Retired LASD Deputy Adam Cordova: From Wayside to OSS, then Tech Ops

Identity, Post-Retirement Transition and a Podcast

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Adam Cordova says he watched his first murder when he was nine or ten years old, with his dad standing right next to him.

That’s the kind of detail that doesn’t leave you. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it explains the baseline he grew up with. He was raised in the Florence and Firestone area after being born in Compton, learning early how to spot trouble before it finds you, how to handle pressure, and how to move through a world that didn’t offer much protection.

He tried to become a firefighter first, grinding through the testing process and training for the physical agility, but it didn’t work out. In 1990, he joined the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and spent years at Wayside and court services before hitting the road out of Walnut Station, a place that forced him to sharpen fast.

Later, he worked OSS and reached the point where he had to choose homicide or a different path. He chose Tech Ops, where he honed his secret surveillance skills.

After retiring in 2022, he kept building, creating, and connecting, launching the podcast Proper Scoundrel and learning how to live without the job owning his time.

Give a listen to Episode 232. Click play below, while you keep reading,

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Compton to Firestone: A Kid Raised Around Gangs

Adam Cordova wasn’t raised in a world that eased you into anything.

He was born in Compton, and he lived in Lynwood and Inglewood before he ended up in the Florence and Firestone area. That became home base. It’s also the area that sits right next to a sheriff’s station, which matters later.

But early on, it wasn’t about law enforcement, or dreams, or job paths.

It was about surviving where you were standing.

His parents got divorced, and for a while, he went back and forth between them. But Florence and Firestone stayed his anchor point. That’s where he went to junior high. That’s where he went to high school. That’s where he learned what the neighborhood demanded of you if you wanted to make it out in one piece.

At one point, Adam and his brothers were living with their mom. And he doesn’t dress it up. He says they were feral. Out of control.

And his mom couldn’t manage it, so she sent them back.

Back to their dad.

And once that happened, everything changed.

He says his dad ran things. His dad ran the house, ran the discipline, ran the standards. So Adam and his brothers got in line, because that was the only option left.

That kind of childhood doesn’t create a calm kid.

It creates a kid who’s always right on the edge of trouble.

Adam says he was always getting close to being in trouble. He did stupid stuff as a teenager, like most do. But he stayed on the line. He didn’t cross it all the way.

He calls it walking the gray line.

He also says his brother didn’t know when to stop.

That’s a real detail because it tells you something about the difference between two people living in the same environment.

Same streets. Same pressures. Same risks.

But not the same brakes.

Adam grew up around what he calls “a lot of shit.”

The kind of stuff that doesn’t become a story later because it was never a story in the first place. It was normal.

He says he never got into gangs. Never got into drugs. Never got into guns.

That’s not a small statement coming from that area.

And then he says something that sits heavy, even if he doesn’t linger on it.

He watched his first murder when he was nine or ten.

Nine or ten.

That’s not an exaggeration or a punchline. That’s just what happened. And what makes it worse is the next detail.

His dad was standing right next to him while it happened.

Not shielding him from it.

Not pulling him away.

Standing there like it was part of the education.

And in a way, it was.

Adam says it was the way he was raised, and it was necessary for where he lived. It wasn’t trauma talk. It wasn’t explanation.

It was reality.

That kind of upbringing turns into a very specific skillset.

Not because you want it, but because you develop it or you don’t last.

Adam says he learned to see trouble before it started.

If you can leave, you leave.

If you can’t leave, then you deal with it.

No panic.

No surprise.

Just a basic understanding that the world doesn’t always come with warnings.

His dad demanded something else too.

Protect each other.

He says his dad made them a little gang. Not in the criminal sense. In the survival sense.

Watch each other’s backs.

And if one of them got in trouble, the question wasn’t just what happened. It was, where were you?

That’s a standard that creates responsibility early. It’s also a standard that can create pressure. Because it’s not only about what you do. It’s about what your people do.

And you’re responsible for that too.

He describes those days as having no supervision.

They’d run off. Stay gone. Come back when the street lights were on.

That’s how it was.

Nobody checking on you.

Nobody tracking you.

You learned to take care of each other because there wasn’t another option.

And you learned how to handle yourself.

Because the neighborhood didn’t care what age you were.

He calls it gladiator school.

That phrase matters. It’s not motivational. It’s not dramatic.

It’s accurate.

