Neal Lynch

For 19 years, I’ve hesitated to write a post like this. Every time July 13th rolled around, I had a violent storm of conflicting thoughts and feelings. Putting grief on the internet has sometimes felt a little hollow to me—like a cheap ploy for sympathy or a transaction for “likes.”

I’ve worked for a slew of media organizations over the past two decades. Most publishers treat the death of a public figure as an opportunity to generate traffic and revenue. The death announcement and subsequent memorial (“Remembering Gene Shalit”) can be sickening and exploitative when disingenuous, cathartic when authentic.

Every ‘anniversary’, I’d get the urge to post. And every year, I end up reading and loving my sister’s beautiful tributes on Facebook. They bring me peace and comfort along with pangs of nostalgia. My urge subsides.

I wrote a letter to him on July 13, 2017. Some excerpts are below:

“Hey Dad, it’s been 11 years to the day since you’ve passed. It’s ****ing dumb that I have to say that. It’s ****ing dumb that I’m writing you. You’re not alive. Your body doesn’t exist anymore. It was just you, Mom, and Ozzie in the house when it happened. If only Ozzie could talk. Not that I’d want to hear or see how you passed. Some people have to watch their loved one pass over a long time. Slowly dying. Would I rather have that? Maybe. Just so I could say goodbye and I love you a thousand times over.

Instead, the last correspondence we had with each other was an email with a perversely funny gif you forwarded. The last time we saw each other in person, I was with ‘Birdman’ and ‘The Rabbi’. You seemed so happy. I think you were happy that I had friends that were fun, good people.

So, what happened since you passed? I’m writing to you like you’re somewhere with your consciousness still intact. More religious types would say heaven. I’m not 100% convinced there isn’t an afterlife. I’m leaning towards no afterlife. Which makes me extremely anxious. I feel like I have to accomplish everything now. There’s an unnecessary sense of urgency that, more times than not, causes me to lose my composure. I have this burning ambition and it’s taken me nowhere but down. After you died, I took a long, hard look at my life. My personal life. My professional life. The rest of the summer I made it a point to truly not give a ****. I was down for anything. I swan dove / belly flopped onto my ex’s beer pong table and broke it. I wore your high school class ring. No idea why. To pay my respects? To pay homage?

Mom tried to give me your entire wardrobe. Almost nothing fit me and the clothes that I did take were for mom, so she didn’t have to see them anymore. (My ex) became a gigantic thorn in my side. On my birthday, she informed me she had a new boyfriend, **** ******. Yes, Hayley’s classmate in high school. How ridiculous is that? Guess who introduced her to him? Me. Absolutely bananas.

Anyway, that fall I went to **** ******’s wedding. He married our high school friend *** *******. Remember ***? You comically got into a shouting match with her at the beer pong tournament we hosted during Parents Weekend at the shore house. Right after the ******-****** wedding in October 2006, I drove to Cranston for **** ******’s wedding. Yes, ‘Peesh’ got hitched. To a really cool chick named ***** that he met at work. At ******’s wedding, I tried talking to you. The wedding just got me thinking. I think I asked you who I’d marry. I was in shambles. I still am but things got better.

The Mets went to the NLCS and lost in seven games to the Cards. Endy Chavez had a ridiculous catch. Carlos Beltran stared at strike three to end the game. The Giants made the playoffs but lost to the Eagles in the wild card. It would be the last game Tiki Barber played in the NFL. He’d make some negative comments about Eli that ultimately fueled them to win the Super Bowl the next year. Unreal right? 

After you passed, I lost a lot of interest in work but still gave it my best. I’d often say ‘What’s the point? Who cares?’ I’d call mom right when I left work every day for a year straight. They ended up cutting 25% of their staff, including me. A former coworker hooked me up with an interview at Playboy and I got the job. Yes, dad. I worked at Playboy. It was insane. It was stressful as all hell sometimes but I kinda miss it. I got to be a chaperone for Playmates. I got to travel the country and throw parties. I looked at boobs at work almost every day. And then Obama got inaugurated. Obama was our first black president. I’m telling you this as if you don’t know. If you can somehow see this why wouldn’t you know that? Why wouldn’t you know everything I’m telling you? This is a stupid exercise but maybe it will help me cope with losing you way before your time. I’ll try to keep going. I feel like it’s pointless. I feel like I’ve let you down. I feel like I haven’t lived up to your expectations. And I’m sorry.”

