Side, Side, Everywhere a Side When you grow as quickly as we have these past several years, there are certain things that, often slowly, come into focus. For one, there are always issues. And issues have sides. And perspectives. There are believers/non-believers, early and late adopters, hammer droppers and brake pumpers. And by definition, that’s what it takes to make something great. Opinions. Perspectives. Sides. But what separates us, the Jay Peak Collective, is also what connects us. The belief that anything worth having, whether through preserving or changing it, is worth discussing. Worth disagreeing on. And worth, eventually, coming to terms with. But for as much metaphoric bridge building that’s been done across these past years, we’ve also come across some truths that, if not universal, certainly orbit within the same system. Including things like: The pizza coming out of Mountain Dicks is infinitely more edible than the pitchy, roof shingles being served out of Pizza, Pizza, Pizza, regardless of how deliriously connected we were to the old shitty sign. Tetanus shots have dropped off a bit since the old Hotel Jay (and the Marquis De Sade era beds) fell to the ground. Having a spa, and with it the ability to rub out the bad and rub in the good, hasn’t banished us into a blazing pit of devils and agony as the Jay’er- Than- Thou crowd oft-predicted. We are certainly all defined by the area’s we ski and ride, and the notion of having a waterpark open (while you hammer yourself in Deliverance) still makes you a every bit the tough guy you so badly want the world to see. See? We see. But still, in the darkest corner of our heart, we acknowledge that contrasts and opinions and sides are still our best, if not the easiest to swallow, medicine. And that’s why we’ve dedicated the whole of this year’s Jay Magazine to varying perspectives on a multitude of issues. Is the future dedicated to those taking up space there or the ones yet on their way?—make your own decision when you read about Bear and Alice and Andrew on pages 9 and 43-44. Flip to page 34-35 and take sides on the age old Defense vs. Offense debate with Jeff Serowik and his Pro Ambitions Hockey Camps at Jay Peak. See what our kid-critics Keaton and Maeve think about our new Disney/Burton Mountain Kid’s Learning Center on pp18-19 and for a look at our brother’s keeper and the things happening just East of here, check out pp 32-33 and see where you stand on growth at Burke. In between those, we give you plenty to read and plenty to talk about. And you should certainly believe that, going forward, conversations about West Bowls and Bonnie Replacements and indoor climbing wall-movie theater mashups will help keep our conversations sided and undull. And that suits us. All we ask is that while you’re busy keeping your opinions known and open, you pay close attention to locking your mind into that same, upright, position. It makes for a much easier flight and, at the end of it all, we’re all headed in the same direction-whatever side we’re on.

Steve Wright talks to Jay Peak’s new Executive Chef about food, the depths we’ll travel to in the name of love, and frozen Fava Beans. Joey Buttendorf Dossier 3p.  Steve’s office. Eating popcorn.

Who doesn’t need or hasn’t, at some point even held out for, a hero? If you’re 40ish and of MTV-generation stock, you likely immediately connect to Bonnie Tyler and her Footloose anthem, circa 1984. Baby Boomer? You connect to a simpler, less Aqua-Netted period and likely look at heroes through a Spiderman, Hulk or Wonder Woman lens. And if you date further back into the greatest of generations, your oldest-school sensibility connects perfectly to Stan Lee and his Flash and Captain America characters. Here? We tilt a bit toward Lee’s creation Jack Frost, who seemingly awoke wandering the Arctic with no knowledge of his past origins, yet made completely of ice. He was fond of protecting innocent bystanders with his wholly un-ironic ice umbrella and ultimately vanished after defeating an Arctic Ice-Worm by sacrificing himself. We like him because of his blue skin and 32 degree ambient body temperature. And our shared lack of love for Ice Worms. While you won’t find the heroes contained in this Summer’s Jay Peak Magazine in an Avenger’s episode or lolling about with the Homo-Mermanus, Sub-Mariner (apparently, the most short-fused of the super-heroes), they’re no less character leads in their own right. Just minus the tights, gilded weaponry and shellacked hair. Check out several words about, and by, super-foodie Katherine Sims in our interview on page (XXX), or learn how to properly cultivate a superhero of your own in our Raised Jay Camps in (XXXXX on pg XXXXX). Get inside a phone-booth with Mr. Kelly to learn how he brings both of his identities to bear as he manages Jay Peak’s thickly settled restaurant scene on pg (XXX) and learn how Jay Peak’s own Jack Frost-Dennis Himes-created a camp for future lines of heroic female defensewomen (pg XXX). In between all this are mild-mannered looks at how to be Jay, how to see Jay and how to Raise yourself Jay-in words, pictures and mildly suggestive illustrations. Our Vacation Planner section across pages (xxxx – xxxx) will help