in Indiana decided to run the gamut of tests and
eventually came to their conclusion.
“(Cameron) didn’t understand why his brother
was kind of delayed,” Lynn said, “and I just told
him ‘Your brother’s a little different. He learns
a little different. Everybody learns things at
different times of their lives.’ ”
That understanding did little to quell day-
to-day struggles. When Cameron was in eighth
grade, he was an ascendant wrestling star,
eventually winning the county title. Scouts
flocked to see him wrestle.
One afternoon, he was slated to wrestle in
Pemberton Heights, a particularly high-profile
meet near the end of the season. Aaron was having
a good day, Lynn recalls, so she brought him along.
It was always a guessing game, evaluating the
pros and cons of a given environment, coming to a
conclusion then keeping her fingers crossed.
That day, she brought Aaron into the gym.
Things subsequently went south.
“Aaron just started bucking and screaming and
crying, and I just couldn’t stay in there,” Lynn
said. “Because a lot of people don’t know, they
just stare at you and, ‘Gosh, why doesn’t she make
that little boy be quiet?’ Or, ‘That boy needs to be
spanked.’ You hear people whispering.
“And Cameron just had this look on his face.”
That was hardly abnormal. Aaron struggled
with the noises and crowds at Cameron’s sporting
events — the buzzer at wrestling meets, the gun at
track meets, the whistles at football games.
“There were situations like that where I’m not
sure if Cameron was looking into the crowd to
look for me, but I know there were several times
he was looking for and didn’t see me there,” Lynn
said. “So he was like, ‘Were you even at my game?’
”
There was never any bottled-up resentment
baked into that frustration for Cameron, but
during high school something changed for him.
Cameron wanted his brother to be able to go
places, do things, have those experiences that
embody childhood. And, despite the nine-year
age gap, he wanted them to share those ventures
together. As brothers do.
So Cameron took matters into his own hands.
One afternoon, Cameron asked his mom if
he could stay after school to watch a volleyball
match. Lynn went down to the school to pick
up Aaron and await the end of the match, so she
could bring Cameron, too. But this day, Cameron
decided, would be different.
“I fully planned on going out there and hanging
out in the parking lot, like I’d always done,” Lynn
recalled. “Then Cameron was like, ‘Bring Aaron
in here.’ ”
With his mom apprehensive, Cameron brought
Aaron into the gym. The two watched the game
together, Cameron sure to prep Aaron when a
buzzer was imminent. Aaron loved hanging out
with his big brother. Cameron cared deeply about
his progress. It didn’t take long for Cameron to
realize it was working.
“Cameron would point up to the shot clock,”
Lynn recalled, “and be like, ‘OK, Aaron, 20
seconds til the buzzer.’ And Aaron would be like
‘OK, 20 seconds.’
“He would keep saying to himself over and
over and over ‘Here comes the buzzer. The
buzzer’s coming.’ Or, ‘They’re gonna blow the
whistle. They’re gonna sound the buzzer.’ He
would say it out loud and repeat it over and over
to himself, and Cameron would do it too, to try to
prep himself for the noises so he wouldn’t be so
scared.”
Going to games together became a regular
venture, a brotherly bonding experience in more
ways than one.
“Even though we’re like nine years apart,
it kind of feels like we’re twins sometimes,”
Cameron said. “We go everywhere together, we
laugh at everything together. It seems like we just
do everything together.
“And especially when he was diagnosed with
autism, I just wanted to keep him around me to
make more memories and build a better bond, so
that he really knew I was there for him. When he
was developing autism, it kind of kicked us into
the next gear with our bond and relationship.”
Slowly, Aaron grew more comfortable in big
crowds and with loud noises, so long as he had
advanced warning. Instead of a yell, Aaron would
confront his anxiety with a nervous chuckle. The
progress was real and tangible. During Cameron’s
junior year, Aaron started attending his football
games, a direct result of Cameron’s efforts.
