Borrowed Time

When I was 17 years old I had a life-changing experience. And, if it wasn’t for a fair bit of dumb luck, or perhaps some divine intervention, it very well could have been a life-ending experience. Since then, and for the last 29 years, I’ve always felt a little like I’m living on borrowed time.

This story begins, as many do, with a journey. 
          

In the fall of my senior year in high school I took a trip to upstate New York with my two friends, Matt and Steve, and even though it happened almost three decades ago, I remember the details of the trip like it was yesterday. It wasn’t memorable because these were my best friends in the world. Or, because I was just one week removed from my first real kiss. Or, because this was the first time in my life that I'd travelled so far from home. This trip was memorable because we almost didn’t make it back.              

Steve Boland was my best friend in high school. Steve was also, far and away, the most popular and well-liked kid in our class. He was a born leader that people were just naturally drawn to. Fun, outgoing, kind, generous and full of energy. He was short in stature, but his smile and joie de vivre were infectious. He exuded charisma and confidence. And, as a result, he had a great many friends. But, no matter how popular Steve became, when he was hanging out with you, he made you feel like you were the only friend that mattered.

When I’d go over to his house we’d rush upstairs and pop on whatever Beatles record he was currently grooving on. The Fab Four were, by far, his favorite band and we’d listen to them for hours in his room. We talked about school and life and really anything, and nothing, at all. We swam illegally in nearby Pennichuck Pond - our town’s water reservoir. We bet on horses, also illegally, at Rockingham Park race track. We “discovered” U2, way before the rest of our school, gorged ourselves on their music, and saw them play brilliantly at the Worcester Centrum. We were close. I dare say, like brothers.      

Before I met Matt Baldi, I met his sneakers - red, Converse Chuck Taylors, size 14. I had forgotten mine at home and desperately needed a pair for my freshman high school gym class. Steve had recommended that I borrow Matt’s since our feet were of similar size. Or so he thought. I grabbed them from his open locker and quickly put them on, only to discover they were about four sizes too big. Needless to say, gym class that day was a bit more interesting while wearing Matt’s clown shoes.        

The following year, Matt and I shared every single sophomore class together. And, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. He and I were very much alike – tall, shaggy-haired, fairly smart, painfully shy, and not particularly good looking. Matt, however, was a bit of a rebellious rogue. He enjoyed Doonesbury instead of the more popular Garfield, bandited the Boston Marathon on little-to-no training, campaigned for Gary Hart in a Reagan-era world, and introduced me to the Clash and REM in a time when Phil Collins and Madonna ruled the airwaves. Those days, Matt and I shared a lot more than just classes. We ran cross country together, took a few memorable trips to Stowe, Vermont with our schools ski club, followed the Tour de France and cheered Greg Lemond during his epic battles with Bernard Hinault. And had even planned a post-collegiate, cross country, bike trip - down to the finest detail. 

On Thanksgiving Eve 1985, the three of us got together at a pre-turkey day pep rally and bonfire at the ball fields of Bishop Guertin High School in our hometown of Nashua, New Hampshire. We ironed out our trip itinerary amid whooping, hollering, and conspicuous alcohol consumption.  The grand plan was to depart the following morning, after the big football game, and drive straight through to Syracuse where we’d be staying with a BG alum, and current SU freshman, named Scott. From there we’d do a day trip to Cornell. Then one more day in Syracuse before heading back home that Sunday.         

After our planning pow-wow, I walked over to the school’s parking lot to meet up with my new flame, Kris. She was a senior at our sister school, Mount St. Mary’s Academy. We sat in my car and talked about the future. She was going to Keene State to become a graphic designer and I was headed to either Syracuse, or Cornell, to study Architecture. New York? New Hampshire?  Anyway you sliced it, life after senior year was definitely going to be different. We kissed again as the embers from the bonfire rose ‘til they joined their brethren stars. We stood on the precipice of something big, and we knew it.        

