A week ago, through my morning mind fog, before my first cup of coffee, the hair on my neck rose when I read those couple crypic facebook posts. No one is a fan of cryptic posts in general, so I generally just quickly scroll by thinking if someone wanted the world to know something, they’d just say it. The problem with these two vague posts when who wrote them and why. I immediately knew why those posts had to be cryptic at that time.
The posts were written by two absolutely wonderful guys, that have hearts of gold. What’s more is that I have no reason to know these guys. Under most circumstances we would have never met. These two guys and I have different demographics, live timezones apart, have no business connection, nothing in common except one man, John Cayne, my brother Dean’s best friend. Reading those two post that early could only mean one unbelievable inconceivable thing. John had passed.
I picked up my phone and stared at it a minute before I dialed Dean, wondering what I would say. A thought that crossed my mind as I dialed my big brother at an abnormally early hour. I was thinking, he’ll probably pick up quick this early because he’ll think I’m calling about something wrong with mom or dad. I sighed at the absurdity of knowing I’d have to construct a sentence that sounds something like: “no, no, they’re fine, I’m calling to tell you your best friend died”.
It’s a painful call to make and I’m certain it sucked to be on the other end. I also realized that because of John, that shitty phone call was likely repeated a thousand times last week. If the measure of a man is how many people grieve his loss, John is first team all American.
I first met John forty years ago when my big brother had him over the house for supper or maybe a game of no holds barred basketball in our backyard. My brother always had lots of friends around, he’s a good, fun, athlete and it was common for his teammates to be around the house, but John was special. He could tease and kid a kid brother like many of my brother’s friends would do, but above all, his genuine care for you was the most powerful force felt.
My brother had graduated before my first year of high school when I experienced the culture shock of moving from safe comfortable confines of a parochial school elementary class of thirty to a high school of thousands. John was there for one more year (his senior year/my freshmen year). That year he took the time to check up on me and show me the ropes a little. He didn’t have to do that. I’ll never forget his kindness.
John was special.
“he collected and cultivated real friendships like it was main goal in life”
The thought that recurred over and over in my head this week as I spun over again and again the rolodex of my memories of John. All those people, I’ve met over the years they’ve all been gold in one way or another. I think John was a man who sought out friends wherever he was. I don’t know if there’s a word for that, but there should be.
These extra bonus friendships I have is because John invited me to his pretty much annual Salt Fork golf trip, which is held in Salt Fork, Ohio, unless it’s not. It was always a fun and often rainy weekend. It never mattered who you got paired with, because everyone of John’s friends was fun. Oh the things I saw, man the fun we all had. There were bars to be closed down late, early group breakfasts, poker games, camp fires, and almost non-stop entertainment and laughter. Everyone always went home with at least a handful of epic memories and maybe a ticket or cast. But we always made that pilgramage back again.
John and I shared a number great loves, among them, The television show ALF, Stadium Mustard, my big brother, and golf. On the course is where I’ll most fondly remember John. I’ve golfed with many people lots of times, but I don’t think I will ever play golf again without John crossing my mind.
I can’t imagine I’ll ever stand over a dead straight four-foot uphill putt and not chant the mantra John always used in that situation. I’ll never be able to mix illicit liquor and gatarade without using the unit of measure John taught me. That unit of measure is known as the “glug-glug”, and yes, multiple glug-glugs are usually in the mixology. Golf is a gentlemen’s sport and in true respect of nature and the game John invented a way to make picking up divots fun. John was special.
I wrote, rewrote, edited and cut this down a couple dozen times this week, trying to find my point. I took stuff out, put it back in, took more out, added other stuff as I do when I’m inspired to write. Upon my at least 25th, swing at this post, another thought entered my head and the page. That thought is the total impact he made on so many. I’m thinking if this guy had this impact on me, the little brother of his friend, I know he must have touched so many so much more.
Rest easy my friend and thanks for all the joy you brought to so many.