Kare11 NBC

At Duluth’s Bayfront Festival Park, the glow of the setting sun is the only light that isn’t Nathan Bentley’s doing.

“I do everything,” he says, half-laughing, half out of breath, as he pushes a portable toilet down the sidewalk. A few minutes earlier, he’d been setting out donation boxes, wheelchairs, and strollers. In a few more, he’ll be rallying the crowd with a nightly countdown.

“Welcome to Bentleyville, 2025!” he yells into a handheld mic as the gates swing open and kids sprint past him. “No sense getting tackled by a 7-year-old,” he jokes.

Once inside, visitors are immersed in a 22-acre Christmas spectacle, with more than six million lights blinking, twinkling, and pulsing across walkways, tunnels, trees, and rooftops. Bentleyville is the largest free walk-through light display in the United States.

“Bentleyville is completely an accident,” says Bentley. “It’s just an accident that turned into a hobby that turned into a circus.”

The circus began modestly enough in 2001, when he decorated his home in Esko, Minnesota. It got bigger when he moved to nearby Cloquet. But it also got more complicated.

“The traffic, it was unbelievable,” he says. “When you're on a first-name basis with the St. Louis County Sheriff's Department and the State Patrol, you know you've drawn some attention to yourself.”

In 2008, Duluth’s mayor stepped in and offered Bayfront Park as a new home for the display. Bentley jumped at the chance — and filled the space tenfold.

“Just my personality; I love to do things that other people don't do,” says Bentley, who runs an emblem and screen printing company when he’s not stringing up lights or moving port-a-potties.

He’s not doing it all alone. About 2,600 volunteers keep Bentleyville running every year, along with financial support from Duluth’s business community.

Since moving to the park, the light show has only gotten bigger. Its centerpiece, added in 2010, is a towering metal Christmas tree pulsing with lights in sync with music.

“This is the tallest manmade tree in the United States,” Bentley says, standing proudly at its base. “It's 128 feet tall, weighs 17 tons.”

Bentley seems to know every number by heart. Over 12,000 extension cords. 100,000 zip ties. Three semi loads of firewood for 30 fire pits. “We prepare for 350,000 people who come through Bentleyville each year,” he adds.

That’s almost four times the population of Duluth. And most of those visitors are coming from far away — about 60% travel more than 100 miles to get there.

The Santa line alone stretches endlessly. “There's hundreds and hundreds of people in line tonight,” Bentley notes. “Everybody's got to see the big man.”

Some visitors come back year after year. Some get engaged under the lights. Some name their dog Bentley.

Bentley’s favorite moments are often the small ones. Like when a family asks him to take their photo in front of the giant tree. He takes the shot, hands back the phone, and quips, “You know, these are pretty good even without me in 'em.”

As the moon rises over the glowing park, Bentley finally finds a moment to catch his breath. It’s the one light in Duluth he didn’t install.

But during the holidays, it’s hard to find many others.

How One Man’s Holiday Obsession Turned Into America’s Largest Free Light Show

BBC News

It’s not every day a performer can rile up a crowd at Glastonbury and then win hearts on Songs of Praise, but James B Partridge has managed both — and he’s done it by reviving the most nostalgic soundtrack of all: the humble school assembly.

The Dorset-born music teacher and singer, now 34, has become an unlikely sensation thanks to his “Primary School Assembly Bangers” — a setlist of retro hymns and school singalongs that has struck a powerful chord with audiences across the UK.

“The love of music had to come from the assembly hall,” Partridge said. “We had fantastic tunes that we sang together and were taught these by memory, so that’s why to this day they’ve been stuck in my head.”

Partridge, who grew up in Poole and attended Stanley Green school in Oakdale, started posting his top 10 assembly songs online during the pandemic lockdowns. The videos — complete with lively performances and audience participation — quickly snowballed into a national following. Now, he’s performing sell-out shows, including at the Bournemouth Pavilion, where audiences leap out of their seats to belt out childhood favourites and join in the actions.

His latest tour, The Big Christmas Assembly, blends Christmas carols with feel-good pop hits, channelling both nostalgia and festive cheer in equal measure.

“It’s been absolutely incredible to see people’s reaction,” he said. “It can be quite emotional singing some of these tunes that you might not have heard for years, reminiscing on times gone by, reaching a hand out into the past and bringing it into the present.”

Partridge’s parents, Lyndy and Mark, have watched the journey unfold with pride. He grew up singing in his local church choir and as part of the Bournemouth Symphony Youth Chorus, and his talent stood out early.

