I don’t know where to start. I’m sort of numb. My mind has been racing since the phone rang a little after noon on Monday, but nothing is connecting, no link is being made to send the thoughts to my fingers to type. I’ve wanted to start this since then. Wait. Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t ‘want’ to start it ever. I never want to write about the death of one of my closest friends. But, it’s what I do I guess. At least it’s what I should do. Fuck, I don’t know. I’m just at a loss. So I’m going to put some stuff here and call it done.

I woke up this morning with a hangover. That was fitting after all the beer I drank last night, and yet it was nothing compared to the worst hangover I’ve ever had. I specifically remember a large portion of that night, surprisingly. Unsurprisingly, it came about because of Dwin.

It was at Rich’s graduation party. We had all just completed high school. The world awaited our ass-kicking entrance. While everyone got their drink on, I had to lay off until I drove my girlfriend home. Once I got back, I grabbed a beer and headed into the living room. Waiting there for me was Dwin.

“What are you waiting for, Sally?” he said.

I had no clue what was in store, but I was game. So I sat down. “Waiting on your ass to pour me a drink.”

I was so fucked and had no idea.

Dwin reaches down, out of my line of sight, and from beside the recliner, pulls up a 750 of Jack Daniel’s. Square on the table he set it and looked back at me.

“Let’s put some hair on your chest,” he said. “Shot for shot. You and me. Think you can manage or do you need to go get your girlfriend again to help you?”

Now, I was 17 years old. He was 18. We had nothing holding our egos back, so there was zero chance I wasn’t going to do this.

“Fuck yes I’m in,” was quickly my answer. His reply?

“Good. This one’s mine. Here’s yours,” he said, pulling up a second 750 of Jack and placing it on the table in front of me. To this day, I have no idea how we went shot for shot and finished both of those bottles in about an hour, and then we started really drinking. I had a 2-liter of wine cooler (remember, this was 1989), 12 pack of beer and most of a bottle of Schnapps. Probably some more, but at a certain point, things got sideways and a bit blurry. The next morning was arguably the most painful waking moment of my life. It took me almost 20 years before I would even smell Jack Daniel’s again let alone drink it.

He was always up for whatever. For anything, not just drinking. He never said no, always went full out and gave more than his share. Maybe that’s why I cried so much last night. I saw so many, just so damn many posts on Facebook from people who knew him and the outpouring of love that they were giving back was only a fraction of what he gave to them. He touched so many lives, brought joy to every one of them. Even people who haven’t seen him since high school, but stayed in touch or at least reconnected the past decade through social media, they were heartbroken and crying as much as anyone not related by blood. He left a piece of himself with everyone he encountered.

I read about people telling stories that I never knew. Like his pro wrestling buddies. Dwin’s ring name was Boston Black, or so I just learned. I knew he did some pro wrestling 15-20 years ago before he got too fat, but I didn’t know he had a name. He was Boston Black, the body guard to Cincinnati Red, who apparently was a world champion in that league.  He was always protecting someone. That was his persona in the ring, and naturally his role in life.

I’m the shortest of our group of friends and countless times we’d go into a bar and I’d just pick a table and go get it. One time, the bar we went to was massively packed, and it was a table that these three dudes were already sitting at. I just sat down and they were like “What the fuck are you doing? This is our table.” And I was like “Well, it’s mine now.” And I picked up my drink and took a chug. Yes, I had short-man syndrome and I had no issue with it. Right on cue, Dwin and the rest of the guys came rumbling over. Back then when everyone was in their early 20s and somewhat still in shape, they weren’t an unimposing crew. Dwin at 6-1-ish and 300-ish pounds was actually one of the smaller guys. Anyway, the three guys left and we had our table.

And when he got over 400 pounds, I’ll never forget him trying to hide behind a 10-inch tree while playing paint ball. It was too cartoon-like. This big old dude seemingly believing he couldn’t be seen behind a sapling. Paint balls were hitting him on the left and right sides and not a damn one hit the tree — because it was too small.

The guy loved being the center of attention, but only if he could make people laugh. It wasn’t ego; he truly dispensed joy and the moments were so many. Fuck. I just can’t grasp that he’s gone, that I won’t be able to tell him I love him again. I know he knows. He knew. We said it every year when we said goodbye at Symposium. “I love you brother,” is how we always ended it and he was usually one of the last ones I hugged as we packed the cars to head back to the Park. Then he’d get on his plane to California and we’d see each other the next summer. But now there won’t be a next summer with Dwin. I feel so incomplete.

But, I know he’s still with us. We can physically tell he’s gone because the world is quieter. That was the loudest human being I’ve ever witnessed. And while it won’t be in our ears, we’ll hear him forever in our hearts. And once this fog clears, we’ll move forward knowing we are better for having had him in our lives for this long.

There are so many more stories. Like when we first met in fifth grade. He lived down the road from school, and the trailer park I lived in that year was kind of in between. We walked home from school, played together at his house occasionally, and then road the bus together in middle school. We ended up dating some of the same girls, and he was one of the biggest reasons I started wrestling in seventh grade. We played on the offensive line together in football throughout middle school and high school. In high school, we had the Pizza Hut Gang and his old Lincoln that was the only car bigger than my Bonneville. He was at my wedding in Vegas, and he was one of the first to reach out to me last year when our badass boxer dog lost her battle with cancer. He was there at every party I hosted in the Park (which back in high school and college was quite often) and met us in Vegas last year for a guys’ weekend.

I am truly blessed that I have had so many great memories with him. In our circle, somehow we really mean it when we say we will be friends for life. Aaron, Rich, Adam, Rush, Carlson, Boo, Craig, from the beginning; and then adding in Cliffy, Philly, Chuck, RJ, and on and on with the whole CCMP crew. It’s amazing what we’ve done and been through together. I just wish this death bullshit wasn’t on that list.

Dwin always was a willing participant in anything we did. “I’m your Huckleberry,” he’d say, no matter what terrible idea you had. The thing is, he was wrong. He wasn’t our Huckleberry. We were his Huckleberries because of who he is and how he was. He drew us in and made us want to do anything we could to make him happy.

I’m sad now but that will subside. I’ll keep his memories alive and then we’ll tip one back again someday. Maybe even have a shot of Jack again. I can’t wait.