you plan the perfect getaway to a spot that feels not totally unlike your own Fortress of Solitude. The Arch-enemy of boredom? Our Pumphouse Indoor Waterpark. Our music festivals (3rd Annual Jeezum Crow and 12th Annual August West) act as a de-facto dynamic duo of Summer fun. And while I might not be able to parallel the Hall of Justice with our award winning championship golf course, know that it wasn’t from a near heroic lack of trying. Suffice to say, you don’t need any form of x-ray vision to see that a Jay Peak Summer Vacation will put a cape on your back and an S on your chest with the family. There. I’m done. We look forward to seeing you this summer and fall. If you have any questions about booking your Jay Peak vacation, I’d be happy to help. Drop me a line at swright@jaypeakresort.com To infinity and beyond. Steve

Hot August rain is hammering away as we put together random pieces of conscious and unconscious thought here in Jay Peak Winter Magazine World. Designers have suggested we run stories, images and layouts through the prism of surrealism; the definition of which goes something like this; the creative potential found in the unconscious mind and through the irrational juxtaposition of words, ideas and images. Irrational? This is something we can get behind. Surrealists, as goes their philosophy, believed that ordinary and depictive expressions are vital and important, but that the sense of their arrangement must be open to the full range of imagination according to the Hegelian Dialectic. Before things get too Greek here, let’s explain that as the construct of an argument passing through a negative filter on its way toward mediation (sort of how the more delicately educated have argued against our fundraising approaches as of late). The Surrealists sought to resolve the contradictory conditions of dream and reality and they embraced idiosyncrasies and rejected the idea that, for instance, you’d have to be mad to paint a green apple across the face of a man in a bowler hat (Magritte) or put a 60,000 square foot waterpark dab smack in the middle of ski resort (Stenger). The small space created by the opposing forces of dream and reality is where, they believed, lived the truth. Ruth. Oddly connected thoughts and images aside, the 2014-2015 version of a Jay Peak Winter vacation is as surreal as ever and is perfectly evidenced by our lineup of features just a few pages forward. Check out what happens when fantasy crashes headlong into reality in The Rescue on page 12 and the metaphorically surreal layout of our new Stateside Recreation Center on page 18. Megan Robidoux testifies as to her realities on page 33 across our In Defense of Wandering piece and for those that navigate the altogether unreal spaces of social media, page 44 will net you a look at How To Win Facebook Friends and Instagram People. In between we offer loosely connected scraps of moment minding, Jay Peak finding, and the easiest way to book a vacation you’ll both remember and never forget. We’re still not sure of the nuance between the two, but it’s probably important. We hope you like the magazine and enjoy whatever moments you get to spend here this season.

I am sitting in the office of our graphic designer, Krissy Schmaling, talking about the relationship between analog and digital and the theme of this year’s Jay Peak Magazine when her computer crashes, files are lost and she drops into something resembling, at least for her, panic. We are trying to parse the benefits of analog versus digital across multiple applications. “For instance,” she says, “Not having access to my digital files; score one for analog.” In the world of sound, which carries the analog versus digital debate to its highest frequency so-to speak, Analogists actually prefer the particular modality because of its imperfections; each pop and crackle representing, possibly, some connection to a listener’s past experience or acknowledging some latent ASMR leaning. While those preferring digital are, possibly, simply looking for the convenience of storing, streaming, or reproducing sound whenever and wherever they’d like. While we have no particular horse at the track here, the belief that analog sound, when copied, never really sounds the same, leads us to believe that if Jay Peak were, say, a watch, we’d like to hear ours tick. And that’s the theme of this year’s magazine – a deliberate connection to what is real and genuine and tactile, regardless of what imperfections that definition pulls in. In short, we believe that being able to touch and feel something is the easiest way to actually feel touched, by something, in return. And all of this, we hope, bears out somewhere inside this year’s Magazine. Check page XX for our story on the Jay Peak Chickadees and the ferocity that their realness brings, page XX for notes on our new Clips and Reel Rec Ctr that puts the real in reality, and page XX where you can learn how to build a boarder, from scratch, using tools like family and determination and several days below zero. And pages XX and XX and XX introduce you to employees and locals like Sam Goulet and the Cherry Ridge Crew and Carol McLean who bring their own bit of touch and feel to the experience that nothing virtual could ever replicate. In between we’ll help you plan your stay (page XX), present you with cold hard facts (Go Figure page xx) and even show you the real tools our employees use to get their jobs done scattered across pieces of the marginalia. Whether your frequency runs digital or analog, though, we’re certain that the ties that bind us are as real as the snow that buries, the wind that blows, or the mountain of thanks and gratitude that we have for each other and each individual piece of pop and crackle you bring to the party. Have a great season and we look forward to seeing you Steve

