Where are you from?

The question means something different when the answer isn’t in New England. I’ve come to understand most people mean “where do you live?” not “where did you grow up?” They’re usually the same.

It tells people something about you, whether you like that or not. I’ve told people Colorado since I moved here in 2015. That raises an eyebrow. “Colorado? What are you doing all the way out here?”

I didn’t really know then. Moving across the country to somewhere you know no one to start a job you have no connections to in a place you’ve only heard of from web comics makes sense at 25. Not everyone accepted it so easily.

A former Ludlow principal asked me most pointedly within a few months of moving to Western Mass. I was covering Western Massachusetts soccer semifinals in Chicopee’s Szot Park. He went down press row and asked the assembled media where they were from. Everyone else named a town in Western Mass. They bantered about former star players and memorable meetings.

He had no such connection to Colorado. He scoffed like I didn’t belong there. At the time I probably didn’t.

The longer I stayed in Western Mass, though, the more welcoming it became. I learned the difference between Hampshire Regional and Frontier Regional, two regional districts with a primary red color scheme. South Hadley’s black and orange diverged from Belchertown’s orange and black. Obviously Hopkins Academy is the Golden Hawks while Smith Academy is the Falcons. I nearly mixed that up in a headline my first year before former Gazette writer Matt Vautour bailed me out.

Their fields, gyms and tracks became familiar. I’m still too much of a wuss to spend extended time in ice rinks. Athletes let me be a part of their seasons and share their stories. I’ve seen them at the heights of their careers stopping penalties to win sectional titles or hoisting a state championship trophy.

More often, though, I’m the face blurred by tears standing there at the end of a season, heartbreak wringing their chests asking for a few minutes of their time. They never saw it coming, great runs ended out of nowhere. What am I doing there in the grief and sorrow?

Only one person ever said they didn’t want to talk to me after a season-ending loss. That’s remarkable to me over nearly eight years. I’m so impressed by these teenagers’ ability to be so thoughtful and understanding in what probably feels like the worst moment of their lives.

I’m grateful they let me in and let me do my job, a job I’ve loved with my whole chest. It’s the reason I’m in New England but not the one I stayed. The more time I spent in the Western Mass. sports community, the more I became a part of it. People in student sections I didn’t even know waved when I walked into the gym. Benches murmured, “Kyle’s here.”

Parents invited me to the Hadley Young Men’s Club, Paisano's Pizza or backyard barbecues to celebrate big wins more often than they should have. To them, I was part of it as much as they were. I always had to say no, but it meant a great deal to be invited. People sometimes don’t know their impact until they’re made aware.

Now I’m the one at the end of a great run, leaving the Gazette after just shy of eight years. You rarely see things like this coming. But I’m not leaving Western Mass. the same person as when I arrived. This place shaped the person and the writer I am. 

Thank you.

Now when people ask where I’m from, I’m still going to say Colorado. In my heart, though, I’ll know I’m from Western Mass., too.

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