and was compounded by many other factors. But he’s no longer with us because none of us — starting with me — recognized the disease. He didn’t receive help. He died.

Depression, like cancer, can be fatal if undiagnosed and untreated. And like cancer, even with treatment, there are no guarantees. But it’s our job as coaches and family to fight like hell and give our players every chance to win.

Not every suicide is a shock like Manny’s. Some battles are fought openly for years. But the ones that aren’t — which may be the majority of teen deaths by suicide — those are the hardest to see, because we don’t know what game we’re watching.

Fans cried, “But he had so much to live for. Why didn’t he just say something?” Those are logical questions for a mind that’s functioning properly. “But Manny was the happiest kid we knew — with more friends than anyone!” That’s the crowd talking, cheering from the stands, unaware of the pain on the field.

We talk about mental health awareness, but most of us have no idea what mental illness actually looks like — even when it’s right in front of us.

With hindsight, the signs were there. A kid who, a few years after his mother dies, suddenly quits the sport he’s played since he was five. Who stops playing the drums he loved since he was eleven. Who turns down a job at the summer camp he adored and spends the summer “doing nothing.” Who goes off to college across the country, where no one knows him well enough to notice a change, and where, in November, it gets dark hours before he’s used to.

Then he came home for Thanksgiving. Slept most of the break. I even joked, “Manny, do we need to go clothes shopping? You’ve worn that same sweatshirt all week.” He didn’t see his friends. He skipped the night-before-Thanksgiving hangout and refused to come downstairs for Friday night dinner.

Any one of those in isolation could be totally normal for a college kid coming home. Besides, he made us laugh at the holiday table, jumped on the trampoline, played catch, went to a Disney movie.

But because we didn’t know any better — didn’t know what to look for, or that we should be looking — seventy-two hours later, when we learned that “the happiest kid we knew” had died by suicide, we wailed, “There were no signs!”

Oh there were signs. Nobody saw them.

Do you have kids coming home for Thanksgiving in a couple of weeks? Are you ready? For what’s really important?

Are you about to spend a lot of time preparing for a big meal and spend hours talking about football? Well, before things get too crazy, carve out some space on your mental plate to prepare for something else.

You might know when a turkey’s done cooking, but do you know your kid’s frontal cortex isn’t fully baked until around age 25? Sure, you’ve heard that — but do you understand what it means? That part of the brain controls decision-making, impulse control, and the ability to predict consequences. Combine that with lack of sleep, academic stress, and the substance use often associated with college, and you could have a recipe for suicide.

Do you know how depression can physically alter the brain — how neurons literally stop communicating?

I didn’t. I had no clue.

It’s one thing to appreciate football from the couch. It’s something entirely different to be on the field.

Here’s a Practical Game Plan I wish I had last year:

A Practical Game Plan

1. Read this book: here i am, i am me by Cara Bean. It’s an illustrated playbook for your kid’s brain. Read it before they come home.

2. Then hand it to them. Or leave it in their room and ask them to read it over break (it’s short).

3. Talk about it. Before they head back to school, carve out time for a real conversation. Ask what they think. Ask what they agree with — and what they don’t. Don’t lecture. Listen.

If I had this game plan last year, I believe things might have gone differently. We can’t replay the game, but we can study the tape — not to blame, but to coach the next generation.

Monday morning quarterbacking never changes the score. It won’t bring Manny back. But it can help you win the next and most important game you’ll ever play — the one that kicks off when your kids walk through the door this Thanksgiving.