Just past a collection of old oars, sheets of ¾” plywood, milk crates and several skill saws and there was a room. Only someone looking for it would find it and, given what was in front of it, there was no reason to expect anything particularly wonderful behind it. Past that door, though, was Chic. He was holding court with a collection of blue collars unwinding at the end of the day, drinking water glasses of red wine, somewhat cool Bud Lights and eating Sturgis pretzels from a brown paper bag. He’s there every day from 4-6p, delivered by one of his friends and then returned to his space of somewhat-assisted-living. Chic Schaeffer is, and will forever be, the consummate Jay Peaker. He spent his working years on the floor of the NYSE helping money grow and spent the better part of 40 years spending what free time he had access to, right here at Jay Peak. He bought several properties here, and anchored our Ambassador team where he could be spotted giving directions, sometime correct ones, to folks who’d lost their way, or who were way past lost. He began most of his Ambassador days, way back when, with a half cup of coffee that he’d bring into my office and top off with just enough something to keep his toes warm against the Jay Peak cold. Properly tuned, he’d head out into the elements and do his best to show people the Jay Way in both act and action. Chic tuned 90 a few weeks ago and while he’d turned into his Ambassador jacket for golf shirts down the Jersey Shore, I stopped in to see him to let him know that while Jay Peakers might have short attention spans, our memory’s, of winter’s past and cups of coffee and hours served, are long. I told him that we missed him and that we hear from guests, all the time, asking for him. About that short older Ambassador who seemed to always have an answer for anything and was happy to let you know what you should be doing. That’s Chic. Many of you know Chic and many more have talked with him, were directed by him, or simply shared a fast smile on your way up and about the mountain. He wanted me to pass on that he misses everyone and that we should all be grateful for what we have here. I told him that I agreed, and that I definitely would. -Steve

Long before the notion of gaming went from verb to noun, and even before either dungeons or dragons came forward to introduce fantasy wargames to a set that had been previously stuffed into lockers (and who, now, are busy running corporations), playing games, playing in general, was pretty simple. A favorite of mine, along with my semi-willing brother, were rock fights. Simple. I counted to three, by brother would sprint away in the other direction, and I would throw rocks at him. Not so much rock fights as it was, rock dodging or target practice—perspective depending. We’d also build forts out of forlorn furniture boxes, arm ourselves with a season’s worth of acorns and do battle until well after the street lights blinked on. While it remains unclear as to what drove our interest in physical, however tactical, violence, the formula of fun was as plain as it was simple; fair weather + willing participants + pretty much anything we could get our hands on = game on. It’s not that we don’t all want a return to the simple, carefree days of throwing actual rocks at each other, it’s that the notion of games has turned from real to virtual and, in the process, gaming has lost its, er, sharp edge. At the very least, this is where we, Jay Peak, can bridge the metaphorical gap. Home to the very real. Mountains and rivers and grass and wind and ice. While giving nod to the slightly unreal, indoor waterparks with sliding glass roof systems, candied bacon, climbing walls, swimming pools and amphitheaters. We have secure footings in each camp-real and unreal-and it’s from that point-of-vantage we present this year’s Jay Peak Summer Magazine. Our breathtaking and award-raking Jay Peak Championship Golf Course comes to life through the eyes of the smallish in Putt, Putt Goose (pg 8) while more indoor, and slightly slicker, pursuits are chased after in Stick Tricks (pg 12). If you’re game for a birthday party, we provide the perfect backdrop (says Ariel Toohey) in Pumped Up Party (pg 17). And if you’re still left climbing the walls, check out Erector Set (page 31) to see how you’ll get up, then get down, when winter drops next season. In between we tell you how to plan, what to eat, what to wear and, how to identify those in the know. They’re generally the ones climbing walls, or walking fairways, running trails or icing pucks. If you check, they probably also have rocks in their pockets.

