With the kids of the Jimmy Fund, Brock Holt finds his calling, and a home
With a week to go before Christmas, Brock Holt’s oversized black pickup turns off of Brookline Avenue and up to the front door of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Brock and his wife, Lakyn, know exactly which entrance to use. And, no, they don’t mind taking the stairs.
In two days, they’ll celebrate their son’s second birthday. In three days, they’ll fly to visit Lakyn’s family in Pennsylvania. But on this frozen Boston morning, they have an appointment with Santa Claus in the third-floor lobby of the Jimmy Fund Clinic.
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“Nice to meet you, Santa,” Brock says, greeting his partner for the day. “This is my wife, Lakyn. I know you’re busy this time of year, so this is very nice of you.”
There are no kids around. This is simply the way Brock Holt talks to Santa Claus.
“Come on, Santa,” Brock says, as the Holts gather for a picture with a cart full of gift bags from New Balance. Each bag is loaded with items Brock and Lakyn personally selected. There are soft blankets and fuzzy socks. The basic theme is warmth and comfort. The Holts had asked to stuff the bags themselves, but New Balance talked them out of it. The shoe company has people for that sort of thing.
With their picture taken, Holt removes the novelty Santa hat he’s been wearing and replaces it with a backward brown baseball cap. Lakyn’s mother is a teacher outside Pittsburgh, and her students made dozens of red holiday cards, which Lakyn holds in a bag to give the kids. Brock holds another bag chock full of 125 Dunkin’ Donuts gift cards, which he and Lakyn picked up the night before.
They’d walked into a Dunkin’ Donuts unannounced, and the poor guy working the counter thought they’d requested 10 cards worth $125 apiece. No, they’d explained, they needed 125 cards at $10 apiece. The guy had to run the cards through the register, one-by-one, and it’s a wonder they had enough in stock. Brock said you wouldn’t believe how long it took, or the length of the receipt.
Six years ago, Brock and Lakyn were another rootless, itinerant baseball couple. Brock debuted with the Pittsburgh Pirates in September 2012, and Lakyn was his soon-to-be fiancée from nearby Punxsutawney. They were looking forward to the idea of settling somewhere — and then Brock was traded to the Red Sox three months later.
Boston was an unfamiliar city, far from Lakyn’s family and even farther from Brock’s in Texas, but as Brock played his way into mainstay status as the Red Sox All-Star utility man, the Holts’ roots took hold all around Fenway Park, nourished by the kids and families they met at the Jimmy Fund Clinic.
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“We came here, and everything about being here felt like home,” Lakyn says. “Like, it’s always felt like home to me, and this is what I call home.”
The Red Sox’s connection to the Jimmy Fund dates back to Ted Williams. It’s ingrained in the team’s history. Mo Vaughn, Roger Clemens and Tim Wakefield were renowned for their work with the Jimmy Fund. Former Red Sox second baseman Mike Andrews became the Fund’s chairman.
But Brock’s commitment rivals — or perhaps exceeds — any who came before him. He’s been the Red Sox Jimmy Fund Co-Captain the past four years, regularly welcoming and entertaining large groups of patients at the ballpark. When he and Lakyn visit the clinic itself, they’re greeted by staff who know them by name and ask about their young son. When Brock walks the clinic floor, he reaches out with both arms to sick kids and worried parents.
“I’ve never seen anyone better, in any sport,” said Lisa Scherber, the Dana-Farber director of patient and family programs, known affectionately as The Play Lady for her own ability to connect with kids.
The Jimmy Fund Clinic is, unmistakably, a cancer center. It’s filled with ailing children and strung-out, beleaguered adults, and every so often, there’s someone crying. But, if you can believe it, the Jimmy Fund Clinic is not a place of sadness or despair. There is energy and hope, and for those families who have lost those two things, there is comfort and support.
“It takes a whole village,” Brock says. “It takes a whole family. And the more people we can have in that village rooting and being part of it and loving on each other, the better off we’re going to be.”
Through the door and into the clinic, the first kid Brock sees gets an immediate, “What’s your name? Nice to meet you, buddy. Want to follow me over here?” Brock knows the big common area is right around the corner, and that’s the best place to stop and talk. He meets a 5-year-old in a red mask.
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“What’s your name?” he asks. “Spider-Man? Nice to meet you Spider-Man, I’m Brock. … I’ve never had a picture with Spider-Man before. This is exciting for me.”
Just a few feet away, another kid is reading “Little Blue Truck’s Christmas.” No one asks whether Brock knows Little Blue Truck, but his son is about to turn 2, so of course Brock knows Little Blue Truck. He sits down to read about a pickup delivering Christmas trees and instinctively moves through the story quickly. His audience’s attention span is limited.
“That’s how our son is, too,” he says. “Just flip the pages.”
