Daddy do you ever cry?
Nicholas, my eight year old asked me that on a Thursday not so long ago. I only know it was a Thursday evening because the very next day, a Friday, I took a call from one of my college buddies that would prove to him exactly what I was talking about. I told him that, “Surely I cry all the time. I cried when my Dad died. Nick I’m as sappy as they come, just ask your Mom. I cry during the National Anthem, especially after September 11th.” So when I took the call from Billy Murphy, on that Friday morning, Nicholas had his proof.
I could hear in Murph’s voice that something was off. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I picked up the phone last night two or three times to call you, but I just couldn’t make the call.”
I’m thinking, what could be so bad that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t call me?
“What Murph? Just tell me.”
“Al Duarte’s dead. I don’t know how else to tell you. He went to the Yankee game last night and apparently he had a heart attack in the parking lot. He’s dead. It’s not his father, who is 73, I asked. It’s Al. Al Duarte’s dead.”
“No. No. No way.”
I was standing in the front entrance of my house. I walked into the kitchen. Nick picked up on the emotion, followed me, with his big, blue eyes wide open. During my conversation with Murph I had one hand on the phone and one around Nick’s shoulder as he came over and hugged me. That was enough to start the water works. I knew I should cry. I wanted to show Nick that it was okay to cry.
Murph and I discussed a plan of action, whom to call, when the services might be. I hung up the phone, stood in my kitchen, one arm around Nick’s shoulder and stared out the window. I tried to compose myself, to continue my day. My wife was at work, I had our three boys and we had plans. I figured doing something normal would help. I took my boys to a local library, for a Thomas the Tank Engine Fair. I got the boys in the car and we drive over to Silas Bronson Library in Waterbury. Walking around Library Park with my boys, watching them have fun with all of the different Thomas themed booths; I am in a daze, staring off...Al’s dead. What the -----?
I put on a happy face while I was walking around watching my kids eat fried dough. I thought of Al’s family, a parent's worst nightmare, burying a son. I thought of Al’s friends, What’s going through Murph’s mind? He’s known Al since they were little? And how is Jack Doyle doing? Jack’s on vacation in Nantucket. I am sure he knows by now. Maybe Billy O’Mara called him? I could picture Jack sitting on the beach while his kids frolic in the waves, his wife continues to talk to him about their plans. Jack is trying to maintain some type of normalcy but finds himself staring off into the surf….
And O’Connell? The New York City Firefighter. How much death has Chris had to deal with? How many funerals has he attended over the past few years? I know this one is different for Chris. I called Chris to let him know, figuring if calling me was that difficult for Murph I could call O’Connell.
We got home from the library and Kira, my wife, met me at the front door, “You should listen to the messages, Jack Doyle called, it sounds serious.”
“I know. Sad news, Big Al passed away.”
We hugged for a minute and she asked, “How are you doing?” I wanted to tell her I was fine.
“Not good. I’m having a tough time with this one...... This is a hard one to get a grip on. I need to go for a walk.”
“You better take a water bottle. And Be Careful!” I could see the fear in her eyes, Kira was saying, it’s hot, we don’t need another tragedy on our hands.
I grabbed a bottle of water and walked. I thought of Al; of all of us at college. I smiled. I laughed. I talked to myself. As I passed fellow walkers on the Middlebury Greenway, I realized I was talking out loud. I was aware that people were probably thinking I was weird, I didn’t care. The overwhelming refrain during my walk was, What the ----? I kept thinking of Al, of one of my friends, my peers dying. “What the ----?”
He was a funny guy. Al always made you feel like you were special; like you and he were in on an inside joke but not in a mean way. I pictured us at an off-campus party, he and I against the wall, beers in hand, and Al whispering something goofy in my ear and the two of us laughing. I thought of how this one, this death, was different. Most of the time it’s older people who die. Something as shocking as 9/11 was an anomaly. That’s how we digested it. But college buddies, guys we played intramural football with weren’t supposed to have heart attacks.
I knew that my response was cliché, I thought of: When was the last time I saw him? Has it been that long?I just played golf with him last year…a foursome of me, Murph, O’Connell and Al played a golf course in Dutchess County, NY. We had a riot, busting on each other, not missing a beat, as if we were in college 6 months ago and not 25 years. How glad am I that we made that effort, now!
I always called Al on the last day of school. Al had a job that enabled him to take a weekday off; he managed the pro shop at a local golf course. This was part of our schtick. As a teacher, I always called Al to “announce” the beginning of summer. I am so glad that I did that because that was the last time Al and I spoke.
“Ring the bell Duarte, school’s out!”
“Hey SpinnER!”