When given the option to change or stand pat, it seems change is always the more difficult option. Standing pat is simple; you just stand around, do nothing, and pat. Change requires thought and done correctly, it requires that you weigh options, balance opinions and act only after you’ve considered the alternatives. Here in our corner of the world, we’re embracing change with leaps of faith while taking risks that are as well calculated as they are mandatory. In order to meet challenges such as spreading business over 12 months, cracking regional unemployment rates, turning seasonal employees into full timers, and building a future we all get to enjoy, you have to stick your neck out. Or at least that’s the way we feel about it. From the feedback we’ve received from every iteration of Raised Jayer, it seems that’s how the collective feels about it as well. Read about what author Mike Berard thinks of long-term alteration in his Nature of Change piece on pg.39 and weigh such insight against how things never seem to change sous bois in Leslie Anthony’s Deep. Woods. article on pg.6. The Wild, Wild East by Dean Seguin verbalizes how sometimes it takes commitment to a choice for the opportunity of change to present itself. Berard also gives us a front porch look at locals Jim Judd and Luke Hardy—both architects of a changing Jay Peak future in their own right. Writer Ian Reynolds shows us that contrary to cliché, it’s sometimes the younger generation that has its finger on what’s real and important in the article One. Love. In between these pieces are interesting sidebars, connected marginalia and small touches that will either endear you to us or push you away. Whichever the case, it was probably meant to be. We are extraordinarily excited about the upcoming season and hope you find plenty contained inside these pages to help prepare you and inspire you. Much has changed and more is coming. Our commitment, though, is that what we add has to feel like it should be here. Like it’s always been here. Hopefully our actions prove that we’ll try and do our best to change for the better and that above all, the more we change, the more we stay the same. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Same snow, same commitment to skier- and rider-focused service, and same belief that those Raised Jay look at life through a different lens. We look forward to seeing you Move Up this season.

We take the notion of sinning, seriously. Seriously enough to bow toward it, toward them, as this year’s compass. Bow feels too reverential. How about we simply acknowledge the role we play in offering space to work out your urges. Those things that you, some figure, were born guilty into. (In truth, we urgently looked into aligning to the Seven Virtues, those ranging broadly from Humility to Chastity. We didn’t make it past Temperance). For fear of being judged, we’ll judge not-at least not out in the open where people can hear us-so have at it. A too-much-of-everything-is-just-enough attitude suits us here. Plus, If someone is actually watching, much less keeping score, they’ll likely understand the carnal urgency a second plate of poutine presents or the wicked thoughts that only the icy-maw between Flyer towers 16-17, can inspire. The Book of Proverbs talks about being wary of Feet that are swift to run into mischief. Being neither judge nor jury (we’re on trial with the rest of you), we suggest you follow us down the road without feeling bad. If Gluttony is truly a sin, eating Miso Hungry’s bowl of Ramen, vegetables and seared pork belly is worth boiling for-check out the Brimstone and Broth on page 10. The hard-fought glories of periods long-past are on display in our Slow To Melt story page 23, highlighting the Jay Peak Hockey League (JPHL) and the 40-somethings that duck, dodge and dive their way across a frozen sheet of Ice Haus floor each week. It’s easy to envy a supportive community but fear not, as it’s no-sin to know and feel too much within; check out page 32 for the low-down. You can also take a look at what our favorite daughters of Jay are up to as they cross and criss through our Jay Peak Nordic Center-think of a day nordic’ing as some sort of anti-sloth movement and you’ll be about half-way there-get it all on page 35. In between, you’ll find the expected fragments of Jay diaspora and plenty of conversation-starting bits. Are you on the path to Jay? (page 40), Do you know what Jay tastes like? (page 12) If you love Jay enough, would you marry it? (page 44). All of it spread across ground uncommon enough to make you feel, hopefully, right at home. And if you tilt toward the belief that laughing sinners are really more fun than crying saints, you’ll probably find your forever home out at jaypeakresort.com.