July 13, 2026 marks 20 years since my father passed away from cardiac arrest. I feel compelled to share this not for condolences, but for context. I think some people might appreciate knowing how I feel, and maybe it will help explain who I am and why I am the way I am. Alexa, play Eminem’s ” The Way I Am”.

My dad was a MASSIVE sports fan, and that shaped my entire childhood. He loved the Bruins, Celtics, Red Sox and… New York Football Giants. He was born in March 1950, so the Pats wouldn’t come along for another 10 years.

When we lived in Lawrenceville (near Princeton), we went to Giants games at GIANTS Stadium in East Rutherford, NJ during the magical championship season in 1986. We’d make the trek from the parking garage at the old Brendan Byrne Arena — where the Devils and Nets used to play — across the pedestrian bridge that went over Route 120 to the stadium parking lot. Because the old bridge had loose wooden boards like a rundown boardwalk and sheet metal walls and ceiling, we sounded like a lumbering herd of cows being led to slaughter. I was the young calf enchanted by fans chanting, “Let’s go, Giants!” followed by a series of claps. I even got my fellow human cattle to moo. The scent of cigar smoke wasn’t overwhelming but it permeated the area. I’d learn to love its smell because I associated it with winning.

When I was a freshman and sophomore in high school (1994, 1995), we’d often get to park closer to the stadium. No more mooing on the bridge. But, we tailgated. Hoagies from a local sub shop near our home in Hopewell, NJ, or take-out from Boston Market, which felt like a feast to my novice palate.

We sat in the top rows of the 300 section under the cooing pigeons and buzzing lights. Most of the time, my dad would just talk out loud. To no one in particular. As if he were fishing or trolling for conversation. Like a director’s commentary on a DVD. Sometimes a person would take the bait and they’d have a brief and highly charged or energized exchange that ended in an agreeable ‘Yeah!’ or a disgusted ‘Aah’ accompanied by a wave of the hand. In high school, this would completely mortify me, but, man, it’s brought me a smile every time since then.

I was on the precipice of 6 when my Mets took on his Red Sox in the ’86 World Series. Leading up to and during Mookie Wilson’s fateful at-bat in the 9th, I was in tears. What a spot for a tortured sports dad to be in. Trying to console his inconsolable son while also wanting to shout, “Hey, brat, I’ve gone 36 years and countless others have endured damn year 7 decades to enjoy this moment! Suck it up!” I can’t imagine how heated he got when Mookie’s slow roller to first got through Bill Buckner. In the blink of a watery eye, a 3-2 lead was all tied up and his whiny kid was jumping hysterically on the couch. He muttered, “It’s past your bedtime” with great disdain.

I’m so happy he got to watch the Red Sox win a title. He loved his “Hunt For Red Sox October” shirt that is now a patch in a quilt my aunt made after he passed. I feel for anyone with a family member who was a lifelong Sox fan that passed before bearing witness to Boston ending the curse.

My dad would film everything. He recorded everything. He had an old school handheld digital video camera with the pop-out screen. I had every single video tape digitized in 2018 as a ‘gift’ to my my mother and sister. I’ve managed to watch most, if not all of them. My sister could probably recite every single moment from memory.

Dad was almost NEVER on-camera. He was behind the lens. The director. The auteur. He even added “special effects”! Title cards and on-screen graphics. Every time one of those effects popped up, it made me laugh.

There are videos of us at Disney, at Universal Studios, at a parade, at parties, playing sports. If it were an ‘event’ worth documenting (really any event we were involved in), we had the video.

He recorded almost every game I played in that he attended as a fan. I could hear the same commentary on those videos of my games that I heard sitting next to him in the swirling winds of East Rutherford. In between telling my sister to “stop doing that! Don’t do that”, you’d hear him exclaim, “What is he doing?!” “Did he not see the safety?” “He’s gotta hold on to the ball there!” He was my biggest critic AND my biggest supporter.

And his critiques weren’t just directed at me. He’d chime in on anyone and everyone (referees, umpires, water boys, bat boys, cheerleaders, coaches, assistants, scoreboard operators, scorekeepers, etc.). Just like with any fan, HE could talk trash about me, but anyone who wasn’t a supporter most certainly could not. And he’d fight you to the death and die on that hill. His staunch stance was a volatile cocktail of Irish hostility shaken (not stirred) with Italian passion. If you know, you know.