“He was very, very good — you could hear him from the back pew,” Mark recalled.

“He was fairly quiet as a child,” added Lyndy. “But he’s very outgoing and quite extrovert on stage.”

Mark admitted they didn’t expect his son’s nostalgic project to take off the way it has. “When he first started talking about doing assembly songs, I don’t think there was anybody — including ourselves — who thought, ‘oh yeah, I’m sure he’ll be performing at the Pavilion soon.’”

But what started as a lockdown pastime has grown into something deeper — a shared longing for the joy and community of collective singing.

“A lot of people cry out for some sense of community that no longer exists,” said Mark. “That lost sense of communal singing that the school assembly of your childhood days brought out is represented in James’ show. People come out feeling revitalised.”

That message has resonated particularly strongly during the holiday season. For Partridge, the tour is about more than nostalgia — it’s about connection.

“Christmas is all about connection, it’s all about community, it’s all about tradition,” he said. “All of those things are linked with music.”

As a performer, teacher, and champion of musical joy, James B Partridge has managed to tap into something rare: a collective memory that brings strangers together to sing their hearts out — and feel like kids again.

This Performer Turned School Assembly Bangers into a National Celebration

NBC News

A New Jersey woman got her dog back after nine long days of searching — and just in time, before a snowstorm blanketed the area in eight inches of snow.

Samira Gross was running out of hope. Her 3-year-old dog, Dakota, had vanished after chasing an animal in Johnson Park, a sprawling 500-acre greenspace that stretches across Piscataway and Highland Park.

“Not knowing if she was OK for nine days was just so emotional for me,” Gross said.

With time ticking and temperatures dropping, Gross turned to a company called Apex Eagle Drone Services, based in Williamstown, New Jersey. The company specializes in using drones with thermal cameras to locate lost pets.

Chris Sherrard, who operates the drones, searched Johnson Park on Saturday using thermal imaging. That’s when something caught his eye.

“Came across this marsh, a little pond next to it. And wouldn’t you know, there was one heat signature in the middle of all the reeds in there,” he said. “It was really awesome. Honestly, my heart started pounding.”

But finding Dakota was only the first challenge. Reaching her proved far more difficult.

She was stuck in an area surrounded by dense reeds, some nearly three meters tall. A friend of Gross’ family volunteered to go in, trudging through thick mud and overgrowth while Sherrard guided him remotely.

“I had to guide him every step of the way with the thermal imaging, because he literally couldn't see two feet in front of him,” Sherrard said. “I really believe the timing was just crucial, because now there's eight inches of snow in that area.”

Once rescued, Dakota was rushed to the vet. She had lost weight, needed IV fluids, and had a few scrapes, but was otherwise OK. Her tail didn’t stop wagging.

“We were just so happy to have her home,” Gross said. “I told them that, like, I thank you. Like, from the bottom of my heart, yes, I'm very, very grateful for their services.”

The drone search cost Gross $350 — an amount she called more than worth it for getting Dakota back alive.

Drone with Thermal Camera Rescues Lost Dog in New Jersey, Just Before Snowstorm Hits

After 19 years spent guiding countless patients and visitors through the halls of Nottingham’s City Hospital, Margaret Wildgust has earned more than a few smiles — and now, a major honour too.

The 90-year-old, who celebrated her milestone birthday this summer with what she jokingly called a “living wake,” has just been named the hospital trust’s Volunteer of the Year. And in a fitting tribute to her years of dedication, one of Nottingham’s number 17 buses — her favourite route — will soon bear her name.

“I’ve got to 90 and I can still do something,” she said. “People say I don’t look 90, but I do feel it sometimes.”

Twice a week, Margaret shows up to the hospital for her volunteer shifts, where she serves as a meet-and-greet guide for patients and visitors who need help finding their way.

“It makes me feel wonderful,” she said. “It’s a lovely feeling. I feel as if I’ve done a bit of good.”

Her path to the role began nearly two decades ago when the supermarket she worked at was taken over. After seeing volunteers during her own hospital visits, she decided to give it a try.

“I said to my daughter, ‘I’m going to do that,’” she recalled.

Since then, she’s become a fixture at City Hospital — one who, in her own words, knows “every nook and cranny.” She’s known for her warm humour, helpful directions, and festive spirit — especially at the hospital’s annual mince pie party, where her flashing Christmas jumper is a regular hit.

“People ask me about the flashing jumper,” she said, laughing. “They say, ‘Margaret, are you going to flash for us this year?’”

