Spontaneous Series Post 4

When I started writing these posts six months ago, it was a series rooted in documenting moments in my life. Some were about a two-hour conversation I had in Cuba another a year-long journey training for an Ironman. It was about me being adventurous. Trying new things. Being spontaneous.

But everything I wrote about I was in full control. I made the decisions. I decided when they started and controlled if and when it ended.

On October 29th, 2017 one of my closest friends, Michael White, lost his life at age 26.

This moment of my life came and left and I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t stop it. None of us could. It was the toughest moment of what I felt was a young life, not a full life.

Through these difficult times. These thoughts I’ve been having. Thinking about the memories we had together, the constant rumble of emotions and pool of tears, I thought about how I might remember you, how we might remember you. I thought of a million things I could do, none that would bring you back

I needed something I can look back at when life got tough. Something I can use to remind me of your eccentric personality. How you lit up the room with a few steps and a few words.

So here it goes, Mike. Here’s everything I have in 1440 words. Not nearly enough, but 1440 more than I ever intended for.

For the record, I say we a lot in this letter. When I say we Mike, it’s not you and me. It’s all of us. Our group of friends. Your group of friends. Everyone had incredible and unique memories with you. These are just some of the ones I was a part of.

Dear Mike,

You were a brilliant kid by every means. Starting with your days at Annunciation, you excelled in life from the start. From sports to school, and everything in between.

You were a magnificent basketball player and an A+ student. You accepted a scholarship to Iona Prep and enrolled in the prestigious STEP program, an academic program for some of the most gifted students in the NY metro area. Your senior year you won a championship in basketball, then attended Loyola Maryland. I remember visiting Loyola together spring semester senior year.

You graduated with a degree in Finance and took on the world. Most recently, you took your degree in Finance and shined at Trivium, a Financial Group based in Westchester.

Somewhere along that journey, around age 13, we became best friends. It was our freshman year at Iona Prep. We were kids. We liked similar things and lived similar lives. Our personalities blended instantly and right away we went from strangers to number one on each others “Myspace Top 8”.

Our friendship brought us everywhere.

Ski-trips to Vermont & Hunter Mountain. Hanging out on Central. Razzous and Tinkers. Ziggys and Mad River. Nutcrackers and 53rd. Saki Bombing. Party Buses. Taco Bell. 28–1 in beer pong senior year. The Bahamas. Double dates. Failing our AP Calculus Test. Mom Prom. Mom Dinner at Wild Wings. Prom. Visiting colleges together. Visiting each other in college. Dozens of trips to Seaside. House Party Weekend. Jones Beach. 14D. Landshark Mondays. Leewood basketball. Hanging out in my backyard on Morgan St, or your backyard, or Teddy’s, or Fico’s, or DJ’s.

There were thousands of memories. I can remember them so vividly.

Life was perfect. We were kids, not a concern in the world. There were no GPAs, 401Ks, college loans. It was just us. We hung out nearly every day of every summer of every year until we graduated. We had the best friend group in Westchester.

We checked our boxes and then lit those boxes up with fun.

I can tie some of the best days of my life to you.

Then came college graduation. The real world. Our lives and careers took us in different directions. I moved to Hoboken and we hung out less but talked often.

When you grow up, when the complexity of your life evolves, so do your friend groups. It’s a natural progression. A majority of my childhood friends today have dwindled to FaceBook friends. I watch their life moments come and go through a feed. Engagements, promotions, marriage, children, so on.

Not you. We were far from just “childhood friends”. Sure we didn’t see each as much, but when we did it was like those childhood days all over again. The same jokes rang through our ears, the same laughs belted through our lungs.

We went through rough times. You went through rough times. When Sean passed we were all at a loss for words, but somehow you were the strongest person in the room. You held yourself together so that everyone else can mourn. You were there for your parents when they needed you most. None of us can imagine the pain you endured. Nobody.

And then this. The worst feeling of my life.