At that point, McGrone was rapidly evolving
into a star. Aaron would come to games, at times
still wary of potential pitfalls, but thrilled to see
his brother. When Cameron’s team would score
a touchdown — fireworks and cannons booming
— Lynn would often see Cameron turn around to
look at Aaron’s reaction.
Lynn Redd sat and waited for an inevitable
call.
It was July 4, 2018, and her two sons were out
at a nearby fireworks show in their hometown
of Indianapolis. For many, it’s a routine
Independence Day venture. For sophomore
linebacker Cameron McGrone and his younger
brother, Aaron Redd, it was a monumental step.
What is routine for many is not routine for
Aaron. When he was four years old, Aaron
was diagnosed with autism. He’s 10 years
old and attends public school with some
accommodations, but Lynn estimates his
development aligns more closely with that
of a second or third-grader. Throughout his
life, these challenges have manifested largely
in outbursts triggered by big crowds with
loud noises — a commonality for many on the
spectrum.
Cameron has long been steadfast in his desire
to help his brother and lead him to new heights.
Last summer, his break from football coincided
with July 4th; he saw a window of opportunity.
“(Aaron has) always loved the look of
fireworks,” Cameron said, “just the sounds he
could never get over.”
When Cameron speaks about his younger
brother — about his challenges and feats, his
personality and gifts — he does so with an
inimitable pride. He is, in other words, like
many doting big brothers. There are things
Aaron has accomplished that Cameron never
thought possible, and he wears those feats as a
collective badge of pride.
What’s clear, in speaking with his family,
is that Cameron has been as instrumental in
forging those feats as anyone. July 4, 2018 was a
prime example.
As was her natural instinct, Lynn’s mind
sprang to the possible downfalls that evening.
She clung to her phone. Could Aaron really
handle this step? Or would he be overwhelmed?
Would Cameron be able to handle a meltdown?
As the fireworks began lining the sky,
Cameron pulled out his phone, opened Snapchat
and turned it around. Aaron scanned the
skyline, his head craned squarely ahead, sound-
cancelling headphones attached to his ears. He
was locked in.
After taking a quick video, Cameron typed
out “Lil Bros first firework show” with two
heart emojis. He saved it and sent it along to his
mother.
Lynn opened up the text from Cameron,
watched the video and started to cry.
“I know when David (Redd) and I are long
gone, Aaron will be taken care of,” Lynn said.
“Because Cameron loves him and he’s loyal to
him, and he’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”
When Cameron was young, he always wanted
a little brother — a companion to run around in
the yard or play games with. At nine years old,
he was elated when Aaron was born.
It didn’t take long for the family to realize
something in Aaron’s development was awry. At
a few months old, he started crying frequently,
“being kind of inconsolable,” Lynn describes. He
was mute until the age of four, forcing Cameron
and his parents to find alternate ways to
communicate. They started using sign language,
but there were still gaps, particularly for a
boy desperately hoping to forge a relationship
with his lone sibling. Lynn taught Aaron to call
Cameron “Bubby” because Cameron was too
hard to pronounce. In time, Cameron started
referring to Aaron as “Lil Bubby”.
“Cameron didn’t know — he was frustrated
mostly because he wanted to play with his
brother, but sometimes Aaron would have
temper tantrums and fits where we all couldn’t
control him,” Lynn said. “We couldn’t get him to
calm down.”
At first, Aaron’s school deemed his condition
“a sensory issue,” as he continued to hit the
requisite physical milestones. At the age of four,
though, the doctors at Riley Children’s Hospital
Photos courtesy of Lynn Redd Design by Jack Silberman
AN EVENING WITH SAFA AL AHMAD
NOVEMBER 19, 2019 | 7:30 P.M. | RACKHAM AUDITORIUM
FREE | NO REGISTRATION | WALLENBERG.UMICH.EDU
BECOMING
BIG BROTHER
CAM McGRONE
Max Marcovitch
Managing Sports Editor
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