He was my coach / manager for a couple of my teams. When I was 8, I was ‘showing up’ the umpire over his questionable ball and strike calls. My hissy fits and histrionics on the mound (throwing my hands up in an exasperated fashion, poor body language) struck a nerve with my dad. Memories have a knack of getting twisted and warped, but if I’m positive he stomped out from the dugout and yanked me off the mound. If he didn’t, then he damn sure let me and everyone at that game know that my behavior was unacceptable. My brain has been known to play tricks on me, but I think we (the Dodgers, yuck) ended up in the championship game against the A’s that season (1988?).

He was none too pleased when I was placed at guard on my middle school football team in ’92. Or when I was nose tackle on my Pop Warner team in ’93. He was furious when I was cut from my junior high baseball team and didn’t get into Bishop Hendricken. ‘Politics! They don’t know what they’re missing!’

In 1995, he’d serve as an assistant manager / coach for my Babe Ruth All-Star team that advanced to the finals against the heavily favored Hamilton squad. In ’96, he’d return to the role he loved so much to mentor our American Legion Post 339 lineup.

His competitive spirit was infectious. I never got to watch him play baseball or football in his heyday, but I got a taste of his athleticism first hand. Whenever we played 1-on-1 basketball in the driveway or he’d take a hanger deep in an older men’s rec baseball league.

I just wanted to measure up to my dad. Often literally. I looked forward to the day I could be his equal and the day I could surpass him. When I went through my growth spurt in high school, every picture I took with my old man was a measuring stick. I’d become Stretch Armstrong, pulling the string on the top of my dome so I could finally ‘beat him’ in something. Anything!

But he just loved watching me do anything. He’d watch me play video games. This is before kids watched other kids play Minecraft and Roblox on YouTube. Before the televised Madden championships. He became a full blown spectator. When I was younger, we’d play Shark! Shark! on Intellivision then later we’d face off in Blades of Steel on NES.

You probably can’t tell from the pic below, but I bet he was proud that I played in the Carpenter Cup at the old Vet after my junior and senior years in high school. It might’ve come after I gave up an absolute moonshot into the upper deck on a change-up that didn’t change and only went up and up and up.

I remember going for college visits junior year. After a party at my friend’s house, my dad picked me up to go to Lehigh and I puked in the shower. He pretended like I was sick, not hungover. Pretty chill dad move that apparently continued when my sister was in high school.

I loved going to the movies with him. After every movie, we’d spend the rest of the night doling out quotes and our favorite scenes. When I was 8, he managed to play it cool during the opening scene featuring impregnation in Look Who’s Talking.

When I was at JHU, riding the bench as a seldom used spot starter / middle reliever or holding the clipboard as a 4th string QB, he’d make every possible attempt to attend every game. He just wanted to see me in uniform, but he held out hope I’d get a chance to show everyone what I could do.

Even after I graduated, he didn’t give up hope that I could play baseball at the pro level. He pulled every string he could and spared no expense to get me in front of any scout. He even encouraged me to write a letter to the NCAA asking permission for a 5th year of eligibility. “What have you got to lose?” He fully embodied Kevin Garnett’s “Anything is possible!” If there’s a will, there’s a way.

Even though my arm was an overcooked noodle by the time 2004 came around (at the tender age of 23), I was able to squeak out a few more innings for him with the Point Pleasant Merchants of the Jersey Shore Baseball League. He would’ve been happy to hear that even after my shoulder gave out in 2005, I’d power through a couple seasons with a dead arm in another wooden bat league in 2008 and 2009. I was only 27 or 28 and I was done-zo, yet Rip was crushing baseballs into his 40s.

The last time I hung out with my pops was around July 4th, 2006. Even though my family lived in Manasquan, I had a share in a shore house rental down by the beach on First Ave. I brought a couple college friends to a family cookout at my uncle’s place. I think he finally saw me as an adult who could adult with him. It felt like the beginning of a completely new relationship.

About a week later, the morning after an all-you-can-drink company outing, I received a call on my office phone. It was my mom. She sounded shook. Her voice wavered as she told me, “Dad passed away. Dad is dead.” I thought she was talking about her dad, my grampa. “Grampa?”, I asked. “No, honey, your father.” What happened next was a blur. I couldn’t speak. Everything felt like it left my body. She told me what to do, one of my dad’s three brothers would pick me up from work. Don’t worry about packing anything, just come down.