I’ve wept for you. I’ve wept because I missed you. I’ve wept for Carole and Tom. For your family. Your grandparents. I couldn’t imagine what they’re all going through right now. We can sit around for years and imagine putting ourselves in their shoes, but it just wouldn’t be possible.

I think of your parents a lot Mike.

Your parents fed me, gave me a place to sleep, they loved me, came to our games and even properly scolded us for bringing alcohol to our ski trip in Vermont (with words of course). Remember that? Definitely understood at the time. In hindsight, maybe sixteen years old was too young to bring a couple of bottles of cherry raspberry vodka to the Canadian Border. We thought we were so slick hiding it in a plastic bag under the bed.

“That sugary crap will you get you sick anyway.,” Carole told us.

Young and stupid, young and stupid.

Mike, I hope they know I’m still their son too. Sure Rosemary is my first mom, but Carole & Tom were really close runner-ups. They raised me no differently. They raised a lot of us actually. When we were home from college I used to walk in your house and say “Hi Mom”, open the fridge, eat everything, drink all of your Snapple, and rub Scruffy’s stomach for hours.

At Sean’s funeral, your mom asked us one favor. Just one. She gave each of us a hug and said “Thank you for coming, please take care of Mike for me.”

We failed her Mike. I failed her.

It’s the biggest regret of my life.

Mike. The picture below shows the endless love and impact you had on the people around you. It’s the day of your funeral. I was 3600 miles away but I saw it and smiled, not cried. There’s so much love there. I can end this letter with that picture alone and my point would be clear.

You know, lately, it seems like God takes all the great ones for himself and leaves us mediocre ones to battle it out. Sean, Nick, Dylan, and now you. Four friends. Four years.

I don’t know what else to say besides it just sucks. It sucks for their families. It sucks for their friends. It sucks for everyone.

Along my journey, each one of you taught me something special that I hold onto today. Sean reminded me to always follow my passion, his studies in culinary arts a display of his passion. Nick showed me how to never stop smiling and to always keep hugging. Dylan showed me how to say exactly what I felt, as loud as I could, and laugh at everyone who judged me for it.

And you, you taught me everything else, Mike.

Jim Carrey once said

“The effect you have on others is the most valuable currency there is”

That currency. It was yours, Sean’s, Dylan’s, Nick’s greatest bargaining chip. You were the richest people on earth.

They say life is just a culmination of memories and moments. A moment comes and goes, over time evolving into a memory. It’s actually quite beautiful you know. You can collect moments and build an endless repository of memories with a singular person or a group of friends. Moments and memories don’t bother with tomorrow. They’re about right now, about the life we live together with the people we love forever.

I guess what hurts me the most is that we won’t have any more moments together, just memories.

And as I finished writing that, I thought “You’re crazy. Mike’s always going to be with you, you idiot.” Because you always have been. You’re with me right now. And every time I get to see Carole and Tom I know it’s a party of five, with you and Sean somewhere nearby.

Wibs. I want you to be remembered for your smile. Your jump shot. Your sandals and socks. Captain Morgan. Your ridiculous brainchild memory. Your quirky one-liners that could’ve been thought out better, like “NO DOUBT” & “HOLD TIP” & “DIRT”.

Anyone reading this letter can laugh at something funny you use to say or do.

I want you to know I miss you, Mike. Every success I have I’ll know you helped create it. Every failure I encounter I know you’ll be there to pick me up.

I’ve read through these words over two hundred times in a matter of a week, wondering if they were the right ones to type, wondering if they were enough, wondering if I should even post this. Am I the right person to write about you? Typing, deleting, typing. I went back and forth over and over, the scenarios in my heads played a million directions.

Then I realized there’s no amount of words that describe how I feel. There are no words that can bring you back. But these words, my feelings, these memories are the only thing I have, and those no one can ever take those from me.

I don’t want your likes, I don’t want your shares. I just want my best friend back. I love you, Mike. Rest In Peace.

Love always,

Nick B

P.S. I’ll see you up there one day, until then take care of Sean and the boys.

An Open Letter to my Best Friend

Dear Mike,

It’s the biggest regret of my life.