You either learn how to deal with pressure, or pressure deals with you.

And when he later gets into law enforcement training, he connects it back to that.

He remembers being in the academy and thinking something simple.

You can’t hit me.

All you can do is yell at me.

Make me run.

Make me do pushups.

And to him, that wasn’t that big of a deal. Because he’d already been through worse, long before he ever put on a uniform.

He also didn’t grow up with a dad who just talked about standards.

His dad worked.

Adam’s dad was a woodworker, cabinet maker, construction guy. Remodel work. Plumbing. Drywall.

And it wasn’t a “he had a job” kind of work ethic.

It was seven days a week.

Adam says when his dad wasn’t at the door factory during the day, they were the crew on the side jobs. The kids were out there doing it too.

At eight years old, he says they were holding drywall like little ants.

That’s the level of grind he grew up around.

Work wasn’t optional. Work was the default.

And as much as he resented things at the time, that part stayed with him.

His dad died of cancer in 2011.

And when that happened, a lot of people showed up. Friends. People Adam knew. People his dad knew.

But the part that hit him wasn’t the crowd.

It was what his friends told him.

They told him, your dad was more of a father to me than my dad.

Adam realized something in that moment. A lot of his friends didn’t have dads. Or their dads weren’t there. And his dad had been the one filling that gap.

That’s a strange kind of legacy.

Being the strict guy. The one who’d smack kids around for acting stupid. The one who demanded respect.

And still being the safe place those kids kept coming back to.

Even after they got disciplined.

Even after they got thrown out.

There’s a specific story that explains the rule set in that house.

A friend tried to smoke weed with Adam’s little brother. Adam’s dad caught it.

And he didn’t debate it. He didn’t lecture.

He threw the friend out at two in the morning and made him walk home.

Then later, when the kid came back and apologized, he told him to come inside.

That’s the contradiction of a hard father figure who’s still a father figure.

And that’s a real contrast from how Adam describes the streets. The streets don’t throw you out and then welcome you back. They don’t care if you learned the lesson.

His dad had boundaries. But there was still a door.

There’s another detail that would surprise some people.

Adam says his dad was a gang member.

He even says his dad started the big gang in Compton.

And then he says something that tells you how serious the household lines were.

None of that was coming into the house.

So you’ve got a father who knew that world firsthand, and still made sure his kids didn’t bring it into their home.

That doesn’t mean it disappeared outside.

But inside, there was a standard.

Adam also says sports kept him busy.

Track. Baseball. Football.

All day.

Not because it made him famous or changed his life overnight.

But because it kept him moving, kept him occupied, kept him away from too many bad choices made out of boredom.

And then comes another early-life hit that shaped his independence.

Adam says he got kicked out when he was sixteen and a half.

Not by his dad.

By his dad’s wife; as he calls her, his step-monster.

He says he crashed wherever he could. Benches. Friends’ places. Anywhere that would take him.

And then later, in his senior year of high school, he was already working and living on his own.

He had an apartment in Bell with a roommate. He went to school from his own place.

That’s not a normal senior year.

That’s survival disguised as normal.

He did what he had to do to make money too. Not crime. Not hustling on the street.

He also considered the military. Friends were going in.

By then, he got a real job too. Mervyn’s. Unloading trucks. Paycheck. Benefits.

He worked his way up and became a manager in shipping and receiving.

And at that point, his original path wasn’t law enforcement at all.

He wanted to be a firefighter.

He applied. He went through the testing process. He describes it as long. Multi-year.

He says he was close on the second attempt. He thought he got it.

But it didn’t work out.

He talks about the physical agility test being hard as hell. He trained at a station. He got to know the captain and the guys during the process.

Unfortunately, the politics of “who wants who” to go to the academy put a sour taste in his mouth about the fire service.

Wayside SHU and the Patch You Had to Earn

Adam didn’t step into the Sheriff’s Department with a childhood dream of being a cop.

He didn’t grow up pointing at a black-and-white and thinking, that’s gonna be me.

And the shift into law enforcement wasn’t some heroic pivot. It was a life move.

The kind that happens when you’re trying to build stability and find a lane that actually opens.

It was a friend, who was also in the process of trying to get on with LA City Fire, but who really wanted to be a deputy sheriff, who convinced Adam to go with him and take the test.

His friend didn’t pass, Adam did, and the next thing he was in Academy Class 267 to be a Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff.

