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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