Growing up, Travion Malone, 27, didn’t have an ideal relationship with his grandfather Randy Matkins. There were no birthday parties with grandpa, no being spoiled with gifts or going to sporting events. His grandfather didn’t attend any of Malone’s school functions, take him camping, or visit for the holidays. 

All they had were phone calls and rare in-person visits at the prison where Matkins was incarcerated. 

“He kept running around,” said Matkins, 68, recalling the first time 2-year-old Malone visited him inside. “I told my daughter she had her hands full with that one.” 

There’s a happier version of this story, in which Matkins is released from prison one day and the grandfather and grandson bond in the free world. But Malone, who landed in prison on robbery and assault charges in 2017 at age 20, only ever knew his grandfather behind bars.

Forty-four years after Matkins was sentenced to life without parole for murder, Malone was transferred to William E. Donaldson Correctional Facility, outside Birmingham, Alabama. That’s when Matkins and Malone started serving time together.

Over the years, I’ve known brothers doing time, uncles and nephews doing time, the occasional father and son doing time together. But never in my 35 years of incarceration have I seen a grandfather serving time with his grandson.

Maybe it was inevitable. Alabama has some of the most punitive sentencing laws in the country. If a prison system holds onto people for decades, it only makes sense that a few grandkids would eventually wind up in the same prison as their grandparents.

Matkins wished it wasn’t this way. 

“I enjoy spending time with him and getting to know him, but it shouldn’t have been like this,” Matkins told me in an interview conducted in the summer. “He’s a very talented rapper. He should be out there. He’d be a millionaire. I should have been there for him and my daughters.” 

Despite the challenges, Malone said he built a stronger relationship with Matkins, or “Randy Mac,” as he was called inside, serving time together. 

Malone would visit Matkins’ dorm two or three times a week to cook food together or hang out. The pair, who are both from the Huntsville area near the Tennessee border, liked playing dominoes. On weekends they would watch basketball or football together.

“I wouldn’t change this time for the world,” Malone told me in the summer.

Growing up, all Malone heard about was “the legend of Randy Mac.” When he landed in the same prison, he got to “see and hear” for himself the man behind the myth.

Matkins was well-known in Alabama’s prison system as the knockout king. If you had an issue with him and couldn’t, or wouldn’t, resolve it with him, then you were vulnerable to being dropped by a single punch, with no hard feelings on Matkins’ part. But if you came to make peace, he would offer a shot of coffee or a cigarette, then sit down and talk things out with you. 

Much more than fighting, though, Matkins preferred making people laugh. He called me Jeff for years, because he said I “look more like a Jeffrey.” (Most of my friends call me Corey.) Some people even started thinking Jeff was my name.

Another time, a young man who grew up near Matkins’ hometown came up to talk to Matkins. He told Matkins he had been nervous to speak with him because his father had told him Matkins was “a badass.” Matkins just said, “Nope,” then lightly poked him on the head with his index finger and said, “Boop.”

While Malone got to see these sides of his grandfather more fully, Matkins said being the older man in the relationship came with a sense of responsibility that heightened the stakes.

“I just find it really hard being in here with him because if somebody does something to him or he does something to get in trouble, I don’t know how I might react,” Matkins said. “I love him. It’s just weird being in here with him.” 

Malone liked to call Matkins by his first name. When I asked him what the deal was, Malone told me, “It’s what he wants me to call him.” 

Matkins laughed and said, “I’ve had young dudes call me ‘pops,’ ‘gramps,’ ‘old school,’ and ‘unc’ for years, but my real grandson, I don’t know, man. I told you it was weird.” 

In November 2024, Matkins was diagnosed with lung cancer and soon began treatment. In July 2025, he was placed in the prison infirmary. 

For many of us, this was sad news. In prison, we can become as close as family. We see each other every day. Many of us have spent more time with each other than our real families. I had been friends with Matkins for over 30 years, and he was a beloved member of our family here. 

Yet for Malone, this wasn’t just a prison family — it was blood. He did his best to support his grandfather through treatment. 

“I just try to be strong with him and let him know that I’m here with him, helping to make him stronger,” Malone said. 

Matkins’ admittance into the infirmary made it nearly impossible for Malone to see him. Unlike hospitals outside of prison, infirmaries generally do not allow visits from other prisoners. So Malone had to send uplifting messages through officers and incarcerated infirmary workers who knew Matkins. 

For Matkins, the struggle was a reminder of how incarceration challenged his family. 

“This is my burden. It’s not for Travion to carry,” Matkins said. “He’s got a family and a career to get out to, where he should be.” 

On Malone’s birthday this year, in August, some friends of Matkins who have good standing with the staff were able to take Malone to the infirmary to spend the afternoon with his grandfather. Malone didn’t offer many specifics on the visit, and I respected his privacy. But he did say that they had “a great time.”

“I’ve never laughed so much,” Malone said, smiling.

Two days later, as I started writing this story, Matkins died in his sleep due to complications from cancer. The last time I talked to Malone, he said he was blessed to have spent this time with his grandfather.