But above all, it’s the human connection that keeps her coming back.

“It’s a people thing. I do like people,” she said. “I have a bit of fun with them when they come in. If they have a long way to go I’ll just say something like, ‘If you follow the yellow brick road…’ and that will make them smile — and that’s what it’s all about.”

Despite now getting a lift into work, she still insists on taking the bus home — a small ritual she’s held onto for years. Soon, one of those buses will bear her name.

And while most people her age are long into retirement, Margaret has no plans to stop.

“I love every minute of it,” she said. “When I come here, I come alive. I’ll keep coming as long as I’m able.”

This 90-Year-Old Volunteer Just Won an Award, and Got a Bus Named After Her

ABC News

When Barnaby Wickham hops on his bike in Baltimore, he’s not just out for exercise. He’s on the hunt for hubcaps.

What started nearly two years ago with one lost hubcap has grown into a collection of more than 700, most of them gathered during his regular cycling routes around the city. But for Wickham, 54, it’s not just about collecting trash. It’s about turning roadside litter into large-scale public art.

“I love to cycle. I love Baltimore,” Wickham said. “There’s just enough hubcaps and other things like car grills to be interesting, but not so many that it’s too easy.”

He’s made Christmas wreaths, a giant fish, and even a 16-foot-tall Snoopy head using the discarded pieces of plastic and metal. All of it is assembled in his front yard and stored in his garage. His method is simple: expanded metal for structure, zip ties to fasten the hubcaps, and a healthy dose of imagination.

“It’s all held together with zip ties,” he said. “Hubcaps are filled with slots or holes, and so it’s easy to get a hold of them to hold them in place.”

Each find gets logged. Wickham uses Google Maps to pin the exact locations of his discoveries and keeps a running list of “hubcaps in the wild.” When others spot one, they’ll often text him a tip—but he insists on picking it up himself. That’s part of the fun.

“I think it’s sort of the excitement of the hunt, for one thing,” he said.

Wickham, who works in marketing for a defense technology firm, credits his wife, Kate, with being the support crew. She helps during construction and keeps an eye on safety.

“I’m just support team, and occasionally the cautious person who says, you can’t drive on this road, you can’t bike on this road,” she said. “So I’m just more kind of supporting his love of trying new things.”

The city itself seems like a natural fit for this kind of project. Baltimore has a long tradition of embracing eccentricity, from cult film director John Waters to the American Visionary Art Museum, known nationally for showcasing self-taught artists.

Wickham’s art falls squarely into that tradition. It’s large, bold, and rooted in the city’s streets—literally. The Snoopy piece is about 6.4 meters wide. And while most of his materials come from Baltimore, he’s collected a few on trips to see his son at Kent State in Ohio. He even found one on a business trip in Rome.

“I was like, oh, I collect these. I’m just going to take this back with me,” he said, recalling how he had to explain himself to a confused bike tour guide. “And I showed her a photo of the wreath, and she was like: ‘Oh, OK.’ Whenever anyone hears about it and understands it, they’re onboard.”

Last year, he donated two of his hubcap wreaths—one to the city, another to a nonprofit.

But for all the art, the real joy may be the conversations. Wickham says people often stop him mid-ride to point out hubcaps they’ve seen, just to help. On one occasion, a man flagged him down urgently just to let him know another hubcap was nearby.

“It was clear to him that I was collecting these things, and all he wanted to do was help,” Wickham said. “It starts a lot of conversations, and it’s just something that people love to talk about.”

What began with a single piece of roadside trash has become a full-fledged community project—one zip tie at a time.

Baltimore Cyclist Turns Lost Hubcaps Into Unique Art

Euro News

The music is soft, the posture upright, and the smiles perfectly polite as dozens of people in Regency-era formalwear move in synchrony across a dance floor in the French capital. It could be a scene straight from Pride and Prejudice — but it’s not 1815 in Bath, it’s 2025 in a community centre in Paris.

The occasion? A full-costume ball celebrating the 250th birthday of Jane Austen, the iconic English novelist born on December 16, 1775. Organized by historical dance teacher Cécile Laye and her company Chestnut, the event drew about 50 attendees, mostly women, eager to waltz, curtsy, and connect with Austen’s world — one square dance at a time.

“I have been dancing for five years now, performing various historical dance styles. What I enjoy about Regency-era dances is that I feel as though I am reliving a scene from one of Jane Austen’s novels,” said 47-year-old Virginie Ussi, who wore a hand-sewn purple Empire-style dress based on a historical pattern.