The ER, always sounded funny, most of my life was spent in Brooklyn and the Spinner was usually, Spinnah. Al grew up in Westchester County where they pronounce their r’s.
I thought again of Jack Doyle, in Nantucket. I knew part of Jack’s Big Al movie: him and Al living together in college, years of playing baseball for the Panas baseball team, Al saying, “I didn’t rub. I didn’t rub.” This was supposed to be a sign of toughness if you got drilled by the pitcher but didn’t rub the spot and just trotted quickly down to first base.
I thought of other Al memories. Memories that I knew I wanted to write down so that I wouldn’t forget them. Memories that I was storing up so I had some stories for the upcoming wake. A wake? For one of our buddies? What the…?
Al Stories:
On NFL draft day Al would set himself up in his favorite chair (You had to see the furniture in our off-campus house, years, if not decades of food stains) with a two liter Pepsi by his side, a bag of chips and the house phone at his feet. He placed the phone there because he was acting as if the New York Jets might actually be calling. He acted all earnest which made it legitimately funny. Over the years, every year on draft day I would call Al. I would inform him that he was chosen in the 6th round. Al would play along. He’d hold the receiver away and act like he was yelling to his family, “I got drafted by the Jets!”
My senior year, living on 75 Lebrun Road in Buffalo, the five of us in the house would rush home to watch reruns of “Leave it to Beaver.” Those were some of the funniest times. Usually those were the things Al would say to me at a party, “I might be a rat Wally but I’m a rat with 9 dollars.” That’s all Al would have to say and I would burst out laughing.
Al was quietly clever. Early, super-senior year, my girlfriend was coming to visit. Al was great with girlfriends. Every girl I ever dated that met Al, loved him. I am sure Jack, Murph, Weizner and O’Connell would say the same. He had that big Teddy Bear thing going. So, Susan O’Neill is coming to Buffalo for a weekend visit. She was a senior at The University of Michigan while we were at SUNY Buffalo. So after a month and a half of phone calls, O’Neill was on her way. At that point she knew the guys in the house from chatting with them on the phone, particularly Al. Friday night, she says hello to the guys, drops her bags in my room and we go out to dinner. After dinner we go back to Lebrun Road to get ready to go out. Sue and I walk in and we’re hanging out in the living room enjoying some Bud cans before we head to PJ Bottoms on Main Street in Buffalo. O’Neill goes up to my room to “freshen up.”
On the walk to the bar, Al, Jack, Murph and O’Connell are ahead of us. And O’Neill is noticeably quiet. I keep asking if she’s okay. Eventually she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and tearfully tells me, “I want to go home.”
“What?”
“Take me home. I want to go home. I want to go back to Michigan.”
At this point she’s on the verge of tears and I am trying to put out the fire.
“What? What did I do? Do you not feel comfortable? Is it the guys?”
“Who is Lisa?”
“I don’t know any Lisa, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie! I read the letter from Lisa. Who is she?”
“There’s no Lisa I swear.”
“I read the letter!”
At that point my housemates come back to diffuse the situation. Al tells Sue that it was a fake letter. They wrote it. They placed it “just so” so she would find it. There’s no Lisa. You had to see the relief on O’Neill’s face and mine as well I am sure. Then we went back to get the letter. Was it a riot. All about what a great lover I was. Which should have been O’Neill’s clue that it was fake. That was Al, he was the mastermind behind the whole thing. I can picture him snickering as he and the guys crafted the letter. It was so over the top, Luscious Lisa, he figured Sue would know it was fake.
As I walk I’m Picturing Al, always a big guy but great hands and very athletic. Competitive but not psychotic about it. Avid sports fan, knows so much about a ton of teams but particularly the Yankees, Jets and Notre Dame football.
My task here is to capture the essence of a friend. And maybe to remind all of us to appreciate our friends while they are around. Because, you never know. Of course it's a textbook case of “you had to be there.” The truth is if you never met Al Duarte, I can’t help you. I can give you a ton of background information, use all of the sensory detail I can think of. I can set the scene with some timely references to pop culture like “Take on Me” videos on MTV. I know I am doomed to fail. The real Al Duarte was an inside joke. An easy to talk to, Teddy Bear of a guy, who made all of his friends feel special.
Now we are all left to contemplate Al. And to confront our own mortality. To live life without Al. It’s funny now that he’s gone, we’re all thinking of him more often. All of my college buddies, independently, have said exactly the same thing, “You know, I couldn’t tell you how often I thought of Al over the past few years but it seems like every day now I see something that reminds me of him.” I know, the things that prompt these memories: songs on the radio, an obscure sports fact, a Leave it to Beaver clip, a quick quip to a colleague that makes you smile. “I didn’t rub.”
I know Al would get a kick out of that.