That was 1990.

And for him, that meant a custody assignment first.

His first assignment was Wayside. He worked the High Power Unit

He says after that he went into court services.

And he describes it as a long stretch.

Five years total between the jail and court services, but he took advantage of the opportunity to learn in both.

And working custody, you’re in the same uniform, under the same badge, but you’re not getting the street time. You’re not building that kind of experience. You’re not out there taking calls.

You’re inside.

And Adam talks about that difference like it mattered to him on a personal level.

He didn’t like the idea of being seen as something he didn’t feel he’d earned yet.

He describes how they’d wear their patches, the same way the guys in the field wore theirs. But in his head, it didn’t count the same. The men and women in the radio cars were the ones doing what he wasn’t.

He says it felt like stolen valor.

That’s a heavy comparison, and he doesn’t use it lightly.

Because what he’s really saying is, he wanted it to be real.

He wanted the job to mean something. He wanted to feel like he had earned the identity that came with it.

And in that part of the department, he didn’t feel like he had.

So he did the work anyway.

The aspect he didn’t like about working custody was the mandatory overtime. You’d think your shift was ending and as you approached the sallyport, it didn’t open. You were called back.

Adam says that from the day he started the job never defined him. It was simply what he did to earn a paycheck to provide for his family.

Family time.

He says that’s what he wanted. He wanted to go home.

And overtime ruined it.

He also talks about missing the normal stuff. Birthday parties. Holidays.

He gives a specific example of how your calendar shifts when you live on the job’s schedule.

You might work Christmas Day.

Then you’re off the day before.

Or off the day after.

But you’re missing the actual moment.

Same thing with Thanksgiving.

It’s not always the big trauma. It’s the drip. It’s the steady cost.

Your family is living one timeline. You’re living another.

He also mentions aspirations early on that tell you where his head was.

He wanted SEB. SWAT.

He wanted Firestone Station too.

That’s a personal one. That’s close to where he grew up. There’s pride in that, and there’s also the pull of going back to where you understand the streets without needing a map.

But then Firestone station closed and he got Walnut Station; he loved it.

And he wasn’t trying to sit still.

He says every move he made was for more money, a better job, and more security.

Not because he was chasing status.

Because he was chasing stability.

That’s a different motivation. It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest.

And that’s what a lot of people outside the job don’t understand. A deputy might love the work, but the math still matters. Pay steps matter. Incentives matter. Specialized pay matters.

He talks about bonus pay like a roadmap.

Bonus one.

Bonus two.

And he says bonus two was the top tier.

At the time, he says only a few units were bonus two. Arson, tech ops, homicide. Later it was also special victims.

That kind of detail is department-specific. It’s insider language. It’s the kind of thing deputies talk about quietly when they’re trying to decide if the next move is worth it.

And that’s where you start to understand why Adam didn’t chase rank.

He didn’t want to be a sergeant.

He says he had zero desire to promote. None. Ever.

And he explains the reason the way a seasoned deputy would explain it.

Sergeants get all the mess.

They get all the problems. Everyone’s problems. The job’s problems. The station’s problems. The people’s problems.

And he didn’t want that.

But he still wanted to earn more.

So he looked for another path that didn’t require wearing stripes.

That’s where those specialized units come back into the story.

Because in his mind, why take the headache of supervision if you can hit similar pay by doing something highly skilled?

You start to see the pattern.

He wants the work.

He wants the credibility.

He wants the pay.

But he wants to avoid the parts of the job that drag your life into courtrooms, office politics, and liability.

And he wants to stay out of situations where he’s responsible for other people’s mistakes.

His first patrol station after the jails is Walnut.

He describes it as a high-intensity training environment. Not the contract city side. The unincorporated side.

Gangs. Dope. Crime.

The kind of place where you’re going to learn fast or get swallowed.

And he says something that stands out because it’s not what most people expect.

He calls Walnut the best thing that ever happened to him.

Because he also references how stations can be viewed in the department. Some places are where you go when you’re being punished. Some are where you go when you’re close to retirement. Some are where you go because you want to get better.

Walnut, for him, wasn’t a soft landing. It was a sharpening stone.

And it mattered.

From there, OSS shows up in the story.

And the scale of it isn’t small.

He talks about writing warrants for twenty locations.

Twenty location warrants. Twenty teams to coordinate.

