Dear Gorf

It’s funny. “Gorf” is almost more Mark than “Mark” is, if you know what I mean (and I’m pretty sure you do). It was a good name you chose, although this avatar is just spooky.

You know me. My thoughts tend to list toward the morbid. So I’ve always wondered what the world’s going to be like the day after I die. It’s hard to imagine everything just going on like normal. This is not conceit. It’s just hard to imagine. Well, let me tell you, the world’s a poorer place now that you are gone. It hasn’t come to an end (the Large Hadron Collider is broken, after all), but it’s sputtering. I think I even smell smoke.

I miss you, my friend.

B asked me to be one of the speakers at your service and I’m afraid I made a complete mess of it. I don’t even really remember what I said. I do know what I wanted to say, however, and that’s the purpose of this letter.

As you are aware, way back in the late 80s, back when we all had more hair and less mass, I started playing volleyball at the Y. These were pickup games over an extended lunch hour, up to three times a week. Participants ranged from teenagers to octogenarians. I could usually keep up with the octo-crowd -- in ability, that is, not with the wisecracks. I’m guessing that’s where we first met, although maybe it’s when I ventured into the Saturday afternoon games, the more social scene (that is, fewer octogenarians).

At the time, Inertia was my constant companion, the bastard. There had been a series of failed romances and my job, by default, was dominating my life. Somehow, I had found the get-up-and-go to get on down to the Y for volleyball. I was badly in need of some good fortune, something that would change the direction of my life.

So what happens? You did what you did with countless others. You welcomed me into the volleyball scene. Before long I was playing two nights a week in the Y leagues, then on a USAV team, then at the Volleyball Gym on Friday nights. All of this in addition to the lunch hours and Saturdays. Some might have said this was too much volleyball; and the fact my shoulder quickly stopped functioning correctly (and still bothers me to this day) would lead those same people to repeat that preposterous claim. I say I enjoyed every minute of it, even when I didn’t think I was, if you can figure that out.

There were all those post-game get-togethers at the Midway Applebees, where you first started spilling drinks on me, something you did more than anyone I’ve ever met. I can’t even imagine how many stories and laughs and bad puns we shared over the years. Or how much bad food and alcohol was consumed.

There was also the Golden Gophers, of course, a passion we shared. This passion took us on trips all over the country: to Ann Arbor and East Lansing, to Cedar Falls and Iowa City, to Long Beach and San Diego, to Champaign and West Lafayette, even to Honolulu and a Christmas in Maui. And, of course, there was that trip to Happy Valley to watch the Gophers end the Lions long home winning streak. We drove from Pittsburgh to Happy Valley on Friday, then back to Pittsburgh after the match. On Saturday we sped across Ohio to Indianapolis, then on down to Bloomington. After that match, I decided to take off in the opposite direction from how we had driven in, trying to avoid the football traffic. After driving halfway to Ohio and almost running out of gas, we started all over again -- and still caught the football traffic.

Good times.

And I’m glad to say we both made it to the Final Four in 2004. The result was not the best (Ogonna!), but it was amazing being there. Besides the volleyball, I’ll never forget that December sun shining on the Gopher bandmembers who were playing their tubas in the wading pool outside the arena. It was perfect.

Then, of course, there was VolleyTalk, where volleyball geeks from all over came to congregate, on the internet. We were proud to be a part of this geekdom, proud to give the Gophers a presence in the on-going exchange of information and opinions, misinformation and insults. I think my favorite session was when you and I sat in my kitchen during the Gophers’ meltdown at Stanford against Arizona in 2002 and let loose the hounds of our despair, and, as the match wore on, our ridicule of each other. We were the (disembodied) Two Stooges. Meanwhile, my wife was having a Pampered Chef party in the living room. True to form, you ended up buying $100 or so of the stuff.

We continued this dialogue over the years, arguing about whatever we wanted. I believe one of the last was about the mountains in Juno. I contended that Minnesota has no "mountains", certainly not anywhere near the Twin Cities. You disagreed. About there being NO mountains anyhow. It was left unresolved, this argument -- but you were wrong.

So I wanted to represent VolleyTalk at the service, since you are an out and out celebrity there. You’re Paris Hilton, I tell you! So many people have posted their condolences, it seemed only right that they have a voice, even if I did bungle it royally. That’s one of the two primary things I wanted to express. Not that I bungled it royally. That the VolleyTalk community loves you.

The other was to thank you. I’ve joked to you about this in the past, but I’m not joking now. I am perfectly serious. Fact is, I just don’t see how in the world I would have ever met my wife-to-be, become her friend, then her husband, then the father of our three wonderful girls, without you being there to usher her into my life. It was you who invited her into the volleyball community at the Y, as you had done with me. It was you who invited her to play on our team. It was you who made us all feel so welcome.

You were my good fortune and I will never, ever forget you.

Thank you, Gorf.