If you ever wake up in the mirror of a bad dream. It’s 4am on graduation day and you’re asleep in our room, with your sister, because of how many people are in the house. I woke up and your mom was gone, She was awake in the sunroom with the windows open, listening to the first of the birds. “It’s so quiet outside.” she said, “I was up before the birds even. There was no wind out there, no nothing. I imagined that I could wake up and she’d be 5 again, when we first moved here. That I’d go into her room and she’d need me, and want to spend time with me and do projects. I hope we did the right things by her Steven. I just want her to be so happy.” And for a fraction of a second you can’t remember where you are-just open a window and follow your memories upstream, to the meadow in the mountain where we counted every falling star. I remember when you humored me. We would sit in the hammock in Rutland, on Charlies Place, and look out past the lightly barbed wire fence that kept Charlie’s cows from visiting more often than they did. Down the hillside to the mountains just to the north and east. I remember back, and the days were always sunny and warm and clear. And you would lie on my stomach and I would rub your back and we would talk and not talk. I would suggest that you “pay attention and that life is good right now and that sometimes life gets harder” I should have just shut my fucking mouth and rubbed your back. But we counted clouds and later, when the stars would come out, those too. But we always rocked slowly in that thing. Partly because it was easy to fall out of, but also because slow was fine back then. I believe the light that shines will shine on you forever, and though I can’t guarantee there’s nothing scary hiding under your bed. I remember watching The Shining with you and your friends when you were about 8 or 9. Your mother wanted to kill me. I was so interested in turning you on to things I liked, that I didn’t consider the likelihood that there was at least a chance you weren’t ready for Scatman Crothers much less Jack Nicholson. We made popcorn, and had candy and likely ice cream, and I turned the lights off and you and your friends huddled on the couch and we had the sound on low because this wasn’t a scene your mother would warm to if she came downstairs. It barely held your attention and didn’t stay with you, or even scare you, in the least. I remember you and Olivia wondering when the scary part would start. “Was this a scary movie back when you watched scary movies a lot Dad?” Maybe this wasn’t the first time I connected to the idea that time was moving, but it stands out. I watched 3/4’s of the rest of it by myself with all of you asleep on the same couch. You, Dasha, and Olivia. I took a picture that I still have somewhere. From that point on Jack Torrence didn’t scare me much. He was just a guy trying to keep his family together. Also trying to kill them, but still. I’m gonna stand guard like a postcard of a Golden Retriever, and never leave ’til I leave you with a sweet dream inside your head. I remember reading books to you before you’d sleep, like any parent does. The same ones, something by Sandra Boynton at first. Moo, Baa, La La La!, Opposites, and certainly, Pajama Time, which I can still recite by line if you give me a start. I remember reading A Child’s Calendar by John Updike to the point where it was impossible to start a month without his words rolling around in my head. To this day, I remember, reading about April, “The blushing girlish world unfolds, each flower, leaf and blade of turf, small love notes sent from air to earth.” I read those lines to myself and I am, again, lying next to you, rubbing your back again, trying to help you nod off. We’d end each night with the two of us singing Ripple or Dire Wolf or Friend of the Devil. Got two reasons why I cry awake each lonely night, first one’s name is sweet Dehlia Dee and she’s my heart’s delight. You’d generally be asleep before the second verse, but I’d almost always lay there and finish. I’m gonna watch you shine, gonna watch you grow, gonna paint a sign, so you’ll always know. I remember your Mom and I saving up to rent a house for a week on Brandt lake in NY with a bunch of friends when you were little. We spent a week fishing and riding on Louie’s boat, and swatting flies. On our last night we drive down to SPAC to watch some iteration of what was left of the Dead, I think it was Furthur. I remember walking the lot before the show with you. You wanted a sticker that, instead of Hello Kitty, said Mellow Kitty and had the kitten holding a bong. I remember getting into the show, we sat on the lawn, and I watched you twirling around and dancing, and all of our friends taking turns dancing with you. Your mom and I were so happy to be there and to have you with us. They played Stagger Lee, and you sang from the top of your small lungs. Obviously I loved you a thousand times before that, and have record of at least saying so, but I still get a lump in my throat when that memory comes around. I’ve begged time to stop a thousand times since then too. Still no luck. Trust your intuition, it’s just like going fishin-you cast your line and hope you get a bite. I remember your first dance. It was at the Municipal Building in Newport and I was a chaperone. At this point of things, it still wasn’t supremely awful for this to be the case both because I was your ride, but also your wallet and they had candy and you like candy. I bought you a Kit Kat and you went to hang out with your 6th grade girlfriends and I made small talk with other fathers. I don’t remember what I said to them, but I remember watching you and being happy that you appeared pretty confident-especially in light of how nervous I was. It was impossible for me not to connect to this as an important moment-a girl’s first dance, but it was even more difficult for me to take my eyes off of you. I may have spoken to several people that night, but I didn’t spend much time actually looking at them. The dance only lasted 90 minutes or so, and I bought you a shareable sized pack of Rolo’s that we split on the way home. This was probably the last time a dance ended this way for either of us. It would always happen this way though; falling deeper in love with your daughter just when you’d think that couldn’t possibly happen. But you don’t need to waste your time, worryin about the marketplace, trying to save the human race, struggling to survive, it’s as harsh as night. I remember watching The Wild Thornberry’s movie with you In Rutland. It had been one of your favorite shows, chronicling the lives of Eliza Thornberry (who is granted the power to talk to animals by a Shaman, so long as she mentions it to no one) and her mom Marianne and father Nigel (voiced by Tim Curry), and it was now headed to the big screen. We got pizza at Ramuntos and headed to the Rutland 10-plex or something and got popcorn. At some point in the movie, 12-year