Time Ran Out

The fire happened on February 5, 2000.

He was four years old.

He would’ve been five in March -- on March 27th.

He was my first born. Christian Giovanni Ruddock.

His mom, my girlfriend at the time, had just taken me to the train station to head back to school. The second semester -- the last semester of my senior year at Dowling College -- had just started.

I was on the Long Island Rail Road when I got a call from the fire marshall. He asked me where I was. He told me to turn back around.

I heard her in the background, crying, but he wouldn’t let me speak to her.

He just said, “you need to come back.”

When I got the call, we were arriving at Babylon Station. Ironically, there was a fire in a housing complex near the station. I remember that clearly, the smoke coming up out of the buildings as the train rolled by.

I asked the conductor for the quickest way to turn back around. He told me, “you’ve gotta go to the end of the line and ride the same train back.” That meant taking the train five more stops to Oakdale, my stop for school.

When we arrived at the station, I ran to campus looking for someone with a car. I needed a ride. The train back was going to take too long.

I knocked on the door of the first friend I could find. But he had work and had to use his car.

I ran to my room and found my roommate, Kendell Hollman, inside.

I told him my son died. It was the first time I said it. I didn’t know it, but I knew it. It was the feeling that a parent has when a part of you is lost.

Kendell and my son were close. They played video games together. They had spent a lot of time together.

He thought I was crazy. I didn’t have time to explain.

I ran to the physical fitness center to see if there was anyone with a car. No luck. I ran to the financial aid office and found my financial aid officer, Frank. I said, “I’ve never asked you for anything, but I need a ride. I gotta go back to Queens. I gotta go back to Queens.”

We got into Frank’s car and drove. A 45-minute ride seemed like it took ten hours. I was in a time warp.

No one was answering calls. I called my girlfriend. His grandmom. Anyone. No answer. I finally got through to my friend Troy and told him to go over to the house and to call me back when he got there.

But he never called me after that.

Just before we got off the highway, another friend James called. He told me to meet him as soon as we got off the exit -- at Dunkin’ Donuts.

When I saw James, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at me. Then he started crying.

I knew. I told him to take me to the house.

It was a brick house. An old brick house.

And now I could look straight through it because there was nothing there but the shell and some furniture on the lawn.

At that point I knew a disaster had happened, so I went to my mom’s house. She and my brother were waiting outside; they were both crying.

They knew what I didn’t as far as the details. My boy’s grandmother and grandfather were inside and had also died. My girlfriend’s brother was hospitalized and in a coma in the Bronx with burns on 45% of his body. My son had been the hardest to find in the house.

That night we went to the morgue to identify the bodies. They don’t let you see the actual bodies, just pictures. The lady said, “I’m just gonna warn you, you don’t have to do this.”

I think I was in denial.

She had three pictures and she told us, “I’m gonna go from best to worst.”

First was my girlfriend’s mom. She didn’t have hair. She looked like she was asleep.

Then it was her dad. He was burnt bad, with a look of shock, his eyes bulged open. They told us he was trying to break open the bathroom window.

My first born was the worst. He had no face. There was a hole where there would have been a face.

I probably should have never looked at that.

I don’t have much memory of him because of the trauma. But I do remember how much he loved basketball. His mom used to bring him to my games. I brought him to the court all the time, even summer league. He was a mainstay -- on the sidelines, on the baseline…

He used to always ask, “When I play, are you gonna be there?”

I told him I was going to coach him. I promised him.

At the time I had my son I was 19. I had to become an adult fast, a grown man before my time. In college I was on full scholarship as a basketball player and worked a part time job to support him. His mother worked as well. We did our best to be good parents and we had help from our families.

We had big plans. I was graduating. I’d gotten a job after college to play ball overseas in Spain. I was trying to move us out of the city. We were in the process of doing big things.

It never happened.

The funeral was one of the biggest in the city. Mayor Giuliani came and helped bury them. Hundreds, thousands of people were there. Family. Friends. Donations were collected…

I went back to school, but I was numb. I couldn’t pay attention. I couldn’t think straight. I remember being in class one time -- my favorite management class -- with a professor I knew well. I didn’t realize he was talking to me, directly to me for a long while. After seeing I wasn’t responding, my professor got right up next to me and said, “Paul, I think you might need to take some time off.”

Giovannni was the sweetest kid. He was everything you pray and hope for -- and he got the short end of the stick. He didn’t deserve to die like that. I thought about what he was thinking about in those final moments, scared, wondering where his parents were to save him. It haunts me to this day.‍

I would have run into that fire. I wish it would have been me instead of him.  

Dowling allowed me some time off. I got counseling from the school and the Red Cross. I had a good support system, but it took me a long, long time to get back right.

I was very bitter. Angry. Angry at God. Suicidal. There were days, maybe weeks I didn’t bathe. I wouldn’t go outside. I drank a lot.

One day, a friend of mine who later passed away, Damian Huggins, came to my door. He said, “Paul, you gotta get out the house.” He waited for me to come outside.

Damian knew I loved music. We started producing mix tapes with unsigned artists. We helped a lot of guys from New York, guys like Noreaga and 50 Cent. During the week we did parties. It was the music and a couple friends that kept me from losing my mind -- that kept my mind off of what was really going on in my life.

As for basketball, I did my best to finish out what was left of the season but truthfully, I lost interest and even felt a little resentment at the time. Working so hard and spending so much time playing ball meant I had sacrificed time with my son.

I wasn’t interested in being a father after that.

Eventually, I started to look around and saw that I had good people around me. I wouldn’t wish what happened on my worst enemy, and there was always going to be second guessing, but I had a good family, good friends and I was thankful for all their positive energy. The turnout for the funeral, all the people who wanted to help -- when you start to see that so many people care about you, that type of thing makes a difference.

I needed to find something to do that felt important. For me, that was honoring what Giovanni wanted. I did exactly what I told him I would do; I started coaching.

I coached for ten years. I coached a lot of kids. I inherited a lot of kids. It was therapy in the best sense. I was fulfilling what he wanted me to do and I was bringing some meaning to the lives of these kids. I was bringing meaning into my own life.

I couldn’t get any of my time with him back, but little by little you just try to look to the future, find something to build on and move forward.

‍Becoming a father again -- now that was a task. For a long time, I had no feelings. I couldn’t even love. But when my daughter was born that changed.

Giovanni taught me how to say, “I love you.” If it wasn’t for my daughter, I don’t know if I could have loved again. I tell her that. That I didn’t love anyone until I loved her.

She will be 15 in November. I have another son who is 12.

One thing I always say to them is, “You know your dad loves you.”

I remind them of that constantly. You can never take any day for granted with any of your loved ones. Tell your child, “I love you.” Tell your dad, “I love you.” Tell your mom, “I love you.” That’s one true thing you can always say.

One of the unfortunate things about death as a grown person is that it becomes an understood experience. It doesn’t rattle you as much because it has become routine. You know it’s gonna happen.

People ask me why I am so serious all the time. I guess that’s what happens with something like this. I have an urgency. I try to appreciate the little things, but sometimes I sacrifice my happiness and forget to live. It’s crazy, but it’s the gift and the curse of that event for me.

He was so young.

Time waits on no man.

R.I.P. son, you know your dad loves you.