Austen’s popularity needs little explanation in the English-speaking world, where “Janeites” have long celebrated her works with fan festivals, walking tours, and costume balls. But this year, Austenmania is making noticeable inroads in France, where such events are becoming more common — and more crowded.

In Ligueil, a small town of just over 2,000 residents in central France, the public library expected 30 people to show up to its first Jane Austen weekend. They got 120. "We didn't think the event would be this popular," said local volunteer and dancer Fred Delrieux. The library is now planning a sequel for 2026.

Back in Paris, the Chestnut ball offered participants a chance to not just read Austen, but live in her world for an evening. Dancers bowed, changed partners, and smiled graciously as they followed Regency choreography, a ritual that once signaled social status, propriety, and — sometimes — the beginnings of courtship.

“Jane Austen loved to dance,” said Laye. “She loved dancing so much that all of her novels include very long dance sequences, with dialogue that really moves the plot forward.”

That’s not just a literary detail. In Regency England, dancing more than twice with the same partner at a ball was a clear signal of romantic interest — a coded tradition that Austen wove into every one of her books.

Today, Austen’s appeal spans mediums and generations. Some fans come through the novels, others through cinema. For many, it was the 1995 BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice — yes, the one with Colin Firth’s famous pond scene — that kicked off a new wave of fandom. The series drew more than 11 million viewers and inspired dozens of dance groups in its wake.

“People really love that feeling of connecting to what they’ve seen in the films,” said Charlotte Cumper of the Jane Austen Dancers of Bath. “They watch the adaptations and think ‘I want to dance like that.’”

Others come through costuming. “Wearing a costume makes you feel even more like you're travelling back in time for the duration of a weekend,” said Ussi. Her fellow dancer Vanessa Bertho agreed: “Dancing in costume really allows you to perform the movements as if you were a woman of the Regency era, with all its restrictions and advantages.”

Bertho, a primary school teacher and devoted Sense and Sensibility fan, wore a long blue dress she bought at the Jane Austen Festival in Bath. But not everyone at these balls is a bookworm. “We’ve got some members who probably haven’t even read one of her books,” said Cumper. “Some come through the historical dance route. Some just want to find a hobby. And this looked like fun.”

The French, it turns out, are relative newcomers to Austen’s world. According to classics professor Marie-Alix Hediard, early translations in France skewed her work toward romance and watered down her sharp social commentary. That limited her literary reputation on this side of the Channel. But that’s changing. In April, a group of fans launched the Jane Austen Society of France, aiming to build a proper community of French Janeites.

Even outside formal societies, Austen’s influence is everywhere — from Clueless and Bridget Jones to Netflix’s Bridgerton. On TikTok, the hashtag #JaneAusten has hundreds of millions of views, filled with memes, fan edits, and reviews. “You don’t have to get into Jane Austen through academia,” said Jane Austen: Visual Encyclopedia co-author Claire Saim. “You can enter her world through Bridgerton.”

For Schorn, the Paris barista and longtime Austen fan who danced at the Chestnut ball, the appeal is timeless. “I think that as the state of the world, as the plight becomes heavier, as pockets thin, people are actually seeking comfort and are more likely to come here.”

And comfort, it turns out, can look a lot like stepping into a tailcoat or empire gown and dancing to the rhythm of a pianoforte. As Austen herself once wrote, “To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.”

Two and a half centuries later, plenty still are — with the dancing, with the novels, and with the world Jane Austen built.

French Fans Celebrate Jane Austen's 250th Birthday With 'Pride And Prejudice' Fantasy

Rodell Rosel has spent more than 20 years on stages across the U.S., sharing his voice with opera lovers in Chicago and beyond. But for him, the journey has never been about perfection — it’s about growth, honesty, and staying connected to who you are.

“We always say opera is the Olympics of singing,” Rosel told CBS News Chicago. “Our instruments are inside our bodies.”

Rosel is a seasoned tenor, known for his expressive performances and warm presence, on and off the stage. He’s performed with major opera companies and remains a fixture in Chicago’s music scene. But ask him how long he’s been at it, and he’s quick with a joke: “I’ve been singing professionally for 20 years. I’m 21.”

His love for the art form runs deep — and he insists it’s for everyone, regardless of whether they understand the language.

“Even though you don’t understand the words, the music envelops it. It’s up to the artist to interpret,” he explained. “When someone is saying, ‘My heart is broken,’ it will sound like this. It stretches it so it doesn’t leave you quickly. It stays with you enough to feel the drama.”