When I arrived at our home in Manasquan, my mom was sobbing. My mom almost NEVER cries. She was caressing my dad’s clothes hanging in the closet. She gave me my dad’s clothes to wear. It felt odd. Wearing your dead dad’s clothes to your dad’s wake. They didn’t fit me, despite assurances from others. Was I now supposed to be dad?

That feeling didn’t go away for a long time. It felt like my dad’s side of the family saw me as a proxy or fill-in or replica of my father. They’d look at me and talk to me like I was him. Like, somehow I inherited his spirit or I could channel him.

I decided to wear his high school ring. I thought about getting a tattoo. I lashed out at my boss. I ping-ponged from ‘Nothing matters anymore, life is meaningless’ to ‘Life is short, live it up!’ The constant throughline was I’m going to party my face off. I said ‘yes’ to everything.

At his memorial service, I gave this eulogy:

“Let me begin by first thanking Father Griffin for allowing me to speak here today. Second, I’d like to acknowledge the many family and friends who came forward the past couple of days offering to speak. We could have 1,000 people convey 1,000 different stories and memories – all of which would be about his genuine heart or his child-like spirit or his “live and let die” demeanor and they would all be right on point – all classic Rip.

Unlike some, I am not a public speaker. My mother knows best out of anyone in this room that I have a tendency to mumble, so if you can’t hear or understand me, you can always do what my father did and slowly nod as if you did understand then ask, “What?” The reason my speaking abilities are so poor is because my father did so much of it for me. If he hadn’t gone into medicine, he certainly could’ve made a living as my publicity agent. During his days at Providence Country Day he batted well over .300 but when it came to bragging about me and my sister to friends, family, and pretty much anyone with ears, he batted 1.000. If you didn’t have ears, he’d probably learn sign language on the spot to communicate his pride. 

His eagerness and undying ambition to keep learning and obtaining new skills was unparalleled. We would arrive at a friend’s house and he’d be on the electronic keyboard and within 15 minutes, he’d be playing, “Chopsticks” that song from the movie “Big” – where Tom Hanks and Robert Loggia dance on the giant keyboard in FAO Schwarz – and it would be good! 

It was his competitive spirit that drove him well beyond his athletic years. It drove him to succeed at even the smallest challenges – his daily crossword puzzle, racing Hayley and I back to the car, a game of HORSE in the driveway. It didn’t matter if it was ping pong with the kids or beer pong with the older kids, he wanted to win, but more importantly, he wanted everyone to have fun. He introduced me to classic ’70s rock: Led Zeppelin, The Doors, and the Rolling Stones when he drove me to middle school. I introduced him to mid-90s alternative-grunge: Beck, Ben Folds Five, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers when we’d drive back from games in high school.

During my collegiate years, I discovered we both had our inner plights, and I am extremely overjoyed to know that we were able to share those plights with each other and not judge or think less of each other. For a very long time, I was down on myself; saddened to think that I wasn’t good enough, that I had to prove myself to my parents, especially my father because he exuded such confidence, charm, and an air of accomplishment. In reality, he and my mother were just so happy I was alive and experiencing the same difficulties they once endured. When I discovered he wasn’t perfect, that he had troubles just like me, it brought a sense of relief – but also a strong feeling of respect and admiration that throughout it all – all the obstacles, all the unfortunate twists and turns – that he could still get up every morning and put food on the table or play catch until his hand hurt or crack jokes – dirty or clean.

I’m amazed he never lost faith in his own humanity and in the welfare of his loved ones. Like a workhorse, he took the pressures of the world on his shoulders and buried his own suffering deep within his stomach. 

Now that my father’s suffering is over, this is a time for remembrance and appreciation. I appreciate his attitude and his outlook on life. I used to think that I burdened him with my problems but now I realize that he welcomed them with open arms because it demonstrated how similar we were; it proved to him that I was his flesh and blood. 

It comes as no surprise that he loved sports – every chance he got, he would draw an analogy from whatever was at hand to sports. Fail a test? It’s like giving up a homer; you get the ball back and keep throwin’ hard. Dumped by a girl? It’s like throwing an interception – you learn from it and keep droppin’ back in the pocket. 