The next kid he meets is shy and hides his face. Brock eventually gets him to high-five. The next girl, same thing. Brock puts his arm around her and gets her to laugh. The girl in a wheelchair, wrapped in a blanket, wearing a Santa hat with the name Kayleigh on the front? She’s quiet too, but Brock asks about her sweater, and she shows it off. Lakyn kneels down so she can talk, too. By the time they take a picture, the girl is smiling for the camera, and Lakyn is hugging her mother.
Into the room comes a kid attached to an IV. He puts candy cane stickers on Santa and Brock, then sticks some on himself.
“Ethan,” someone tells him. “What do you want to tell him about your Dada?”
“He loves you!” Ethan exclaims.
It takes some wrangling to get Ethan to settle in for a “serious picture” because he keeps playing with those stickers, and Brock keeps reacting in ways that make him laugh. When Ethan shows off his “superhero muscles,” Brock flexes his own. When Brock hands him a gift card, he offers Ethan two options: buy yourself a doughnut or buy your mom a coffee.
“I’m going to buy you a coffee,” Ethan whispers to his mother. She tells Brock and Lakyn what the boy said, and they smile. When another family asks for a photo, Brock holds the iPhone himself to take the selfie.
Funny story about those gift cards: They were Lakyn’s idea. She’s been to the clinic enough times to know there are two Dunkin’ Donuts nearby, and she’s talked to enough frazzled mothers and fathers to know they might appreciate a cup of coffee while they step away to catch their breath, but she wanted a second opinion.
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The Holts were visiting their friends Shaun and Karen Clarke, and Lakyn asked their opinion on the gift card selection. The Clarkes agreed. Dunkin’ Donuts is a good fit for Jimmy Fund families. And the Clarkes would know.
Their 6-year-old son, Nixon, has acute lymphoblastic leukemia. That’s how they met the Holts in the first place. Nixon was diagnosed at Thanksgiving in 2017, and the family nearly lost him last December, but now Nixon’s focused on his “forever cure.” He’s in the clinic awaiting injections that he knows are going to hurt, but in the meantime, he’s teasing Brock about his “Mario Kart” video game skills.
“I’m No. 1!” Nixon says. “And you’re No. 2!”
Nixon had his own brush with fame a few months ago. Brock was being interviewed by NESN before the World Series parade and got distracted by a kid screaming his name. That was Nixon, with his brother Hamilton, inside a Duckboat filled with Jimmy Fund kids. Holt was still on television when he walked away from the reporter, and still within earshot of the microphones, began calling the kids by name as he high-fived his way along the open windows.
WATCH: Brock Holt gets excited to run into his friends at @TheJimmyFund during an interview with @MichaelaNESN
— NESN (@NESN) October 31, 2018
“It’s not about baseball; it’s not about cancer,” Karen says. “(Brock) has a genuine connection and interest in each child. … The guys just want (to meet) an awesome human, and he really connects with the boys.”
Nixon and Hamilton first met Brock during a Jimmy Fund trip to Fenway Park last season. The Clarkes are Australian and knew little about baseball, but the boys tasted Gatorade for the first time because Brock gave it to them, and they were big fans after that. When Karen reached out on Instagram to thank Brock for being so good to her sons, she was surprised when Brock wrote back. When Brock found out Nixon had developed pancreatitis and would have to miss a week of school, he asked if he could FaceTime. Lately, Nixon and Hamilton have been teaching Brock an Australian accent, and the Texas-born infielder has been playing along, even if it’s not going as well as he thinks.
“Terrible,” Karen says, laughing and shaking her head.
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“He thinks it’s good,” Shaun adds, smiling.
In the clinic hallway, Brock meets a 27-year-old patient, and the two talk baseball for a bit. It’s one of the few times a patient clearly knows he’s interacting with a major-league baseball player, but this particular patient is apparently a fan of another team.
“We had to beat them,” Brock says. “I’m sorry.”
The guy laughs.
Farther down the hall, a girl’s mouth and nose are covered by a surgical mask, but there’s no mistaking her smile as she poses for a picture. Brock asks if he can take a picture with another kid wearing a Santa hat, and Santa himself explains that he has a way of determining whether the kid is on the naughty list or the nice list.
Santa reaches out to touch the kid’s nose, and after a second or two, Santa’s extended fingertip glows red.
A good sign. Nice list it is. The kid smiles.
At the end of the hallway is a big room with a large nurses station, and all around are big comfortable chairs next to tall, menacing IV stands. It’s an infusion room where kids sometimes sit for eight hours at a time having chemotherapy pumped into their veins.
It’s a gut-punch of a room, a reminder of what’s really happening in this place, but Brock is Brock, and Santa is Santa, and kids are kids, and so walking from the noisy lounge into this place of medicine isn’t as jarring as it should be.
Brock sees a girl named Charlotte on the far side of the room and heads over. Charlotte’s shy, and she seems tired, but she agrees to a photo, and Lakyn waves from behind the camera so that she’ll look at the lens. When the group moves away, Brock lingers. Charlotte is clearly more comfortable with fewer people around, and soon she’s looking Brock in the eye and even smiling a little. Nurses are gathering nearby for a picture with Brock — they clearly know him and give him a big ovation when he walks over — but for the time being, Brock’s only focus is this private moment with a sick little girl.
