RIP, Colby Cave

The world is invisibly on fire, and nothing is right. We huddle in small gatherings, thankful for what we have and hopeful for good news from others. We marvel at those running into the fire to treat the victims and to keep treating all those people who get the usual stuff, heart attacks, traumatic injuries, and brain cysts we’d never heard of.

We try to meet our needs, in food and shelter, but other needs are lower on the priority list right now. We would come together to mourn, to hug, to comfort, but now we’re spread out. We might run to one of those silly games we care about too much, cheer for our laundry, to take our minds off it all for a couple of hours, but not right now, when the guy you and the guy you high-five after a goal might asymptomatically yell happy droplets at each other’s faces.

Today, though, after a month of reruns and simulations, might be the day we needed a game the most. Or at least sometime in the next week or so. These are the times when those needs met. When thousands stand silent for a moment, then watch the video screen and cheer the memory of the young man who’d reminded us why we cared about those silly games in the first place. We’d mourn as one, with the thousands watching on screens around the world feeling part of the thousands there. We’d try to comfort his bride and his family through our cheers. We’d follow the modern twists on ancient rituals, the patch on the breast, the number on the banner.

From thousands of miles away, we’d remember those endlessly relentless shifts alongside Anton Blidh and how he always seemed to do something against Bridgeport, only to find out that he seemed to do something against everybody.

The rituals wait, and it adds to the heartbreak. But we do have the memories. And we do have the video.

Rest in peace, Colby Cave, 25.

Michael Fornabaio