Stirring Point

An old friend lost his battle with cancer last week. It was an illness that came and went, from attack to remission, before eventually returning for a permanent stay. He left behind a son he cherished and a mother he adored. He was 44 years old, a staple of his community and beloved by all who knew him.

As children, our lives first intertwined through sports, community events and mutual friends. Our true friendship, though, was forged on the high school football field where sweat, suffering, and perseverance fast-tracked our bond. For two years, we were utterly inseparable and drunk on the mischief and chaos of our youth. He was a year older, a hustler, and a conductor of our social scene. Like an older brother, he became my closest confidant and the person I looked to for guidance through the tumult of teenage life. 

But time has a way of straining seams, driving wedges and shredding norms. We tell each other our friendship won’t fade; we swear up and down that it’s too important to lose. Yet we find ourselves across a spreading delta as we head to college, take jobs in distant cities and meet new friends. A year passes, then another. Phone calls fade and texts dry up. Before we know it, ten years go by without contact. No hint of malice—no love lost. What’s left of the friendship are the shared memories we’ll laugh over when our worlds happen to collide. But maybe they don’t collide. Maybe something will happen. Maybe cancer. All the maybes eventually run out.

The news of his passing launched a ticker tape of images scrolling across my mind. The jokes on the bus after football practice; morning laughter after one of our crazy nights; rapping along to our favorite mixtape in his ‘87 Jetta; the way the Jetta bucked and sputtered when he finally burned out the clutch. These were ruleless days, framed by the indulgence of our youth and the desire to push our boundaries. Responsibility belonged to grown-ups. Our job was to stay alive…and to show up at school. We managed this together. But if I’m honest, just barely.

When the joy of each memory fades, a wincing pain finds me. This wasn’t the future we discussed all those years ago. The folly of our youth was believing our expectations, as if life was an obedient listener. It did for a while. We rode the waves for a bit. We forgot about nature, though. We forgot that control is often well beyond our grasp.

Mike — A few months ago, I caught the Doobie Brothers in concert on a trip back East. When we were kids, you kept their greatest hits in your console and when the mood hit, you’d pop the tape into the deck and crank the volume. With the windows down and the warm summer air blowing in, we’d cruise and sing along to songs like China Grove and Listen to the Music. But it was Blackwater that always got you. And for 26 years now, it’s been getting me, too. When they played it live during their set, I wanted to call you and hold the phone up to the stage. It’d been years, but you would have understood—hearing from me like that out of the blue—and I think you would have smiled. Hell, maybe you would have even sung along with me the way we used to.

Oh blackwater, keep on rollin’…