That idea of making emotion linger — of using music to reach people — has guided Rosel throughout his career. But he also credits much of his success to embracing every part of himself.

“I want to be a full, rounded person,” he said. “To be able to be full, rounded, you have to be able to embrace everything about you, both masculine and feminine.”

Rosel is openly gay and has been married to Steven Hunter for 11 years. For him, being visible and open is simply about living truthfully.

“I will talk about it as normal and as regular as everyone else,” he said. “If I’m talking to someone, ‘Oh great, my husband and I are talking about going on that trip,’ instead of saying, ‘Oh, just want to let you know, I have a husband.’”

Rosel is also active in the LGBTQ+ Asian community in Chicago, where he’s found friendship and solidarity through the group Asians and Friends.

Founded in 1984, the group was created to provide a safe and welcoming space for LGBTQ+ Asians and their allies. “In recent years we’re trying to get more active in the community as well,” said president John McInteer.

Rosel met McInteer through the group’s social events, which include fundraisers, pride parades, and dim sum brunches.

“It’s about our common interest and being able to open up and compare how we experience our lives in Chicago,” Rosel said.

And while he’s accomplished a lot in two decades of singing, he still sees opera as an ongoing education.

“I would consider it continuous learning,” he said. “Just like law or medicine, we have to keep working on our voice. We have to keep working on our artistry.”

For Rosel, life is full — of music, of meaning, and of a community that helps him stay grounded while reaching for ever-higher notes.

Chicago Tenor Rodell Rosel Connects People Through Opera's Music And Emotion

A father of two is being hailed as a national hero in Australia after disarming a gunman during a mass shooting at Sydney’s Bondi Beach on Sunday.

Ahmed al-Ahmed, a 43-year-old fruit seller originally from Syria, acted in a split second that may have saved dozens of lives. Footage from the scene shows him sneaking up behind the attacker, wrestling the gun from his hands, and pointing it back at him before placing it on the ground and raising his arms to signal he was not a threat.

Al-Ahmed’s intervention ended one part of the attack and has since triggered an outpouring of support across the country.

GoFundMe confirmed that a campaign launched in al-Ahmed’s name has raised more than $2.2 million so far. “We’re seeing an outpouring of love for Ahmed al-Ahmed following his heroic actions at Bondi Beach,” the platform said on X. “We’re working directly with organisers to ensure funds safely reach Ahmed and his family.”

Outside the Saint George Hospital, where al-Ahmed is being treated for gunshot wounds, strangers have left flowers and notes of gratitude. Others placed tributes at his closed fruit shop, according to local media.

Al-Ahmed’s father, Mohamed Fateh al-Ahmed, told ABC News that his son had been having coffee with a friend when he heard gunshots and decided to step in. “My son is a hero. He served in the police, he has the passion to defend people,” he said. It’s not yet clear which police force al-Ahmed previously served in.

His mother, Malakeh Hasan al-Ahmed, said she collapsed in tears after receiving the call that her son had been shot. “I kept beating myself up and crying,” she told reporters.

Ahmed al-Ahmed moved to Sydney in 2006 after fleeing war in Syria. Friends and relatives have described him as humble, generous, and deeply committed to his community.

His actions have drawn praise from across the political spectrum. On Monday, Prime Minister Anthony Albanese visited the Bondi Pavilion, laying flowers at a memorial site and offering condolences to the victims’ families.

“He didn’t just save lives, he showed us what courage looks like,” one supporter wrote online. “He ran toward danger, when everyone else was running away.”

The full picture of the attack, including the identities and motivations of the two suspects, is still unfolding. One suspect was killed at the scene, and the other remains in critical condition. Police have classified the shooting as a terrorist attack.

But amid the horror, al-Ahmed’s actions have given Australians something else to focus on: bravery, selflessness, and the simple power of one person choosing to help others.

“He didn’t do it for recognition,” a neighbour told reporters. “He did it because he knew it was the right thing to do.”

Bondi Beach Hero Al-Ahmed Tackles Shooter, Raises $2.2M In Donations

Sunny Skyz

For a long time, Keith Tidwell and Debbie Rhoden passed each other without speaking. Tidwell worked nights in the produce section at the Kroger on Gray Highway. Rhoden shopped there often. They didn’t know each other’s names.

That changed about 18 months ago when Rhoden spotted Tidwell walking along the roadside on her drive home. She recognized him from the store and realized he was making his long commute — nearly five miles each way — on foot.