It means planning. Enough moving pieces that if you miss one, the whole thing collapses.

He describes it like you’re setting up a chessboard with too many pieces to count.

Because the goal is to send teams out across the map, all at once, and get it right.

After OSS, after that kind of tempo, the next decision point becomes clear.

He says it was time to pick.

Homicide was there.

Or something else.

WATCH THE EPISODE

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Tech Ops: The Sheriff’s Spy “Secret Squirrel” Unit

There’s a point in a long career where the next move isn’t about ambition.

It’s about cost.

It’s about what you’re willing to carry, what you’re willing to lose, and what you’re not willing to drag home anymore.

Adam hits that moment when an opportunity comes up to go homicide.

In his world, that’s a real fork in the road.

Because homicide isn’t just a unit. It’s a lifestyle. It’s court. It’s suits. It’s the kind of work that can follow you home even when you’re trying to be present.

And Adam was already doing enough work that demanded everything from him.

So when the choice showed up, he looked at it like a full decision, not a shiny step up.

He says he chose Tech Ops instead.

And he gives the reason in plain language.

He didn’t want the suits.

He didn’t want the court time.

He didn’t want to be tied up in all of that.

And he wanted to be home more.

That’s not a knock on homicide. It’s an honest assessment of what that lane costs.

Some people want that life.

Some people are built for it.

Adam chose another path.

And he calls Tech Ops the coolest job.

Not because it sounds cool.

Because it’s the kind of work that, when you’ve done it, you know exactly what it takes.

He didn’t walk into Tech Ops cold either.

He already knew the space.

He says he had brought evidence there before, back when he was working OSS. He knew the guys. He’d already been around that world enough to understand what it was.

That matters, because Tech Ops it’s precise work. It’s high consequence work. And if you can’t operate at that level, you shouldn’t be there.

Adam talks about the standards like they’re non-negotiable.

He says the parameters are super narrow.

No excuses.

That’s the mentality.

And it shows up in little habits that don’t look dramatic, but they tell you the whole story.

He mentions redundancy.

Checking the batteries.

Making sure you’re covered.

The kind of discipline where you don’t trust luck, and you don’t rely on “it should be fine.”

Because in that job, “fine” isn’t a plan.

He also says something that sums up the pressure.

There’s no such thing as failure.

That’s not motivational talk. It’s operational truth.

In Tech Ops, failure can mean a case collapses.

Or worse, a suspect stays free because the evidence never lands the way it’s supposed to.

Adam ties that directly to impact.

He says homicide guys told him Tech Ops was behind eighty percent of their cases.

And he gives the reason in one line that anyone who’s worked investigations understands immediately.

The best witness is their own voice.

That’s the kind of sentence that doesn’t need explanation.

Because if you’ve ever watched a case hinge on unreliable witnesses, lies, fear, loyalty, or people refusing to talk, you know how rare it is to get something that can’t be talked away.

A suspect’s own voice is hard to argue with.

And that becomes the core of how Adam describes the value of Tech Ops.

It’s not flashy. It’s not public.

But it’s decisive.

He references one case in particular that makes the point clear.

Ed Buck.

He says he and his partner lived at Ed Buck’s apartment.

That’s how he puts it. Like it was a place they practically moved into.

He credits Tech Ops with finding the smoking gun, and he gives credit to someone he calls Q, saying Q kicked ass on that job.

He also says straight out that if they hadn’t been there, Ed Buck probably would’ve killed more people.

That’s the kind of statement that doesn’t come from theory. It comes from being close enough to see what the stakes actually were.

And then Adam says something that explains the reality of that work.

There are no parades.

No medals.

Nobody’s handing you a trophy.

Most people will never know your name.

They won’t know what you did.

They won’t know what you stopped.

But he says it’s satisfying anyway.

That’s the Tech Ops mindset in a nutshell.

You don’t do it for the recognition.

You do it because the work matters and you know it matters.

And you can’t fake that.

He also drops a personal principle that lines up with how he talks about work.

You’ve gotta want it yourself.

Don’t expect anything.

It’s simple.

But it fits his entire career logic.

He didn’t expect the department to hand him credibility.

He didn’t expect rank to define him.

He didn’t expect a clean path.

He wanted something, and he went after it.

He kept moving for security. For pay. For stability. For the kind of work he could live with.

And Tech Ops fit that.