old Eliza gets shipped to boarding school and has some tearful farewell with her Dad before she boards a plane. At this point, you’re unlikely aware that I cry at hardware store commercials and songs about summer ending, so you’re a little taken back when you see me welling up. You laugh when you notice. “Dad, you’re actually crying?” It’s dark so you’re not entirely sure until the huffing comes. I remember you holding my hand and then I may have had some kind of a joy blackout as I don’t remember much else. We left the theater and you said something like don’t worry Dad I’ll never leave you. I remember putting my sunglasses on as I got into the car. As long as one and one is two, there could never be a father who loves his daughter more than I love you. I am locked out of the hospital in St. Albans. I just left you in a wheelchair in a waiting room after wrecking your ACl in a junior year soccer match versus BFA under the lights. You were taken off the field in a stretcher, transported in a golf cart to the car after being diagnosed by their athletic trainer with a ‘definitely torn, it’s definitely a torn ACL, definitely torn, yup” and pointed in the direction of Northwestern Medical Center on Fairfield Street (these directions, in my brain, are seared). I went back to the car to look for your sandals and, given the apparent operating hours of this place, have been summarily locked out. I’m running around the building looking for a door, an open window, a chimney to drop into and I find some unlocked orderly entrance or something and make my way back to you. You are sitting in uniform. One sock rolled down, the other still holding a shinguard. Both cleats still on and tied. You have a little black mascara running down your face. Your hair is in a ponytail and held back with burgundy athletic tape. You keep saying how bad you know it is and I keep deferring to other potentials even though I know it isn’t great. It’s been a while since I’ve held your hand like this and for as awful as I feel for you and I can’t help but enjoy the seconds turn to minutes like this. You are hurt and I know the season is over for you but I also know you’re young and tough and resilient. So I hold your hand and tell you it’s going to be ok and, even though the last thing you want to hear right now, that I love you. And even though I do my best not to cry, I do-by myself, out by the orderly door. Then I come back in and we go home. I may not remember much else about that night, but I remember holding your hand. And I remember thinking that if all I can ever do is hold it, when you need it, I’m happy, I’ll pretty much always be happy with that. I love you D.

Wouldn’t It Be Nice I have great hopes for myself when it comes to fathering. Even though my daughters are 13 and 9, and I have been in the employ of fatherhood for as many years, I often feel like I’m still in training-still waiting to turn from a frustrated, impatient, reactive, capital D Dad that people mostly, out of fear, listen to, to an understanding, compassionate, thoughtful, capital F Father who everyone loves and rallies around because of their essential wonderfulness. I have a feeling I may get there. If I do, I have my own father to thank for it. Although he doesn’t remember it as such, my father has always been the Father I have eyes on becoming. His memory is much sharper across those moments he felt he was overly sharp with us which I guess is how memories work but completely unfair to reality-at least how reality exists for me. My own memories are punctuated with examples of love, patience and understanding-so strong that a blueprint, however often I choose to look through it, is stamped on me. My father is convinced he punished us too severely. This from a man who’s highest level of condemnation was sentencing my 5 to 15 year old self to the Red Rug Room; a sunny stretch of floor and wall and window in our old home where, after tormenting my brother, sister or upsetting the family balance in one way or another, I was forced to read the Metro/Region section of The Boston Sunday Globe and listen to Gordon Lightfoot, The Beach Boys and Bill Cosby albums; a far cry from the switch, I assure you. My father remembers losing his temper, missing dinners, not ‘being there’ and being negative. I remember him standing, suited, at each of my high school baseball games, leaving work early 3 days a week to be each one. I remember him driving to Providence and Villanova and Seton Hall and St. Johns, Flying to Miami and Stanford and Texas to watch me play in college. I never really thought about what it took for him to be there or what he had to give up in the process. I just remember how important it was to see him in the stands, how infrequently I told him that and how slow I was to realize that it was really love, and not his gas efficient 1985 Chevette, that drove him there. I remember family dinners where, instead of screeching at me for refusing to eat beef burgundy and creamed corn, he waited me out. Sometimes for hours- giving me time to stuff my pockets with partially chewed meats and soupy corn. This also gave me time, on occasion, to sneak into the Red Rug Room so I could empty my pockets into Mom’s Belleek China where the booty would lay undiscovered for months. It wasn’t until much later, when my mother busted out the Beleek to impress her friends, that the decaying protein and kernel residue gave me away. While I must have been punished for this, I don’t remember my father suggesting I finish Beef Burgundy again. I don’t remember much in the way of negativity either. My Dad was the president of bank in and around the Boston area in the 80’s and 90’s and lost his job when the FDIC, fresh off a tear of bank closings resulting from excessive risk and insufficient restraint from supervisory authorities (sound familiar?), came in and, in odd celebratory fashion, chained him to his desk. These were tough times for the family and both I and my sister and new husband moved back home, for a time, to help meet the ends. My father, though emasculated, never let the dark set in. He was always upbeat, always appreciative, and always positive-at least in front of those that needed to see that side of him. Sometimes I really try and remember my Father being negative about something. I simply can’t. As he’s become a Grandfather, my Father continues to refine the blueprint. Whether he’s wedging his 6’4 frame into a 4 year olds desk to play school with my daughter, dancing with anyone possessing the courage to have him or introducing himself to women of all ages as, “Mr. Wright, you know, that guy your Mother said you’d always eventually meet.”, my father never misses an opportunity to show me, through action, how a family leader is supposed to act. With grace and patience and humility, never taking yourself too seriously, always being there, always listening and with the first notes of the Pet Sounds album always playing in the background.

