The garage door was open.

The familiar clutter of NFL memorabilia, 1960s high school prom photos and peculiar gadgets that once occupied the space was replaced by kraft-colored boxes. The duck-feeding plastic container, once brimming with water, was empty.

I rushed to the door.

“Where’s Mike?” I asked, my voice rising in excitement. “I got into UCLA!”

“Mike…,” his wife paused, quivering. “Mike passed away.”

There was his radiant smile. The Minnesota Vikings jacket that he wore every day. The freshly trimmed white mustache he sported.

And his garage. It was always open.

Mike would recount stories of his childhood – his awe watching Vikings quarterback Fran Tarkenton and his frustration with his hometown team for perpetually falling short of a Super Bowl victory. He would time my friends and I as we ran 40-yard dashes on the warm concrete.

His laughter lit up the street.

Our bond transcended sports. During the pandemic, I biked laps around the apartment complex. Each time I whirred past his garage, I could count on hearing three words.

“Keep going, Baj!”

After each workout, we watched the ducks waddle toward the water.

We chatted with neighbors passing by, Mike greeting them by name.

We shared football insights, worldly outlooks and treasured stories.

Mike told me about the time his wife was hospitalized.

“I looked at the cigarette and dropped it that day,” he said. “Haven’t touched one since.”

He also let me in on the health problems he faced. We celebrated the small victories, like when he mounted his bike after being unable to ride for months.

The open garage was the medium through which I saw Mike. He was a man who opened his home and heart to the world.

He was also a man with whom I had pronounced political disagreements. I hold more liberal views. Mike was more conservative. We engaged in debates, including on the economy and the role of government.

But our starkly different political inclinations did not drive us apart. We tabled spirited political discussions to lean into shared values, expressed through sports and conversation.

Disagreeing without being divided is harder than ever in today’s America.

Since Mike’s passing, political polarization has increased to unprecedented levels. According to the Pew Research Center, about 80% of Democrats and Republicans say they disagree on basic facts. Another figure shows that a majority of both Democrats and Republicans believe that voters from the opposite side are immoral.

Americans have developed a pervasive distrust of government, society and — most problematically — each other.

This growing rift between us isn’t just alarming. It’s unproductive and short-sighted.

According to a 2021 survey, 82% of Americans believe our nation is more fragmented than unified. The same survey showed a chasm between Americans, driven by disagreement over a small fraction of issues.

We agree on so much and yet remain deeply divided.

To be sure, issues that spark division often stem from deep personal and emotional ties.

But polarization is not the answer.

Holding onto animosity and retreating to the comfortable confines of our echo chambers exacerbates harmful divides rather than bridging them.

I have succumbed to these cynical emotions myself. After all, political views reflect fundamental differences in outlook. And on issues that stir the conscience, it becomes difficult to maintain respect and understanding when we don’t see eye-to-eye.

Maybe we are too divided. Maybe the pleasantries, the handshakes and the laughs are meaningless.

Then I’m reminded of Mike. Of the laughs, stories and memories two people from opposite ends of the political spectrum shared.

I remember sitting on a bench the evening after I learned of his passing. I thought about the garage’s descent from vibrancy into sullen emptiness.

For all that changed, one thing had remained the same that day – a symbol of Mike’s life and spirit.

The dark brown garage door was angled upwards.

Open your garage to others. Open your hearts to them.