It was late. The road was dark. Rhoden turned her car around and offered him a ride.

Tidwell, who usually walks or bikes to work, decided to accept. That ride didn’t just make his commute easier — it changed both their lives.

Rhoden had lost her son, Carlos Hill, just months earlier. “I think he would have wanted me to pick him up and take him to work, especially when he knew how far he has to walk at night,” she said.

What began as a one-time gesture has since become routine. Rhoden now gives Tidwell regular rides to work several times a week. The two, once strangers, have formed a close friendship.

“She never made me feel like I was a burden,” Tidwell said. The rides have made his commute safer and far less stressful. Rhoden said she never hesitated. “I just knew it was the right thing to do,” she said.

Tidwell is currently working toward earning his driver’s license. But no matter who’s driving in the future, both say their bond isn’t going anywhere.

How A Simple Ride to Work Sparked an Unexpected Friendship in Georgia

During a regular New York Jets special teams meeting earlier this season, defensive tackle Jowon Briggs was put on the spot.

“I didn't know you could sing,” special teams coordinator Chris Banjo said, nudging Briggs. “Man, go ahead and sing something.”

So the 6-foot-1, 313-pound lineman stayed in his seat and started singing Tevin Campbell’s R&B classic “Can We Talk.” The room went quiet — and then erupted. “He has a beautiful voice,” said teammate Harrison Phillips. “It was crazy, actually,” added safety Isaiah Oliver. “I didn’t know that about him... but it was really good.”

Briggs got a standing ovation.

Turns out, singing is just the beginning.

The 24-year-old not only has a strong voice — he also plays at least 12 instruments to varying degrees. Piano, violin, cello, acoustic and electric guitar, saxophone, flute, harmonica — the list goes on. He started with the recorder in kindergarten. Then came strings, acting, choirs, even a cappella tours overseas.

“I always say, everybody’s got something,” Briggs said. “I just happen to be a musical guy.”

Jets defensive tackle Jay Tufele called it what it is: “He’s a beast on the field and off.”

Briggs has been a bright spot for the Jets in an otherwise rocky season. After being picked up just before the regular season began — a seventh-rounder from Cleveland, via the University of Cincinnati — he quickly earned a starting role. With Quinnen Williams traded to Dallas, Briggs stepped in and has put up 28 tackles, six for a loss, three sacks, a forced fumble, and nine QB hits.

“He’s a big man, he’s strong,” said coach Aaron Glenn. “What’s been surprising — and I wouldn’t say surprising — but what he’s had the tick up in is his ability to rush the passer.”

Growing up in Cincinnati, Briggs was surrounded by music and competition. Four older sisters and a younger brother filled the house with songs, instruments, and constant energy. “It was kind of like Battle of the Bands,” Briggs said. “My sisters all sing better than I can... but if you grow up in that kind of competitive household, you find out if you can sing or not fairly quickly.”

He started singing and acting at a performing arts school and kept going through high school, landing the lead in Ragtime as Coalhouse Walker Jr. Along the way, he picked up instrument after instrument, with a special love for the bass guitar.

“It’s my favorite all the way,” he said. “And I just picked up a new one.”

By the time he got to college — first at the University of Virginia as a physics and music double major, then transferring to Cincinnati — he was singing the national anthem before basketball games, joining chamber choirs, and touring London with the Hullabahoos, an all-male a cappella group.

Music was his way of finding balance. “Compared to singing a solo on stage,” Briggs said, “being on a football field might as well be like a walk in a loud park.”

Now a married father of four, Briggs still makes time for music. “I probably got a couple albums worth,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when I feel like releasing them.”

His playlist is all over the map: jazz legends like John Coltrane, grunge bands like Alice In Chains, classics like Sarah Vaughan and Prince. He even raps, according to teammates.

“His singing voice and his rapping voice are two different buckets,” said Phillips. “I’m not artistic in any way, so major props to him on that.”

These days, Briggs decompresses by quietly playing bass with headphones after the kids go to bed. Sometimes he records tracks with computer programs. Occasionally, a teammate will spot the amp in the back of his car.

“Then we go down the rabbit hole,” Briggs said, laughing. “But I don’t think a lot of guys even know. And they might not ever know. I mean, until they see me put out a record 30 years from now.”

He’s not ruling out the stage either. “Even if it’s not off-Broadway or even off-off-Broadway,” he joked.

Football is still the focus. But long after the last down, his voice — and maybe that five-string bass — will still be playing.

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