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He eventually takes the nurses’ photo, sitting front row right next to Santa Claus, then moves into a stem cell transfer room to speak to a patient with a contact precaution. Brock’s told not to touch. Again, he’s unfazed.
“No snuggles!” he announces as he walks through the door with a smile bigger than a hug. The door closes behind him, but through the window, it’s easy to see him standing right next to the bed, pulling gifts from his bag, talking nonstop and pointing to the pictures on the red card sent by his mother-in-law’s students.
Out of that room and into another. Brock enters this time with both arms up, giving a peace sign with each hand.
“Aaron!” he says. “You know Santa Claus, right? You don’t need me to introduce you?”
Aaron also gets the finger test. He’s also on the nice list.
“You haven’t checked me yet,” Brock says, feigning indignation.
“I was saving you the embarrassment,” Santa deadpans.
But, sure enough, Brock passes the test. Santa’s finger glows red, and the two are on their way to the next room.
Brock and Lakyn have been parents for two years now. Their son, Griffin, is a tiny, bespectacled bundle of smiles and energy who loves to throw a baseball and roll a toy car. Having Griffin, Brock says, didn’t change the way he felt about the Jimmy Fund — he gravitated to those kids long before he had one of his own — but it did offer fresh perspective.
“You know, being a dad is something I’ve always wanted to do,” he says. “It’s the only thing I ever, really, wanted to be. … Having Griff, and knowing how much I love him, and knowing that these moms and dads (at the clinic) have that same love toward their kids, and they’re having to go through what they’re going through, that’s tough. I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like knowing you’re just there for support. There’s nothing you can do. You can’t take it away, and that’s all any parent wants to do.”
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Brock and Lakyn remain devastated by the loss of Maddie LeClair, a 15-year-old who died in 2017 after two years, nine months and three days of osteosarcoma treatment. Maddie’s mom says, even on the hardest days, her daughter’s eyes lit up whenever she got a text or a visit from Brock. The Jimmy Fund has a way of doing that for kids, making them forget — with parties and surprises, and with God’s finest angels dressed as nurses — that life is sometimes a lot harder than it should be. And getting closer to those kids requires vulnerability.
“If you’re going to come do things like this,” Lakyn says. “If you’re not in it for the right reasons, I just feel like …”
She pauses.
“Sure, it makes people’s day (when an athlete visits), but it’s almost like a waste of time. If you’re not going to put forth the effort and the time to build relationships, it’s kind of a pointless visit.”
Brock and Lakyn are not here to waste anyone’s time. They recognize publicity is good for the clinic, and they’re happy to play that part, but neither they nor the Red Sox publicized this visit. A well-timed email led to a reporter being there, otherwise this would have been a quiet ritual before their own holiday celebration. They’re here because they want to be.
“Obviously, everybody wants to be the person who (finds) the cure,” Brock says. “But that’s not me. That’s not you. That’s not any of us. But the people who are doing that need us to do what we’re doing. It’s just the thing that you can do. Anything that you can do to make this time a little bit better, because it is the most difficult time, probably, that these moms, dads, brothers, sisters, kids are going to go through in their whole lives. So, anything that you or I can do to make it just a little bit better is all we can do. That’s what we try to do.”
One of Brock and Lakyn’s final stops is something called a push room, where patients get a quick “push” of chemotherapy. The child in this room is young, very young, too young, but Brock and Santa stay long enough for a photo and a short conversation.
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“She’s cute,” Brock says on their way out. Santa agrees.
Back in the lounge, they meet a 12-year-old boy named Jacob, and Brock asks him for a picture. They meet a little girl named Ivy, and Brock squats to say hello. A boy named Mason is there with his pregnant mother, and he wants his soon-to-be-born brother to be named Hot Dog.
“That’s a great name,” Brock says with such conviction you wonder if he’s serious.
Brock shakes hands with a father wearing a Red Sox shirt. He yells “ouch” when a little kid in overalls gives him a big high-five. He teases Nixon for “just barely” making it onto Santa’s nice list.
“I like your jammies,” Lakyn says to a little girl sitting on a couch, and when that girl’s shoe gets caught in the loose strap of a gift bag, Brock’s eyes get big.
“Your feet got stuck!” he says, and the little girl laughs.
These kids get stuck all the time. Stuck with needles. Stuck in that big room with the IV stands. Stuck with a six-letter word that envelops their lives and blocks out the sun. There’s nothing that Brock and Lakyn can do to fix it.
But every once in a while, they can show up at the clinic with a card in each hand, offering blankets and coffee to total strangers who aren’t friends just yet. They can listen, and they can hug, and they can smile, and they can cry, and they can do their very best to pull away the straps that bind these kids and terrify these parents so that, for just a moment, they don’t feel quite so stuck anymore.
(Top photo of Holt with Santa at the Jimmy Fund Clinic: Sam Ogden)
