It is such a shock when young people die. Such a waste, so unnatural, such a deep cut into the heart. As a teacher and a coach, I knew a lot of young people and some of them died. I honor them here:
From my college years:
Larry Fincher and Randy Roberts, my contemporaries at Auburn High School, killed in Vietnam, young.
From my soccer years:
Ellen Griep, my teammate at UW, drunk and falling to the ground with me on the street median at nationals in Miami, a beautiful tall athlete and smooth forward, dead of a congenital heart defect during her sleep as a medical student at UW hospital. Dead before 25.
Annie Longton, a fast left back who had run track in college, dead of spinal cancer before 30.
Linda Adams, a fast, tricky forward who could finish on every breakaway, giving my stats a lot of assists in Over 30, dead from breast cancer before 35.
From my coaching and teaching years:
Georgi Fiori, who was blow-drying her cow in the wet barn and was electrocuted. She was 17. A good soccer player and cheerful, smart girl. A horrible accident.
Wendy Vollmer, who was killed in a car accident near WSU. She was a laughing, fun soccer player, slim and quick, with lots of curly hair. Alcohol.
Eric Thiel, who committed suicide by the side of the freeway in LA, by putting a hose from the exhaust into the window. He was a kind, gentle boy, son of my athletic director. Suicide.
Chris Perkins, Mary’s neighbor and my student, a burly big redhead with deep drug problems. He committed suicide with a gun and his parents donated all his organs. Drugs and suicide.
Neil, Jimmy’s friend who had stayed at our house, dead from a heroin overdose in high school. A handsome boy, superb athlete, smooth and privileged. Drugs.
George Payne, who played soccer for me, made the regional team at about 12 and 14, quick and skillful and spoiled by helicopter parents who sheltered him from every consequence. He jumped through a window on the fourteenth floor of the King County Courthouse downtown Seattle, because he could not bear to go back to jail. Jimmy’s friend in high school. Drugs.
Timmy Erickson, who played soccer for me at Enumclaw High School, who committed suicide at almost 50. He was so bright and funny and creative, the youngest of a big family. His mom was our birth coach for both babies. I hear he had alcohol problems.
Tyler McDonald, dead of a heroin overdose after 10 years incarceration for home invasion. A big strong handsome man, born to an addicted mother, he fought addiction most of his life. Jimmy’s friend. Drugs.
Curtis Kasper, Mat’s younger brother, my student, a Marine and a drug addict. Dead of a heroin overdose, leaving behind a four year old boy. Drugs.
April, my student at Auburn High School, who died in a drunken car chase when her car smashed into a freeway pillar. Alcohol.
My cousin Jeannette— drugs. My cousin Bobby— alcohol? My cousin Ronnie— brain cancer from thirty years of breathing mill dust. My cousin Randy, dodging death from cirrhosis for twenty years but still alive. My nephew Timmy, dancing on the brink of death from cirrhosis before the age of 35, but still alive.
My heart is so heavy thinking of all these bright young lives. Many were heavily at risk and we knew it. We saw it coming, we predicted it, we feared it, we intervened to prevent it. We lectured and prodded and suggested. Talented, bright, full of potential, with a fatal disease or addiction. Scaring us with their choices, they were blind to the consequences of drugs and alcohol as much as Georgi was blind to the effects of using electricity while standing on a wet barn floor.