On Thanksgiving Day, I got behind the wheel of my family's faux-wood paneled AMC Eagle station wagon, Steve rode shotgun, Matt was in the back, and we set out on the road. We cruised west along the Massachusetts Turnpike with Simon & Garfunkel’s Concert in Central Park blaring from the speakers and soothing the wounds from our school's heartbreaking defeat at the hands of our hated rivals, the Purple Panthers of Nashua High. We stopped in Amsterdam, NY a sleepy upstate canal town, to fill the rusty beast with a tank of unleaded and to get some much needed supplies. Critical items like Pringles, Pepsi, and Hot Tamales.       

We arrived on the campus of Syracuse University in the late afternoon and were greeted by a fresh batch of snow flurries, and very little else. It was pretty much a ghost town with most of the students electing to go home for Thanksgiving Break. We found a pay phone and made our first, of what turned out to be a great many, calls to Scott. No answer. No problem, we just broke out the snacks, and our Frisbee, and played catch in the quad as the snow fell silently around us.

Later, as night came on strong and with still no word from Scott, we went in search of a place to stay. If you’ve never been to Syracuse, I’ll tell you that there are four distinct areas. The first is the University, high on the hill. Just below University Hill are the low-income apartment buildings. Below that further, is downtown. Beyond that, is a massive suburban sprawl. Where, apparently, everyone else was that evening. Because, as we cruised the vacant streets of the city looking for accommodations, and cranking Gimme Shelter by the Stones, there was not a soul to be found.

Eventually, we came across what had to be the oldest, and most historic, hotel in Syracuse. A uniquely ornate high-rise affair whose best years were clearly decades behind it. And, since we hadn’t budgeted any money for accommodations, we coerced Matt to check-in as a single traveler with Steve and me sneaking into the room afterwards with our luggage. One on the floor, and two in the bed. With a wall of pillows in between. We settled down for our first night in the big city.           

The next day, when Steve was at his admissions interview, Matt and I wandered around the enormous campus. We ran laps around the Carrier Dome, perused the bars on M Street, snuck into the Architecture School and laid waste to the buffet at the student commons. While Matt checked out a vintage record store, I wrote a postcard to Kris describing the trip to that point. Unfortunately, she had the kind of last name which could be spelled in a number of different ways, and since we had only just met, I didn’t know which one was correct. Long story short, a few days later a complete stranger, with a similar last name, must have sat dumbstruck after receiving a picture of Syracuse’s Hall of Languages and some barely legible musings from a love-sick, but utterly clueless kid.     

Once Steve finished his interview, we decided to get to the bottom of where Scott was hiding out. So we climbed the 157 steps up to his dormitory on Mount Olympus, only to find that he’d changed plans and gone back home to New Hampshire for break. His floor’s RA, Brian Usker, or Usk as he was known to his friends, broke the bad news to us over a friendly game of foosball. We were clearly despondent, and had nowhere else to turn, so Usk took pity on us and offered to let us crash in his room. This time, three on the floor. Not too comfortable, but at least the price was right.          

The next morning, we jumped into the car and headed south to Cornell for Matt’s interview. While waiting, Steve and I wandered around Ithaca looking for something to do. Fortunately, with Steve riding shotgun, there was always something to do. We rambled around the beautiful and ivy-covered college campus. Eventually, we found our way to a narrow bridge spanning the Cascadilla Gorge, which separated the school from the town, and quickly searched for something to throw off of it.  A concrete cinderblock was the object of choice. We dragged it over to the center of the span and hoisted it over the edge. It took a while to land, but when it did, the results were spectacular.         

After Matt’s interview we drove back up to Syracuse. Between the three of us we had about 40 dollars left and still needed a place to stay for one more night. So, we did what any rational teenager in our position would do. We used half of it buy beer! The only problem was, none of us had ID. So we asked a total stranger to buy for us. He eagerly accepted. Naturally. Fifteen minutes, one prostitute proposition, and two attempted drug sales later, we realized we weren’t going to be getting any beer. Or, our 20 bucks back for that matter. 

Of course, the remaining 20 didn’t buy us much in the way of deluxe accommodations. So, we drove over to the Al-Bel. A rent-by-the-hour, flea-bag motel on the outskirts of town. Unfortunately for Matt, it was his turn on the floor - a stained and wrinkled carpet with an as yet undetermined odor. But Matt, always up for a challenge, accepted his fate with dignity and fell asleep quickly - joined by God knows what else during the night. I, on the other hand, lay wide awake. Staring at the damaged ceiling and thinking about what I would be facing during my college interview the following day.  

