Funeral for a friend

The memories are everywhere now.
 
They were always there, bubbling under the surface. Memories of a deep and lasting friendship that drew back nearly 35 years. They were always there, taken for granted, because, well, that’s what we do in life. We take for granted what’s always there. Until it’s gone.
 
Phil Kelly, my dear friend and coaching companion, passed away last week, having squeezed every bit of life out of his 82 years on this planet. For the record, Phil was the women’s XC/track coach here at Marist for 18 years. We did everything together, but he rightfully gets all the credit for the championship-caliber women’s program we had.
 
When I think about Phil, I don’t immediately think about the team’s success. I just think of all the good times we shared in each other’s presence.
 
The memories are everywhere. Of course, at a warm track meet at Rider University this past Saturday, there are more memories.
 
Rider. The same Rider where we coached together in May of 1993, when Rider hosted its first meet (the NEC Championship) on a brand new track. It was so new that the infield was not even sodded. It was just dirt, soon to be grass for the throwing events. On that weekend in 1993, it was a dust bowl. Why? Because it was windy. It’s ALWAYS windy at Rider! How many dozens of days did we spend at Rider and Princeton, driving those vans down I-287 and then US-206?
 
So many memories, everywhere now.
 
An ancient field event record, women’s discus, gets broken on Saturday. We look it up. That record was from 1992. Of course, I remember that record. There was a story attached to that record. There’s always a story, when you’re an old coach. Phil loved telling stories; he was an old coach, after all. Now, I’m the old coach, the old storyteller.
 
Here is the story of the discus school record.
 
We were in the Northeast Conference and the championship was, for some reason, in early April back then. Way down at Mount St. Mary’s in Emmitsburg, MD. Phil was an academic advisor for the women’s basketball team back then. There were some athletic, young ladies on the team. Phil convinced a few of them to come to Rider, try to score some field event points. They hopped on the bus, introduced themselves to everyone. And, in Marist basketball shorts and T-shirts, they set about establishing school records in the shot put, the discus, the javelin. All school records that have persisted – until Kelly Ballen got the discus mark on Saturday!
 
Stories upon stories, too many to recount here, too many to remember. And memories.
 
Whenever I drive back from the Vassar track to the Marist campus, I always take a route through the south side of Poughkeepsie. In my mind, I’m always thinking, “maybe I’ll see Phil walking the dog, or out for a jog.” This thought is so deeply embedded in my psyche that I didn’t even realize it. Until now, because he will no longer be out on the streets where we ran hundreds, maybe thousands, of miles together.
 
The van ride continues, and so do the memories.
 
Turn down Route 9, heading back to campus. On the left is the Poughkeepsie Rural Cemetery, Phil’s final resting place. Last week, he was laid to rest, amid the mournful sound of bagpipes that always make me cry. Phil would not accept that I was crying over his final destination. And so, as if by force of my old friend’s will, I remembered a story. A funny story. You’re not supposed to tell funny stories at a grave site, where a casket is about to be lowered into the ground.
 
But there I was, telling one of Phil’s sons-in-law, this funny story about Phil and this cemetery and how, back in the early 1990s, we’d bring the teams there to run (it’s a beautiful place) and how the cemetery people would yell at us and kick us out because it’s private property, and Phil would blurt out something like, “what the hell’s the difference, everyone around here is DEAD, we’re not disturbing THEM.” Or something like that. Now, Phil is here in this cemetery. His final resting place. I think he wouldn’t mind my telling a run-on-sentence version of this story that is most likely grounded in truth but also most likely embellished by 33 years in the retelling.
 
Phil’s family asked me to do his eulogy. It was one of the most difficult and rewarding things I’ve ever had to do. Kind of like a marathon. That eulogy was personal and resonated with the family and it’s not appropriate nor relevant to share it here. I guess this is sort of a different take, a blog eulogy of sorts.
 
So many memories of so many years. Many of you reading this didn’t know Phil well or didn’t know Phil at all. Trust me when I say, you would have loved this old guy. He would have made you laugh, he would have made you smile. Just like all these many memories, which is all I have now.