One of his favorite expressions – much like his way of life – was simple, “Get ‘em next time, partner.” He enjoyed the simple pleasures in life – good music, a good party, the beach, riding a motorcycle. He hated negativity, dressing up in a suit & tie, and seeing other people vomit. He loved the Giants, bad sci-fi movies, the opening to 24, body surfing, pistachios, rainbow sherbert, Pink Floyd, and the Red Sox. I’m just so happy that he got to see the Sox win before he left. 

Most of all, he loved us – the people in this church. He loved us so much that it ate away at his insides – the worry and concern he harbored for his mother, Norma, his father, Jimmy, his brothers, Gary, Jack, and Brian, his wife, Hannah, his son, his daughter, Hayley, his practice, his newly renovated house, his dog, Ozzie, but the last person he thought to care about was himself.  

The everlasting memory I hold on to in this time of mourning that I would like to pass on to you is of him wearing a tie on his head, chest hair spilling out of his shirt, playing air guitar and heartily laughing at his own joke as he slaps the person next to him on the back. I love you, Dad… and I know with all my heart that everyone in this room would give anything to have you back. You finally got what you deserved your entire life: peace.”

In August 2006, I spread his ashes in the Manasquan inlet.

In October 2006, Dad was inducted into the Providence Country Day Athletic Hall of Fame. I was asked to speak on his behalf. Here’s what I delivered:

“I’m very privileged to accept this honor on behalf of my father. Three months ago, he unexpectedly passed away, leaving us with a hole in the fabric of our tightly knit community. Since then, we’ve tried to sew that hole shut in an effort to restore some stability to our environment and I feel this induction into the Athletic Hall of Fame can serve as one of many threads we use on our path to restoration. 

I had the opportunity to attend Providence Country Day middle school for two years back in the early ‘90s and my father had the chore of driving me each and every morning. Each and every morning, I would open the car door to leave and he would deliver a quick, inspirational one-liner: “Go get ‘em, Champ,” “Chin up, Tiger.” No matter how poorly I felt, his motivational quips instilled a sense of resolve. I eventually left PCD and moved from the great state of Rhode Island, so I never fully recognized his legacy here at PCD. 

Yet, when I was here, walking through the halls, I’d get the customary question, “Hey, aren’t you Rip Lynch’s kid?” And I’d nod in wonderment, all the while thinking, “Just exactly who IS my dad?” When you’re that young, you only know your father as one person – your dad. 

Slowly but surely, as I became more aware of my surroundings, I learned of his many various accolades and feats. That detailed briefing was always secondhand – never from him. “Your father hit a ball over the trees across the street.” “Your father rushed for over 200 yards in a single game,” and so on and so forth. If I ever asked him about these landmarks, he’d go on about his coach, Mr. Dickerman, or his best friend at PCD, John Bennett, or his other best friend, Ray Nicini. Never was it about him. If he ever bragged, it was about me or my sister.

As I grew older, we began to have more candid conversations. I became more curious and he became more open. The more I found about his past, the less pressure I placed on myself. With all the new info I’d learned, I never truly grasped his track record of achievements. That’s a testimony to his modesty, to his humble nature. He wasn’t a man of declarations and bold claims; he was a man of competitive spirit and fortitude. Sports were his life. He was very goal-oriented to the point where every task, no matter how trivial, was a game to see how well he could perform it. He imparted those values onto me and I strongly believe that is why I’m standing here today. 

This is a bittersweet moment for our family. Words can’t express how much this means to finally have his hard work get the recognition he so greatly deserves. But I would give anything to be sitting where you are right now, watching as he blushes and grins from ear-to-ear. Thanks again to Providence Country Day for giving us another fond memory of an extraordinary man who gave everything he could possibly give. Thank you for lending us another thread.”

On Christmas Eve 2006, my sister, future brother-in-law, and I tried spreading more of his ashes on the artificial turf at Giants Stadium after the Saints blew out Big Blue. Security wasn’t too thrilled about our act of remembrance. I might’ve cited Jimmy Hoffa’s body being buried in the north end zone as my protest / rebuttal.

On my 27th birthday, I thought, ‘Whoa, at this age, my dad was married.” It was one of many wake-up calls. I tried to make a more serious effort to find a partner and grow up. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m stubborn and I move slow. I wouldn’t find my person until 2013, but I definitely tried over those six years.

