In Loving Memory

I was nine years old when my family moved to Cleveland, Ohio, seeking a fresh start as refugees. We chose Cleveland because friends had resettled there a year before us. The year was 1998.

Adjusting to life in America was tough. Starting 4th grade with only the English skills of a toddler set me apart. I had to grow up fast, but one thing helped ease the transition—sports. I quickly bonded with a handful of friends, including Tim, who lived on my block near McKinley Elementary School in Lakewood, a quiet, diverse suburb west of Cleveland. We played sports daily—basketball and baseball in the summer, football in the fall.

I vividly remember Opening Day 1999 when our 4th-grade teacher let us watch the first pitch. I didn’t understand much of what was happening, but I knew baseball was an American tradition, and I needed to learn about it to fit in. So, I did. Picture me, a little kid with a bright neon sign at an Indians game that read, “Trade Mark Shapiro!” because he’d traded Roberto Alomar to the Mets. I learned to care like a true Clevelander.

Over the years, Tim’s parents invited me to many Indians and Cavaliers games. Their invitations provided a sense of normalcy, a break from the challenges of being a refugee trying to find my place. At the time, I didn’t realize how crucial their inclusion was to my development and healing. Whether intentional or simply because Tim and I were close friends, it made a lasting impact. We shared moments like Jim Thome’s walk-off home run and Mark McGwire’s record-breaking 62nd homer—moments that bonded us in history.

By high school, I had a camera, a love for sports, and a leg injury that kept me from playing competitively. Photography became my outlet, allowing me to stay close to the action, and most importantly, continue the relationships it helped me find. I stumbled upon a baseball practice and began photographing the varsity team, which included many of my close friends, like Tim. I started attending practices regularly, documenting the action and personalities, including that of our head coach, Jerry Gruss.

Coach Gruss was a teacher, football coach, and baseball coach with a tremendous winning record. Initially, he was unsure about the goofy kid with a camera always hanging around, but as the season progressed, we formed a close bond.

There’s something unique about photographing the same subject day after day—you start noticing patterns in behavior and personality. And if you’re a baseball nerd, you even start learning the team’s signs. One day at practice, Coach Gruss said, “Ivor, you have real talent. If you keep at it, you could make photography a career.” His words surprised me, especially since he taught business at the high school. Until that moment, I thought I’d have to pursue a traditional career.

Coach Gruss believed in me, and he never hesitated to remind me of that. I attended as many practices and games as possible, even traveling with the team to away games. In a way, I became part of the team. I even received my letter and had a letterman jacket made with “team photographer” embroidered on the back.

At the end of our senior year, I compiled photos, scores, stats, and articles I’d written for the local paper into a coffee table book. I gave it to Coach Gruss and his family as a keepsake of our last season together. I knew I had done something special, but I had no idea just how important those photos would become.

I can’t recall exactly how we learned that Coach Gruss’s cancer had returned, but by the time the news reached me, I had already given him the book. We graduated in June, and I made sure to visit him as much as possible over the summer. In August, he passed away.

While visiting my parents in Lakewood, I found Coach Gruss’s obituary in an old box of photos and mementos. It made me reflect on the experiences that led me to choose photography as a career.

As a former refugee and immigrant, I’ve struggled to remember the details of my childhood before moving to Cleveland. Thankfully, my parents documented everything with a camera—from birthdays to our move to a new country. I’ve always believed that photographs are incredibly special because they capture moments that might never happen again. They remind us of where we’ve been and how far we’ve come.

I learned about loss early in life, but nothing prepared me for Coach’s death. At 35, I still wish I had more time with him. Yet, whenever I doubt my ability to create, I’m reminded of his belief and trust in me.

That summer, I wanted to honor Coach Gruss’s memory by raising funds for a new scoreboard. My friends, teammates, teachers, the alumni foundation, and the community rallied together for my first photography exhibit at a local coffee shop. We donated all proceeds toward the scoreboard purchase.

Those photos remind me of the impact friendships had on my life. Whenever I visit my parents, I see the scoreboard lit up with the words “In Memory of Coach Jerry Gruss” below—a lasting tribute to a man who believed in me when I was just a kid with a camera.