Dropped Dead
Ran into an old friend the other day. We'd worked together back when they were re-doing the Ralph Wilson Stadium one summer back about 16 years ago. The site had been a real rough one as there were 700 workers out there and the fun of being at the stadium every day was sort of neat. I remember walking around the field thinking about those Super Bowl runs.
Of course, that job is what soured me on football too. Seeing how the players were treated like royalty sort of pulled back the curtain on it for me. I saw the little guy who ran the Mighty Oz show. It all suddenly seemed fake and the players looking down their noses at guys who work a lot harder than them changed everything.
Yet the story behind the trip down memory lane was in the talking about past people we knew in common. I asked about one guy who was a colossal pain in the ass back then. I had really sort of despised the guy because he was downright miserable most of the time.
"He dropped dead," my buddy said. "Heart attack at 53."
"Oh damn," I said.
But my buddy laughed.
"Nobody liked him," he said. "His dying doesn't change that."
And true to my nature I chewed on that single comment for 72 hours. Here we are years and years later and try as we might neither of us could come up with anything good to say about the guy.
But 'dropped dead' is a lousy way to go, huh? No one will ever know how he felt or how it played out for him. Just standing upright one moment and on the ground the next.
Being that we all sort of struggle with our mortality, and given the pain associated with all of it, I'm surprised that I only spent 72 hours straight considering it.
First off, no one is truly ready, right?
53 is a short life. Even when you're mostly miserable.
Secondly, what had he left behind?
The legacy that two guys who saw him every day can't come up with a single nice word?
Lastly, and the most important aspect of considering this:
What if it happens to me?
Even typing that sentence is uncomfortable.
'Cause I ain't leaving until I'm satisfied, but it ain't up to me, right?
"Well, we'll all know what you were thinking," my buddy said, "because you never shut-up."
And I guess that's right. I've often thought about the blog and the books and the endless stream of banter that I've left behind as a footprint.
There isn't a lot of room to think:
I wonder what he was thinking?
Yet I thought of the guy I knew back then. Certainly there had been people who loved him, or who he loved. Were they at peace with his kingdom of days?
I think of it in the context of the people we've lost as a family. We weren't left guessing. They laid it on the line. They emptied the tank too. They were undeniably loved and they loved with all their hearts.
So I resolved it in my mind.
On the moment when the old ticker gives way it can be a peaceful exit because the love was always front and center.
Everyone will have known where they stood.
And that's a good way to go about it, I think.
Of course, that job is what soured me on football too. Seeing how the players were treated like royalty sort of pulled back the curtain on it for me. I saw the little guy who ran the Mighty Oz show. It all suddenly seemed fake and the players looking down their noses at guys who work a lot harder than them changed everything.
Yet the story behind the trip down memory lane was in the talking about past people we knew in common. I asked about one guy who was a colossal pain in the ass back then. I had really sort of despised the guy because he was downright miserable most of the time.
"He dropped dead," my buddy said. "Heart attack at 53."
"Oh damn," I said.
But my buddy laughed.
"Nobody liked him," he said. "His dying doesn't change that."
And true to my nature I chewed on that single comment for 72 hours. Here we are years and years later and try as we might neither of us could come up with anything good to say about the guy.
But 'dropped dead' is a lousy way to go, huh? No one will ever know how he felt or how it played out for him. Just standing upright one moment and on the ground the next.
Being that we all sort of struggle with our mortality, and given the pain associated with all of it, I'm surprised that I only spent 72 hours straight considering it.
First off, no one is truly ready, right?
53 is a short life. Even when you're mostly miserable.
Secondly, what had he left behind?
The legacy that two guys who saw him every day can't come up with a single nice word?
Lastly, and the most important aspect of considering this:
What if it happens to me?
Even typing that sentence is uncomfortable.
'Cause I ain't leaving until I'm satisfied, but it ain't up to me, right?
"Well, we'll all know what you were thinking," my buddy said, "because you never shut-up."
And I guess that's right. I've often thought about the blog and the books and the endless stream of banter that I've left behind as a footprint.
There isn't a lot of room to think:
I wonder what he was thinking?
Yet I thought of the guy I knew back then. Certainly there had been people who loved him, or who he loved. Were they at peace with his kingdom of days?
I think of it in the context of the people we've lost as a family. We weren't left guessing. They laid it on the line. They emptied the tank too. They were undeniably loved and they loved with all their hearts.
So I resolved it in my mind.
On the moment when the old ticker gives way it can be a peaceful exit because the love was always front and center.
Everyone will have known where they stood.
And that's a good way to go about it, I think.
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