Kids remember weird things. My daughter brings up memories that I’ve long forgotten. Little things that fly under the radar for most grown-ups. As a kid, I remembered my morning routine with my dad. Whenever he would wake me up for school, he’d pretend it was 4th and goal. He’d act as the running back (a position he played all the way up through college at McGill University, the ‘Harvard of Canada’), and I was the last line of defense—I had to physically keep him out of ‘the end zone’. I was the Gary Reasons to his Bobby Humphrey.

He found joy in simple pleasures:

• He loved sci-fi movies, surfing (or ‘surfacing’), and body surfing.
• He enjoyed eating pistachios and rainbow sherbet.
• We’d always get giddy about Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy”.
• He let me listen to The Jerky Boys cassette tapes and an incredibly obscene radio show hosted by The Greaseman.
• He absolutely hated negativity, dressing up in a suit and tie, and seeing people vomit, which as a doctor you’d think he’d be able to tolerate. This is a guy who allegedly would smoke up and watch medical films in his parents’ basement while back from medical school.

But the older I get, the more I understand the immense, crushing weight he carried to provide simple pleasures for us. Looking at our family’s history, my dad’s career as a doctor was a rollercoaster of stress covered in shards of broken glass and engulfed in flames.

Between 1987 and the early 2000s, we moved constantly—bouncing from New Jersey to Florida, Massachusetts, North Carolina, and Rhode Island—while he navigated hospital politics, took out loans to open private practices, dealt with wildly unfair firings, and battled the changing healthcare landscape.

He worried endlessly about his family, his practice, our house, and our dogs. People talk about the ‘ball of stress’. My dad’s was the size of Jupiter after Thanksgiving dinner.

He took the pressures of the world onto his own shoulders and buried his deep suffering inside his stomach. He tried playing “Keeping Up with the Joneses” and chased that dangling carrot. Why couldn’t he just be? Why can’t I just be?

Like his father before him, my dad was a loyal subscriber to the Jimmy Valvano (“Jimmy V”) school of philosophy: Don’t give up, don’t ever give up. And he did his damndest to make sure that line of thought was seared into my cerebellum.

To this day, I can count one one hand the number of times that I ‘quit’. I’m not strong. I’m not smart. But one thing you can count on is that when I make the choice to commit, I will dedicate time and effort. Consider it a gift and a curse. I work hard and have a tireless work ethic, but I also don’t know how to ‘let go’ and accept my fate.

For a very long time, I thought if I poured my heart and soul into something, and went into maximum overdrive, things would turn out how I wanted or hoped for. But, that’s not life. That’s fantasy. If that were the case, we’d all be billionaires giving Elon Musk a run for his money. As Kenny Rogers would say, you have to know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away, and know when to run. Not everyone can get 100% of you all the time. It’s a recipe for a breakdown, a collapse, or an implosion. Or a heart attack.

Through all my own twists and turns, his outlook on life has been my anchor. If I’m ever at a loss for words, I channel him. Whenever things go wrong, I fall back on his sports analogies: if you give up a home run, you just have to get the ball back and keep throwing hard.
I’ve used his Rip-isms to guide my daughter. Sometimes I catch her daydreaming in the backseat as I drive her to school or camp or practice. My dad used to daydream a lot. My mom used to say, “He’s off in Rip-land”. I still wonder what he thought about. Was it ruled by regret? By guilt or shame? Was it pure delusion?

I’ve used his Rip-isms to help friends in bad spots. Friends that are struggling with their own personal demons.

I’ve used his Rip-isms at work, when trying to motivate employees or colleagues.

My mom, sis, and I often wonder what he’d be like now. At age 76. Would he even retire? Or would he keep working odd jobs like his father, unable to just be.

We wonder what he’d tell his grandkids. He’s missed so much. My sister’s marriage, my marriage, my divorce.

In February 2025, six months into another long stint of unemployment, a friend asked me if I ever talk about my dad with my daughter. I started telling them how my daughter calls him “Your dad” and not ‘Grampa Rip’. And I started to cry uncontrollably. He’ll never know her or his grandkids. They’ll never know him.

Despite how I behave, my goal is to not just meet my grandkids. But to hang out with my great-grandkids. It’s a long shot, but I’m gonna die trying.

So, why am I the way I am? I’m the product of a man who loved deeply, stressed quietly, and lived to make the people around him smile. My lasting memory of him isn’t the struggle. It’s the image of him at a party, wearing a tie on his head with his chest hair spilling out of his shirt, playing air guitar, and laughing hard at his own joke. RIP, Rip.