It gave him specialized work without the court-heavy lifestyle he didn’t want.

It gave him impact without the politics of promotion.

It gave him a lane where excellence actually mattered.

And that’s where you start to see the other side of his earlier decisions.

He didn’t want to be a sergeant because he didn’t want to carry everyone else’s problems.

He didn’t choose homicide because he didn’t want to carry court and suits home.

So he chose a job where the responsibility was real, but the life was still his.

That doesn’t mean it was easy.

The way he talks about Tech Ops makes it clear it demanded constant precision. Constant readiness. No room for sloppiness.

And it was still work that could swallow your time if you let it.

But it was a different kind of pressure.

It was the pressure of getting it right.

Not the pressure of being dragged into a system that never ends.

Eventually, Adam retires in 2022.

And even in retirement, he doesn’t talk like someone who shut down.

He says he’s just continuing what he was already doing.

Now he’s doing it full-time.

That’s the transition.

Not a hard stop.

Not a collapse.

A shift into doing the things he wants to do with the time he finally owns.

Retirement Isn’t the End: The Work, the Habit, and the Next Mission

Adam doesn’t talk about retirement like it’s a victory lap.

He doesn’t make it sound like a clean ending, or like he walked away from the job with a checklist completed and a perfect closing chapter.

He makes it sound like something more honest.

He says he didn’t miss the job.

He misses the guys.

And once you hear him say it, you know exactly what he means.

Because missing the work is one thing.

Missing the people is different.

The work can be exhausting. It can grind you down. It can start feeling like a system more than a calling. But the people, the ones who lived the same days you lived, they’re harder to replace.

He also says something that makes retirement sound less relaxing than most people imagine.

He had to learn how to occupy his day.

But he doesn’t say it as a negative.

When you’ve spent decades living on a schedule that never truly belongs to you, there’s a weird emptiness when nobody’s calling you in, nobody’s holding the sally port closed, and nobody’s setting your next move.

Some people chase distraction.

Adam builds structure.

But he does it in a way that still feels like him.

He says he’s just continuing what he was already doing.

Now he’s doing it full-time.

That might sound simple on the surface, but it matters.

Because it tells you he didn’t step into retirement looking for a new identity.

He stepped into retirement trying to keep moving.

Just on his terms now.

And part of that is the way he talks about personal responsibility.

He’s got a principle that shows up more than once in his mindset.

You’ve gotta want it yourself.

Don’t expect anything.

He doesn’t dress that up. He doesn’t soften it.

He says it like somebody who has spent his whole life watching what happens to people who wait to be rescued.

Whether that’s the job, the system, a promotion, a transfer, a unit, or a person.

Want it yourself.

Or it won’t last.

And don’t expect anything.

Because expectation is where disappointment lives. Especially in careers where the public doesn’t see the full picture and the department isn’t always going to reward you the way you think it should.

That principle is also tied to something else he learned through Tech Ops.

He says the standards are narrow.

No excuses.

No room to “kinda” do it right.

And you can hear how that translates outside the job too.

Because the discipline that keeps you alive in law enforcement doesn’t just switch off the day you turn in the badge.

It becomes part of your personality.

Part of how you work.

Part of how you solve problems.

Part of how you hold yourself accountable even when nobody’s watching.

Retirement, for Adam, isn’t sitting on the couch.

He’s got hobbies, but they’re not passive hobbies.

They’re hands-on.

They’re built around skill, patience, and making something real.

He says he makes leatherwork.

He has a whole shop of leather.

He does leather stuff.

Not as a brand.

Not as a company.

Not as a side hustle trying to turn into something.

He says it’s for the family.

That’s the point.

He also does 3D printing.

He makes figures for his grandkids, like Pokemon.

That detail matters because it’s small and personal, and it’s the kind of thing that doesn’t match the stereotype of what people expect from a retired deputy who spent his career around jails, gangs, and Tech Ops.

It’s not the tough-guy version of retirement.

It’s a grandpa making toys.

And he says it casually, like it’s normal.

Because to him, it is.

He also says he doesn’t sell anything.

He doesn’t have a company.

But if somebody wants something, he’ll make it.

He gives a specific example.

Someone wants a bag, he makes them a bag.

And he says he started leatherwork when he retired.

He’s gotten really good at it.

That’s another thing that says a lot without trying to.

It means he didn’t stop learning.

