Passages

This post is dedicated to two college acquaintances, neither of whom I counted among my closest friends, but both of whom nonetheless left an indelible impression on me. Over the course of the past few weeks, they faced triumph and tragedy, respectively. Here are their stories:

Barry Cofield was a defensive lineman on our university's football team and, my junior year (his sophomore), he was assigned as my partner in our mandatory "Analysis of Performance" (drama) course. Barry was kind but soft-spoken and of very few words, and as most Big Ten defensive linemen tend to be, he was of quite intimidating stature (I ran into him at a bar a year after I graduated, and while it seemed impossible, his bulk had increased significantly since those heady days in AnalPerf. Despite his size and status on the team, he still took a few moments to chat and make sure that I'd graduated on time and that all was well). Barry and I were required to rate each other's classroom performances of works such as Poe's "Cask of Amontillado" and Frost's "The Road Not Taken."

The lasting image that I took from that class was Barry's unexpectedly poignant rendition of Frost's classic. It was certainly out of character for him, and yet, he trod gently through the piece. He portrayed a homeless man, sleeping on newspapers, slowly rising, defiance welling, struggling mightily with the fact that there were yet still "miles to go before I sleep."

Two days ago--years after that performance viewed by only 15 college students, fewer of whom probably remember it--I watched on TV as my old Analysis of Performance partner turned in yet another unforgettable performance...collecting a Super Bowl championship as starting nose tackle for the New York Giants, whose defensive unit shocked the sporting world by utterly dominating Tom Brady and the previously undefeated, heavily favored New England Patriots.

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Eric Gold was a fraternity brother of mine, and like me, he quickly tired of the dogma and pressure that are characteristic of fraternity life. He was a year older than I but, like me, spent little time at the house and was not particularly close with most of the brothers. In turn, some of the brothers viewed us with suspicion and perhaps some disdain. Eric was sickly, always coughing, and claimed that his chronic respiratory ailments prevented him from most fraternity activities. I, on the other hand, was beginning to find my own way, and after the first few confusing months of fraternity life, began to drift away. Like Eric, I only ventured to the house for our weekly chapter meetings, and because we were both on the fringes of the organization, we would sit next to each other, marveling at the absurdity of it all--the false pomp and circumstance and the hypocrisy of the false brotherhood exhibited by some (few seemed to believe that Eric was actually sick, instead buying into the rumor that he feigned illness to shirk his responsibilities to the fraternity).

Ultimately, we both parted ways with the house, pursuing other goals, friendships, and endeavors. Over the course of the next few years, I would occasionally run into Eric, who went on for a master's degree at our school's speech pathology department. Our conversations, while few and far between, were always a pleasure, always genuine, and we were always sincerely interested in each other's progress toward our respective goals.

Not long before I graduated, I read an article in our university's daily newspaper about Eric, who, unbeknownst to myself or to our other mutual acquaintances, had received a double lung transplant after struggling with a rare form of fibrosis that, as many had observed, had left him unable to struggle through even the least strenuous of physical exertion.

The simple fact that he had undergone and survived such a procedure was impressive enough, but this paled in comparison to the punchline of the article. Eric, after life-threatening surgery and debilitating disease, had successfully run a half-marathon and had completed the "Hustle up the Hancock," a stairway race to the top of Chicago's third-tallest building.

Remarkable!

Soon after reading that article, Eric and I both walked across the stage at our university's graduation--Eric with his master's degree and me with my bachelor's. After the ceremony, outside in one of the school's many courtyards, the sun beamed down on a sea of new graduates, degrees in hand, the world waiting for them to conquer, and Eric and I chatted about the fraternity, about leaving our school, and about his perseverance. We left each other that day with warm wishes for the future and promises to keep in touch.

Eric and I never saw each other again.

Occasionally, I would read about him in local papers, and when I moved to New York, I would hear about his successes through mutual friends. The Hustle up the Hancock became an annual tradition, and through his heroism, bravery, and perseverance, he raised thousands of dollars for the American Lung Association.

Last November, I received a startling e-mail from a friend of ours. Eric had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was given no more than six months to live.

Immediately, I e-mailed him to see if the rumors were true, and sure enough, the message he wrote back confirmed the terrifying news: "You heard correctly," he said. "I was diagnosed with lymphoma that has mestastasized to my lungs. They tell me that I have six months to live."

I didn't know exactly how to respond, but wrote something about somebody who was hustling up the Hancock after a double lung transplant could surely win this battle too.

In the end, those new lungs that had served as his wings were ultimately his Achilles heel. Eric lost his battle in January, just six days after his 26th birthday.

According to his obituary in the Orlando Sentinel (his hometown paper), he had pledged that he would crawl up the steps of the Hancock this year if he had to. Later this month, his father will climb in his stead, no doubt with a heavy heart--a tribute to a young man who, although he lost this battle, will always be a role model, an inspiration, and indeed a survivor.