On July 11th, 1999 the American League made quick, efficient work of the National League, 4-1, in Major League Baseball’s 70th Annual All Star Game. It was held at Fenway Park and while Pedro Martinez twirled a nearly flawless two innings, striking out five, it was Ted Williams arriving via golf cart from center field that I really remember. Despite being a prick of herculean levels to many, the guy could never do any wrong in my eyes. Beautiful swing, spoke his mind and only ever wanted to be ‘the greatest hitter who ever lived.’ His philosophy toward hitting was something I memorized and his approach toward nearly everything, at least that I knew of, was easy for me to buy into. “There’s only one way to hit or do anything really.” He used to say, “Just get mad. Go up to the plate and be mad at the ball, mad at the pitcher, Christ be mad at everything.” Sox brass trotted him out as part of the evening’s pomp and, after holding court at the Fenway mound for what seemed like an hour, it took several pleads from the Fens announcer Carl Beane to tear the biggest stars in the game away from him. Even after Beane’s begging, I remember Cal Ripken Jr and Nomar standing pat, shaking William’s hand with both of theirs, patting his shoulder and lingering several seconds longer than most. I remember the roar of the crowd and being surprised when he tipped his cap-an effort he refused as a player, never returning from the dugout to acknowledge the fans—even after ending his career with a home run on his final at bat; his 521st. As John Updike said in his famous accounting of the event in the autumn of 1960, “Gods don’t answer letters.” I thought after they’ve been a God for a while, maybe they sort of grew into it. I didn’t manage to see much more than the opening ceremonies and a few innings of the game. My wife and I had just returned home from the hospital with our new daughter, Dehlia, a few days prior and I had fallen asleep on our painful green futon with the struggling whir of an old window fan in the background. It was hot out but I nodded off easily with my wife and daughter in the other room sleeping dreamless sleep. I remember looking forward to the next morning’s Sportscenter to see how the ‘Knights of the Keyboard’, as Williams used to refer to media, portrayed him now that he was approaching, if not fuzzy, at least warm-status, in his later years. The phone rang around 3am and it was close to my head so I grabbed it immediately-without any time to think about the unlikeliness of good news. It was my friend Liz-at least that’s what the voice said. It took several seconds to come into myself and it was difficult to get a bead on what she was saying. “Steve, Tim is dead. He was killed tonight. Oh my God Steve, he’s dead. I’m so sorry, but he’s really dead.” Something like that at least. All I really remember about the call is hanging up. The fan still struggling. And the television already showing a game recap. I watched Pedro strike out Barry Larkin, Larry Walker and Sammy Sosa on 11 pitches before reality settled. My wife had woken up and was standing a few feet away in the shadow. I told her what I had heard and she put her hand over her mouth. Then I watched Pedro strike out McGwire to start the second before I stood up. Tim Maguire and I had been friends since Junior High School. In a standard group of friends he was anything but. He had interest-bearing IRA’s before any of us even paid for our own movie tickets. He was a ball breaker, and an instigator, a mixer-upper and indefatigably dependable. We belonged to a tight group of friends but even within that orbit, Tim and I connected across a different frequency. His ability to shoot-straight, even during that phase of friendship where it’s easy not to, drew me toward him. Our friendship wasn’t something that we ever really spoke openly about but we both respected and acknowledged the connection. We were lucky to have each other and we each knew it. Even after I had moved to Vermont 5 years prior, we’d speak every day and the space he occupied in my life expanded even as the time we spent together contracted. From what Liz told me, Tim had been killed by a drunk driver-someone that was good at it –as he 3 priors suggested. He was coming home from an apparently successful blind date and was stopped at a light. The driver broadsided him in his green, gas efficient, paid-for Saturn, and reports say he never saw it coming. I have convinced myself that his last thoughts were awesome ones. He was happy to have recently held his new God-daughter, the week prior in Vermont. Thrilled that he had completed what was probably a nervous evening. And excited to drive to his new apartment, where he lived alone in his peaceful quiet, and sleep and dream about playing football for Notre Dame or double digit 401k returns or maybe a second date. I know he was listening to AM sports talk radio-trying to collect enough game data to arm him for our morning call. He’d of suggested that Pedro didn’t deserve an MVP for two innings of work or that Donna Summer, despite being from Boston, didn’t deserve to sing the anthem. They