When 64-year-old Randall Keen enters a UNC game, ushers greet him by name. Living with ALS hasn’t stopped him from cheering for nearly every Tar Heel team—or from teaching his daughter, Avery, what it means to keep showing up in Carolina blue.
It was Keen’s first men’s soccer game at the University of North Carolina.
He sat a few rows up from the field, right on the line, in a Carolina sweatshirt zipped to his chin and a stack of friendship bracelets around his wrist. The late sun stretched across Dorrance Field as he leaned forward, watching the players jog through their warmups.
“I’ve never seen one of these before,” he said, smiling as the whistle blew. “Guess it’s about time.”
At 64, Keen doesn’t move as easily as he once did. ALS has slowed his speech and weakened his muscles, but it hasn’t stopped him from showing up.
Seven years ago, he began feeling pain in his foot. When he went to the doctor, the physician paused mid-sentence and asked, almost casually, “How long have you been slurring your words?”
What followed was a blur—months of tests meant to rule out everything else. When nothing else was left, the diagnosis arrived: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS.
A disease that weakens muscles until even simple movements take effort. The average life expectancy is two to five years.
Next month will mark Keen’s seventh year since the diagnosis.
At first, he did what anyone might—searched for answers, tried to plan. Then, one night in prayer, he asked for three things: strength, courage and grace.
“Grace not in the religious sense,” he said, “but grace in how we handle what’s given to us.”
The phrase became his anchor—etched into the bracelets on his wrist, whispered as a reminder whenever he felt the weight of the disease pressing in.
Chapel Hill has always been the place where he finds that grace.
Keen graduated from the UNC in 1983, studying criminal justice and political science during a golden era of Carolina basketball. Michael Jordan, James Worthy and Sam Perkins filled Carmichael Auditorium with a kind of magic that never left him.
He built a career, raised a family and settled in Wake Forest. Life filled with work and responsibility, leaving little time for sports beyond the occasional game on TV.
After retirement—and after the diagnosis—he started coming back. First to baseball. Then volleyball, women’s lacrosse, field hockey and now, men’s soccer.
“I had no introduction to soccer or field hockey,” he said. “So now that I’m retired, I’m focused on becoming a fan of all the sports I didn’t get to see here.”
Sometimes, when one game ends, he’ll wander across campus to find another starting. The ushers and ticket takers all know his name now.
“He’s the consummate supporter of UNC athletics,” said Judy, an usher at several venues. “He goes through a living hell every day, yet he’s constantly asking how I’m doing. He has a giving, loving heart.”
That generosity is what most people notice first. What they learn later is how much courage it takes for Randall to be there at all.
When his daughter, Avery, enrolled at UNC, his visits to Chapel Hill became more frequent. He’d stop by to see her, then stay for a game or two. Sometimes he’d catch her in the student section between plays.
“I grew up going to the games with him,” Avery said. “He taught me to be the fan I am today—like teaching me to hate Duke from an early age.”
Now a junior double-majoring in political science and psychology, with a minor in social and economic justice, Avery sees those games differently. She knows what it takes for her dad to be there, from navigating the crowds to climbing stadium ramps.
“It’s something we’ve always shared,” she said. “And I think it means even more now.”
The Carolina staff have become an extension of that family. Avery said her dad makes friends everywhere he goes, often chatting with ushers or ticket takers before every game.
“Every time I visit, he’s introducing me to someone new,” she said. “That’s just who he is.”
Some staff members have joined Randall’s Ralliers, the team formed in his honor to raise money for ALS research and patient care. Since its start, they’ve raised nearly $180,000 through walks and donations.
“It started small,” he said. “Now it’s something that helps people like me live easier—and maybe helps someone else down the road.”
At every walk, Randall’s circle grows: old classmates, family members, ushers and neighbors. They come in waves of Carolina blue, each shirt printed with his mantra: Strength. Courage. Grace.
“He’s just a really, very special part of our Carolina family,” said Ellen, another usher at UNC athletics. “He’s a great friend, and we love having him around.”
Even as his speech slows and his movements take more effort, Keen still plans his weeks around UNC’s athletic calendar. He studies schedules, checks stats and learns the rules of sports he never grew up watching.
“There are a few I haven’t seen yet,” he said. “I’d love to see wrestling, or the next tennis facility. Maybe men’s soccer next.”
Then “next” came on a crisp fall night.
When the final whistle blew, Keen lingered in his seat as the crowd thinned around him. He watched the players shake hands and the stadium lights softened against the evening sky.
“Good game,” he said, the words faint but full. Then, after a pause: “It’s good to be here.”
For many, it’s easy to look at ALS and see what’s been taken. But Keen reminds Tar Heels that you can still choose to show up—to find joy, to keep loving the things and the people that matter.
The three bracelets on his wrist carry that message, each one a reminder of what he promised himself seven years ago: Strength. Courage. Grace.
And on game day in Chapel Hill, if you look toward the stands, you’ll probably find Randall Keen—still cheering, still smiling and still showing up in Carolina blue.
