I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. The coolest comment I’ve ever heard while writing an obituary feature was this: “Mike played a hell of a game of Foosball.”
The remark, ten words of poetry, stands out among all others, a glorious example of how to describe a person who has passed so that others will remember him, too.
I never knew Mike personally (I’m not even sure if his name was Mike) but at the time, I felt like I did. I fancied I could see him there, hunched over the Foosball table and working the bars with a kind of robotic grace, making elegant passes and slam shots that sound like cracks of thunder. No spinning aloud.
You just know that Mike was a good guy. Have you ever heard of a serial killer known for his mastery of the Foos? I rest my case.
It was a beautiful comment from a stranger and I never expect to hear another one like it. Although if I’m honest, the many comments I heard in regard to the late Monsignor Paul Gleason have risen to their own place of glory in the awed annals of my mind.
So many people said so many nice things about Father Gleason, I was forced to approach my copy editors, hat in hand, to ask for extra space. Oh, sure. I could have just whittled the comments down to their “shirt off his back,” “our thoughts and prayers” essence, but I didn’t want to. The many people with whom I’d talked described the man in such a way, I felt as though I’d spent an evening sipping brandy and smoking cigars with the monsignor himself.
He walked slowly and talked slowly and measured every word. He dressed immaculately, drove a Mercedes and always had a few coins or bills to drop into the palms of the needy. We didn’t have a photo to run of Mr. Gleason, but it didn’t seem to hurt very much. When you read the recollections of his admirers, your mind generated an image of the man, more focused and complete than any black and white archive photo could ever be.
The people who weighed in on the monsignor’s passing never seemed to struggle for words. There was none of the obligatory stuff – the aforementioned “shirt off his back” type of commentary that seems to apply to everyone once they are dead.
The former parishioners and colleagues of the fellow had plenty of genuine thoughts; they didn’t have to force it even a little bit. I am richer for the experience of writing about him. It says a lot about the man and it also – you knew I was coming around to this point, didn’t you? – makes a person wonder how people will speak of them once they are gone.
When I’m dead and in my box, I don’t want you grieving people to take on the extra stress of thinking up awesome things to say about me. You’ve been through so much already. I mean, how will you get along without the wisdom and guidance that has nurtured you for so long? Frankly, I don’t know. You should probably consider just giving up and going into the ground next to me.
So, with that in mind, I’ve taken the time – my generosity knows no bounds – to write down some things you might utter, through your tears and icky wads of tissues, at my service. Please take notes.
“Mark actually gave me the shirt off his back once. Tried to give me his pants, too, but then the cops got involved.”
“I never knew Mark to suffer embarrassing foot odor.”
“Mark’s smile lit up a room. Actually, it was Mark’s Bic, but he smiled while he was lighting the drapes on fire.”
“Mark never once employed the services of a prostitute. That you can prove, anyway.”
“Are we absolutely sure Mark is dead? I’m pretty sure he just winked at me.”
“Mark loved his family. In fact, after we get him buried, I’ll bet we discover that he has other families scattered all over the country. That’s how much love he had to give.”
“Ha ha! I was just kidding about that last thing! No need to look into it.”
“If Mark were here right now, I’m sure he’d say: ‘Really? These are the only flowers I got?'”
“Mark’s many fine novels can be found at Amazon and other booksellers or by visiting marklaflamme.com.”
And finally – it would be swell if several of you would point this out to the sobbing throngs – “Mark was a hell of a Foosball player.”
For the record, I was not a hell of a Foosball player. But you know what? I have a sneaking suspicion that Mike wasn’t, either.
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