say, while he wasn’t killed instantly, he never regained consciousness and was pronounced dead at the hospital in the first hours of the next day. Just about an hour before my phone rang, and a new line of before and after was drawn for me. After reality settled itself, I packed a few things, said goodbye to my wife, my 9 day old daughter and my mother-in-law (who had the good fortune of dealing with a new life, new parents and now, death), and headed south toward Boston. I wish I remembered the music I chose, the thoughts I had or maybe the color of the sunrise breaking as I crossed into northern Massachusetts. I wish I had more clarity of the memories I called upon or some recollection of the last words we shared, or something, anything, about that ride other than a stop at Chili’s in Lowell. I had been driving for 2 hours at that point-roughly an hour from the town of Lynn where Tim and I were brought up, when I pulled into the parking lot. The sun was just up and I remember feeling something new to me at the time—a real, hard sadness—it had moved in was starting to settle. Walking into the Holiday Inn, which abutted the Chili’s, I remember seeing a newspaper stand jammed with fresh Boston Globes. I stalled long enough to connect with the headlines. The latest in the Harry Potter series, The Prisoner of Azkaban, had just been released a few days prior. Someone had broken the 3:44 mile. Tropical Storm Beatiz was gaining intensity off of Mexico’s Pacific Coast and was expected to nudge hurricane status by the end of the day. On the front page, though, was a picture of Ted Williams talking to long time Sox hanger-on Johnny Pesky, seemingly oblivious to the bedlam around him. The supporting copy was, simply, “What a night.” I went into the bathroom and cried for 20 minutes. The 70th anniversary of MLB’s All Star get together was supposed to pay tribute to the game’s all-time greats and to bid farewell to the ‘old Fenway’ as a new ownership group was well underway with plans to relocate. This game had been scheduled for Milwaukee, but it was moved to Boston when the opening of the Brewers' new field was delayed. The Red Sox had been hoping to host an All-Star game at their own new ballpark, penciled in just across the street, but were so far back in the planning stages that they couldn't be sure when that would be. The plan was to give fans, and players, a chance to say hello and, for some, goodbye. The plan was to also announce MLB’s All-Century team-the top 100 players of all time and, for those still able, assemble inside the game’s oldest park. Williams was 3rd in the voting behind Babe Ruth and Lou Gerhig but was clearly the most revered among those in attendance. Prior to the first pitch, Williams and Pesky made their way, via golf cart, from the cavernous center field of Fenway, all the way to the pitcher’s mound. There, he was mobbed by the MLB elite; fawned over by player’s who idolized him, mimicked his swing and felt the need to pay their respects. He was in his element. Talking baseball, returning the idolatry (he loved Tony Gwynn) and soaking in the adoration as a past-player that he couldn’t or wouldn’t, as an active one. Despite the July heat, he was wearing khakis, a white baseball hat with The Ted Williams Card Company on it and a white t shirt with the word ‘Remember’ in blue. I got home and drove straight to Tim’s parents’ house and it was already a mob scene. The shock was still hanging off of everyone, but we did what we could to share stories and force smiles. I mostly listened. His Mom told me how much he loved me and his Dad hugged me for what seemed like the perfect amount of time. “You were always his guy Steve, always.” He said. Tim’s parents asked that I prepare and offer the eulogy and I did. I didn’t have enough time to write anything like what he deserved, but I talked about his dependability, his love for his friends and family and how some holes are bigger than anyone’s ability to fill. I told a story about my 29th birthday. In response to me taking him to Atlantic City for his, he got me a balloon ride. Up in Vermont. Just he and I and a bottle of champagne. I thought it was about the strangest thing anyone had ever done for me-amplified only by the image of two heterosexual males drinking champagne and eating strawberries, which I hate, in a yellow balloon over the hills of southern Vermont. “I didn’t know what the hell to do for you—it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fuck you.” Was his response after I busted his balls about it. “I love you my man.” I said. He said fuck you again in response. We put him in the ground quickly, went and ate sandwiches and drank coffee, and then I drove home. I thought about Tim and the things he wouldn’t become. A husband, a father, a grandfather; he would forever be a son, a brother, a best friend. I thought I was dry until a recap of the game came across the radio. Williams said something to the effect of “That night was absolute magic, it was beautiful. I wouldn’t have changed a thing, not a single thing.” It was the only disagreement Williams and I ever had.