He didn’t stop improving.

He didn’t sit still and wait to feel useful again.

He started building skill the same way he built skill in the department.

Reps.

Time.

Patience.

He also brings up a line that sounds funny, but it’s really a retirement identity marker.

He mentions retirees who are happy doing nothing and says their motto is, “I don’t do shit.”

It’s a laugh line.

But it’s also a contrast.

Because Adam clearly isn’t wired that way.

He’s not the guy who can just stop.

And in that same lane, he ends up starting something else that he didn’t expect.

A podcast.

He says it straight.

He had no plan to be a podcaster.

No.

Zero.

And he wasn’t chasing an audience.

It started as something normal.

A dinner.

A few deputies.

Three or four guys getting together, catching up.

And then something happened that tells you how much people miss each other after the job changes, or after people retire, or after time passes.

Everybody started calling everybody.

And suddenly it wasn’t three or four guys.

It was twelve.

That kind of growth doesn’t happen unless something was missing.

And Adam realized it in real time.

He says it was good.

He says they needed it.

And then he says something even more telling.

He didn’t know he needed it.

That’s the part that matters.

Because he also says he’d lived his whole life believing he didn’t need to talk about anything work related.

He never had. He would share funny things with his family, but work stayed at work.

So he figured he didn’t need it.

But a dinner one night with some other retirees showed him something different.

Turns out, it helps.

And then he says something darker and more real,

They lost a couple guys.

And he doesn’t give names in what he says here, but he gives the feeling of it.

Because the guilt sticks.

He says, “I should have called him.”

And he says it weighs on you.

It’s just a quiet regret that stays in the background.

And staring the Proper Scoundrel podcast becomes a response to that.

Not a cure.

Not closure.

Just a way to keep the connection alive while you still can.

He says people reach out to him and tell him they like the podcast.

And he says he’s getting feedback that matters.

Not because it’s flattering, but because it changes what people do with each other afterward.

He says guests are getting calls from people based on things they talked about.

Cancer.

Involved shootings.

Family stuff.

And he believes those calls wouldn’t happen if people didn’t hear it on the show.

That detail tells you what the podcast is doing in his world.

It’s giving people permission to reach out.

It’s giving them a reason.

Because without a reason, a lot of people don’t call.

And Adam also keeps it human.

He jokes that people are probably watching to see him screw up.

To see him fail.

That’s not insecurity dressed up as humor. It’s just him keeping it real.

He also says he’s fortunate that the people he brings on are good people.

And he’s learning every day.

Learning stuff he shouldn’t be learning at his age, he says.

That’s another tell.

He didn’t do this because he already had it mastered.

He did it while still learning.

Which is how most real work happens.

He calls the podcast Proper Scoundrel.

And he explains why.

He wanted a name that described law enforcement, or some military units, and walking that line.

Because the job deals with bad.

And his logic is simple.

If you’re going to deal with bad, you’d better be a little bad.

If you’re going to deal with good, you’ve got to be good.

He calls it a good bad guy, or a bad good guy.

An oxymoron.

But anybody who’s worked that kind of life knows exactly what he means.

You can’t do the work with soft hands.

But you also can’t do it if you’ve lost your standards.

And when he talks about how the show runs, he keeps it simple.

There’s no script.

Everybody just talks.

It goes wherever the conversation goes.

He even admits a small thing that makes him relatable.

Sometimes he’ll hear something good and by the time it’s his turn to talk, he’s forgotten it.

He says he’ll do that ten times.

That’s the whole vibe.

Not polished.

Not staged.

Real people talking like real people.

Closing

Adam Cordova doesn’t talk like someone trying to impress you. He talks like someone who’s lived long enough to know what matters, and what doesn’t.

He didn’t carry the job like a costume, and he didn’t treat retirement like a finish line. He did the work, chased the parts of the department that felt earned, and avoided the paths that would’ve taken more from his home life than he was willing to give. When he describes Tech Ops, it’s not about being the “cool guy.” It’s about doing things right when nobody’s watching, because doing it wrong has consequences. And when he talks about losing people, you can hear why connection starts feeling non-negotiable once time starts shrinking.

Now he’s filling the hours, not with noise, but with purpose. Leatherwork, 3D printing for his grandkids, and a podcast that gives people a reason to call each other before it’s too late. No script, no polish, just real conversation. That’s the point.

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