Two Young, Too Soon

The plan was hatched in a McCarthy’s bar booth on a random weekday night. Let’s go to Chicago and watch the Browns play. Just out of college, working sporadically on moving trucks during the non-busy season, I had a lot of time on my hands. I was back in Lakewood, living in my mom’s basement, which had become a de facto party hub for my Lakewood buddies.

The plan seemed good. Four of us were in. George, the renowned artist and noted basketball ball hog, he was in. I call George a ball hog but I was willingly complicit in his exploits. Most of my recreation basketball career was spent giving him high picks and seal screens so he could get off his shot. George was a good shooter, and a straight shooter in life. He would have a few beers with the boys, but you would be lucky to hear a curse word out of him. He could laugh at himself though, and his do-gooder ways provided plenty of fodder.

Brian, “Techno”, was in. Brian had just finished up at Mount Union. He was about to start a good career in the medical industry. But when we hatched the plan to go to Chicago, he was just a grinder living day to day with an upbeat attitude and no car insurance. We were playing a lot of ball together in those days too. A high school football pass rusher, a college baseball player, and a recreation hoops scorer, he was pretty all-around.

And Casey was in. The funniest guy any of us knew. Casey had been mischievously cracking heads up since birth, I presume. He had a condition from birth that distorted one of his arms and limited its use. I never once heard him complain about it, and he would be damned if it was an issue for anyone. He would still play football, swing a baseball bat, shoot a deep three. He was inspirational that way. We spent a lot of time lounging during self directs shooting the shit in high school. You can not overstate how funny he was.

Saturday, day before game day. We carjacked my mom’s car, and we were off to Chicago. George was fresh as a daisy. Techno and I were a little bleary eyed. I picked up Casey, and he hadn’t gone to bed from the night before. No matter, he could get a little shut eye in the car. I made it to the Windy City in way less time than it should have taken, the speedometer analogous to our level of excitement and anticipation. From the start, we should have slowed down.

We checked into a downtown hotel, four men to the room. Casey was a hetero dude, and in high school had one of the prettiest girlfriends in the school, but he was a true homoerotic all star. “Look at that guy, he’s hot,” Techno shot out as we crossed a downtown Chicago street resplendent with metrosexual men. “I think I am getting a boner,” I offered. “Heavens to Murgatroy, I’m getting a boner thinking about you getting a boner!” Casey closed. George shook his head and fought a smile. The party was on.

Pizza and beers. More beers. Some cab rides. Casey split off from the crew for a while. We knew he was getting into some things that we weren’t, but I wasn’t judging him either. A couple hours later, he came back to the bar we were in, with a story from a housing project that seemed lifted from a CSI episode. We cabbed back to the hotel, two or so in the morning. We had to wake up early the next day, get down to Soldier Field, and scalp some tickets to go to the game. George and Techno snuggled into one bed, me and Casey in the other. At four in the morning, Casey’s snoring woke me up, as did the need to piss for about seven straight minutes. I hopped back into bed. At half past seven, I woke up again. This time there was no snoring. I looked at Casey’s face. It was blue. I knew right away.

“George, check his pulse!” “Call 911!” “What the hell is going on?” George and Brian shot out of bed, knowing the dark gravity of the situation immediately. The paramedics came. They took him out. A policeman ushered us to the hospital. A homicide cop interviewed all three of us independently. I called my mom. The hospital told us what we knew, he was dead. My mom’s cousin Joe picked us up and took us to breakfast. We drove home to Cleveland. Four in the car on the way out, three on the way back in. The ride was silent, the soundtrack was the game we didn’t attend on low volume. The Browns had built a lead and a crescendo of excitement, before falling apart late and losing in dramatic fashion. Morbidly, I could only think this was fitting.

So that was that. Any threads of innocence that I was grasping onto had been frayed. We all lost the funniest guy we knew. The feelings of guilt, anger, and sadness were overwhelming for weeks. What could I have done? I knew he was partying too hard. Then I would get mad at him, like why the hell did you do this to yourself Casey, you were too fucking smart for this. Then I would just miss him, and the way his brilliantly crafted sense of humor, a style that matched self deprecation and mischief with a quick witted trigger, could disarm any situation and turn it into a cavalcade of laughter.

Fast forward ten years, and while the memory has never left me, the pain of it had certainly subsided. Every now and again something would remind me of Casey. I went back to Soldier Field this past January. I would hear a dirty joke, and think of how Casey could have invariably one-upped it.

My friend, and one of Casey’s best friends, Ryan, called me last week. “Very bad news, call me back.”

Another one of our old boys, and one of Casey’s BOYS, was gone. I don’t want to speculate on how it happened too much. Unlike with Casey, I wasn’t there. But it is safe to say that it was too much, and it killed him too soon.

And Eric’s passing pushed all the old memories of Casey’s death right back to the forefront. Eric and I spent a lot of time in our late teens and early twenties together. He was on the softball team for a couple of years. We golfed at Little Met. We played video games in his parents TV room. He was, much like Casey, a flat out funny man. Indeed, Eric and Casey were very close, and I know Casey's death had hit Eric hard. Despite the pain from his friend's death, it seemed that with Eric, an Austin Powers’ “Yeah, baabay,” was the perfect salutation for any occasion.

But I knew of some of his demons. We drifted apart. He had joined the military, and some were saying that he really straightened out. I was hopeful for him, but never completely sure. And then, he too, was gone.

Without melodramatizing the situation, this was a tragedy with scary symmetry. It was two friends, two dynamic senses of humor, two teammates, two classmates, two rivals, and two unique souls ultimately felled by their vices. And it is too bad, and way too soon.

RIP Eric. And here’s to you, too, Casey. The memories housing the belly laughs from the friends you left behind will be your everlasting legacy.