Losing a Character, Losing a Friend

This blog was originally posted in February 2013, the day after Roger Bacon High School athletic director Joe Corcoran passed away.

Many American males, on their 16th birthday, get a car—a passport to freedom and opportunity.

Me? I got a job as a waiter at a retirement home.

It was a curious dichotomy that time in my life. At 16, your focus is school, friends and the opposite sex—and not necessarily in that order. The stakes are low, even if you don't realize it. Everything is about fun, anything seems possible. You think about the future, sure, but you always, always enjoy the moment.

Away from work, I lived my life. At work, I was surrounded by people nearing the end of theirs.

In the kitchen, we housed information about the residents on a whiteboard, which included a map of the dining hall specifying the table and seat where each resident sat, their names written on magnets.

One day, about three months into the job, I walked into the kitchen and noticed a magnet leaning upside down against the bottom of the board. Figuring the magnet had fallen, I picked it up, read the name and reached to return it to its rightful table. But before I could, I noticed the exact same name written in bold, black marker under the column marked DECEASED.

Believe it or not, I was actually confused.

"Hey, what's this about?" I said to an older, wiser, 17-year-old co-worker who had just walked into the kitchen.

My co-worker, a one-year vet, explained matter-of-factly that the resident in question was found dead in her room the previous night about an hour after dinner.

But I served her that dinner. I put it on her table, she looked at me and smiled. She was fine then, so how could she be dead now?

I knew virtually nothing about the woman who passed away, and yet, in that moment, life seemed incredibly fragile. Life seemed incredibly unfair.

I worked at that retirement home through the end of high school and part of college. I spent part—or all—of four years there. Other residents died during that time, of course, some of whom I had gotten to know quite well. But none hit me quite like that first one.

Eleven years later, I feel now when I felt then—only much worse.

Last night, while grabbing a drink with two buddies I hadn't seen in a while, I pulled out my phone and discovered a missed call from Brian Neal and a text from Matt Reed. I read the text twice, thinking I misunderstood it the first time through. I hadn't.

Joe Corcoran had passed away following a routine surgery. He was 57.

***

Joe—or "Cork," as seemingly everyone called him—was Roger Bacon's athletic director. He's also the first person I've ever interviewed who passed away.

We met in April 2011, when he agreed to be interviewed for a "project" I was working on. That project became a book, but at that point—only one interview in—it was still merely a vision, an idea. And yet, Joe, who was an assistant coach on that 2002 Roger Bacon squad, agreed to be interviewed, this after putting in a full day at school.

Joe didn't have to do that, but he did.

Any journalist will tell you every interview is different. Some people you have to poke, some people you have to prod. Joe just talked.  Our first interview lasted two hours. I think I asked four questions.

After interviewing 50 or so people for the book, I can say with certainty that Joe—sometimes quiet, sometimes loud—set the standard for expression. With the exception of Matt Reed, who chugs adrenaline for breakfast, no one was more visibly excited to speak to me than Joe. No one oozed more nostalgia, no one gushed more pride.

When I told Joe I wanted to arrange a reunion for the team so I could get the players and coaches in one room and watch them interact, Joe volunteered his house. The night of the reunion, in June 2011, Joe took care of food, Joe took care of beverages, Joe took care of everything. The man bought more chicken wings than I knew existed.

Joe didn't have to do any of that, but he did.

In spring 2012, when I was searching for a place to host the book launch, I told Joe where I had been looking and what the rooms would cost. Joe shrugged.

"Let's just have it at Bacon."

So we did.

Joe met with me to plan and orchestrate the launch. He arrived at school early that summer Sunday to help set up. Then he stayed afterward and cleaned.

Joe didn't have to do any of that, but he did.

When I asked if I could speak about the book at Roger Bacon's Stag, Joe said yes. When Bacon bought books from me to sell at school, Joe picked them up. When I asked if I could have on-campus signings, Joe reserved the parking spaces and set up the tables. When I did signings at Bacon and there was food involved—and there always was—Joe made sure that I ate. And he made sure that I ate for free.

Joe didn't have to do any of that, but he did.

At one of the signings, when I inadvertently parked in a reserved spot, Joe worriedly ran toward me, scolded me mid-sale and told me to drop everything and move the car. The man was so frantic you would've thought his best friend were choking and I had invented the Heimlich. In another life, in another era, Joe would have been a town sheriff. And he would have been darn good at it.

I saw Joe the following week—again on campus, again at a book signing—and I apologized for my blunder. Joe laughed and said not to worry about it.

And then he told me to go eat free.

Assistant coaches, like players, are not created equally. Each has a role to play, and often that role is fulfilled in the days and hours and minutes before the bright lights come on. Joe, according to many of the players, wasn't on staff for Xs and Os. He was there to be a drill sergeant. He was there to make you work. A former college baseball player, Joe was competitive—and he wasn't afraid to get in your face and yell.

And yet, Joe was the first person I interviewed who openly wept while talking about Bill Brewer. At the reunion Joe hosted, players and coaches, at the end of the night, took turns reflecting on that game, that team and that season. Exactly one person choked up.

Joe.

Yes, sometimes the badge came off.

Sometimes the town sheriff became a teddy bear.

***

I'm not going to pretend I knew Joe Corcoran better than—or even as well as—any of the people in the book. I'm not going to pretend the pain I felt upon learning of his passing compared even slightly to what any of them were feeling.

Still, I found myself lying in bed last night and staring at my ceiling, thinking of everything you just read, tears crawling out of the corners of my eyes and rolling moist onto my earlobes.

Journalism is a profession of relationships—almost always one-sided. That is its blessing; that is its curse. You ask questions, you get to know people, you feel like you're a part of their lives. And in some ways, you are. But in other ways, most ways, you aren't. There exists a line you simply can't cross.

That's just part of the deal.

I have no delusions of my place in this story. I did not attend Roger Bacon. I was not on that team. My view, while spectacular, is from the outside looking in.

And still there were tears.

Every sports fan has one game that's special. At least one game that's special. More than the game itself, though, there's a defining moment, an image that endures. Valvano looking for a hug. Flutie's Hail Mary fling. Jordan's last shot as a Bull.

Those moments live on.

When writing the book, I watched the 2002 state final a dozen times. Maybe more. For me, the enduring image is Joe wrapping his arms around Bill's neck after the final buzzer and jumping up and down. When Bill died in 2007, that moment became bittersweet; now that Joe is gone, it's heart-wrenching.

Joe would speak fondly of times when he and Brew would go out for wings and brew. When I learned of Joe's passing, that's exactly what I was doing: wings and beer with my buds.

The circle of life.

Writing is a courageous yet terrifying act. You bleed words onto a page and hope for the best. Authors, especially first-time authors, seek validation. We send books to the best in the business and pray they find value in our words.

A few months ago, I sent a copy to Sports Illustrated feature writer Thomas Lake, who read the book and offered a reaction:

“This is as good a reason as any for doing what we do. People are born, and they die, and those who remember them die too, and the place where they keep living is in our stories, written down, printed on a page, shielded between hard covers, collected on a shelf, available as long as the paper holds together. We were here, those stories say, and for a moment or two, we were great."

Those words ring true.

Now more than ever.

Tony Meale is a Chicago-based author, ghostwriter, and guest speaker. He has a master’s degree in journalism from Ohio University and is the author of “The Chosen Ones: The Team That Beat LeBron,” which was featured on ESPN. He can be reached at info@tonymeale.com.