There is a specific kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones when your body goes to war with itself. Survivors call it "chemo brain." It is the cruel, disorienting fog left behind by a medicine that must poison you in order to save you. It's forgetting things you have always known, having trouble processing information you used to be able to soak up. It is so frustrating.
A Kentucky women's basketball fan named Monica knows this fog intimately. She is in the middle of the fight right now, navigating the endless cycle of treatments and the heavy weight of uncertainty. And when you are lost in that kind of storm, you look for something, anything, to serve as a lighthouse. to guide you to the shore.
For Monica, that lighthouse was a basketball game.
She made a promise to herself that she would push through the nausea, endure the chemotherapy, and walk through the doors of Memorial Coliseum for the annual Play4Kay game. It is a day dedicated to honoring cancer warriors, wrapped in pink to raise money and awareness for a disease that has stolen too much from too many.
But more than the game itself, Monica wanted to see Kenny Brooks. Because Kenny Brooks knows the fog all too well himself.
Why this Kentucky women's basketball game is deeply personal for Kenny Brooks and millions of others
In 2023, his wife, Chrissy, was diagnosed with breast cancer. While the rest of the world saw a head coach stalking the sidelines and drawing up plays, he was quietly holding the hand of the woman he loved through the hardest, most terrifying year of his life. He put it in perspective last year when Kentucky played Kansas in the Play4Kay game:
"This last year has been the hardest year of my life, and to be able to watch my wife walk out there, and when they said that she rung[sic] the bell on May the 24th, it puts everything into perspective...She's the strongest person I know, and I also know we didn't get through this by ourselves. The power of prayer, she and I kept it to ourselves throughout the basketball season last year, and we finally told people. When we told people, that was the biggest weight lifted off my shoulder because so many people helped us, and they prayed for us, and they helped us get through it. So nights like tonight, when you know what you've gone through, and you know how you've gotten through it, because of other people, and to be able to bring awareness to this nasty disease. And that's what Vic and I talked about. He has a son, who he almost lost, and nights like tonight really puts things in perspective."Kenny Brooks
Vic Schaefer is who he was referring to: Texas women's basketball head coach. His son Logan was in a wakeboarding accident and was in a coma for 4 days. He recovered, and so did Chrissy. She fought. She won. She is cancer-free today, and that is something worth celebrating.
When Brooks spoke publicly about that agonizing journey, Monica listened. His family’s survival became her inspiration. She bought her ticket, determined to celebrate life on the day dedicated to the survivors.
But the fog of chemo brain is relentless. It makes you forget things. It blurs the lines on a calendar. Monica bought her ticket for Thursday night against Texas A&M, believing she was attending the Play4Kay game. She missed the mark by three days.
When she realized the mistake, she wrote an email to Kenny Brooks to explain. She had no idea that her simple message would completely alter a basketball coach’s perspective, but that is exactly what happened.
In the high-stakes, pressure-cooker environment of SEC basketball, it is dangerously easy to lose what really matters. Don't get me wrong, wins matter; that is why people get paid. But we obsess over the standings sometimes too much and forget to see the work being done. We agonize over missed free throws, recruiting stars, and the logjam in the middle of the conference. The weight of winning feels absolute, and above all else.
Brooks admitted he falls into that trap, too. He sat at his desk Thursday morning, carrying the heavy stress of an upcoming game, thinking only about the absolute necessity of securing a victory.
And then he opened Monica’s email.
"I read it, and there was a calm that just came over me for the rest of the day," Brooks confessed after the game.
He realized in that moment how incredibly small the game of basketball actually is. He didn't use his postgame press conference to just dissect a victory or complain about turnovers, which he did. But he also looked into the cameras and spoke directly to the woman who had mixed up her days.
"Monica, if you're listening, we'd love to have you again on Sunday," Brooks said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who understands the fragility of life. "Because it is a very important game for us. Not just because it's Ole Miss... because it's going to bring awareness to this nasty disease that we're trying to beat."
Tomorrow, the Wildcats will take the floor. The pink uniforms will come out. The crowd will roar, the referees will blow their whistles, and the numbers on the scoreboard will change.
But the final score will not dictate the meaning of the day. Far from it.
Basketball is just a beautiful distraction we use to feel connected to something larger than ourselves, and it is effective in doing that. On Sunday, that connection has nothing to do with the SEC title race, an NCAA Tournament seed, or a win. It is about a coach who walked through the fire to save his wife, and a fan named Monica who is still walking through it right now. It is a reminder that the greatest victories we will ever witness have absolutely nothing to do with a ball going through a hoop. They happen off the court, where life unfolds in a beautiful, chaotic mess.
Monica, if you are reading this, BBN hopes you find your way back to Memorial Coliseum tomorrow.
Your fight is our fight. And your seat is waiting. Anyone else who has fought, is fighting, or has lost someone in the battle, come to Memorial tomorrow and cheer. Take a moment to embrace each other, hold a hand, or just give a high-five to a stranger. Life is precious; treat it that way.