In the morning, I showered off as much of the motel smell as I could and set out for my appointment on the hill. The interview itself was pretty standard stuff, at first. Then, as we were starting to wrap it up, my interviewer asked me, “Are you saved?” Seeing that I was obviously stunned with the complexity of this question, she kindly rephrased it. “I see here on your high school transcript that you are a member of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Do you believe that God has saved a place for you next to him in heaven?”        

In the extra moment, or two, that it took for her to re-ask the question I formulated the best, and most scholarly answer I could come up with. I said that I didn’t think my membership in the Catholic religion would necessarily guarantee me a place in heaven. But, if I continued to lead a good life and follow God’s teachings, I definitely liked my chances. “Good answer!” she said. And with that, the interview and our visit to Syracuse was over. I gathered up Steve and Matt, and we headed back east on the New York Thruway.      

For some reason, we ended up getting a late start back. The sky grew dark just an hour out of town. The discussion in the car drifted from the happenings of the weekend to the topics of the songs on the mix tape that Matt had put together. And as the flurries began to fall again, John Lennon came on the radio singing, “God is a concept by which we measure our pain…” So, our conversation was immediately directed towards the very existence and nature of God.    

Still a bit pre-occupied by the poignant line of questioning during my interview, I chose to focus all my attention on guiding the car though the ever increasing whiteness while Matt and Steve expressed their individual views. Suddenly, as we were crossing a river over what seemed to be an extremely high bridge, a strong gust of wind pushed the car to the right and I naturally over-corrected left, sending us fish-tailing and eventually into a full-speed tailspin on the newly-formed black ice.  

I really don’t know how many times that car spun around, but it had to have been at least a half dozen. With each rotation I could see that we were getting closer and closer to the guardrail on the edge of the bridge. And, with each rotation, I could also see that a jack-knifed semi-truck was right behind us and equally out of control. Guardrail. Semi. Guardrail. Semi. All of this in life-flashing slow motion. I honestly thought this was it. We were going to die. Right there. On a wind-swept spit of pavement, in the middle of nowhere.       

Remarkably, the car came to an abrupt stop on the edge of the road, just beyond the bridge, after having neither crashed through the guardrail nor into the tractor-trailer, who had also seemed to right himself. I slowly eased back onto the gas, my eyes as wide a saucers, looking for somewhere safe to turn off and maybe find a place to change my shorts. When to my amazement I saw through the blizzard a sign which read “Amsterdam - 1 Mile”. We were saved! I’m not sure I’ve ever been so happy.         

I pulled into the nearest lot I could find, which just happened to be a Sheraton Inn, and said, “That’s it. We’re stopping here!” My compatriots quickly agreed. I called my parents to let them know what had happened and to tell them that we’d be using the “emergency credit card” that evening. We checked in, ordered room service and washed away the day’s events in the hotel hot tub and over-sized swimming pool. What the heck! You only live once. Right?        

The next day we completed the rest of our journey back to Nashua in almost reverent silence. We stopped by our school on the way home to gather our books and missed homework assignments. Somehow everything around us seemed different. Smaller. We had just completed the trip of a lifetime. We had cheated death and lived to tell the tale. Nothing would ever be the same.      

The next year, we made the long trek back to upstate New York once again. This time, Steve and I were beginning our freshman years at Syracuse and Matt was bound for Cornell. While at school, Matt discovered what turned out to be one of his life’s greatest passions - rowing. And it happened somewhat by accident. A recruiter stopped him on the way to class one day and asked him if he wanted to try out for the Cornell crew team. Matt was quite lanky and apparently that came in handy for rowing. So, he gave it a shot and was immediately hooked. Unfortunately, by his own admission, he put a little too much time into his sport, at the expense of his school work, and by his sophomore year he was forced to drop out of the engineering program at Cornell and transfer to The University of New Hampshire.

The following winter, the three of us we were reunited once again. But, this time, under much more stunning circumstances. Steve was coming home for Christmas after spending a semester in England – home of his beloved Beatles. He never made it back. On December 21st 1988, Steve’s plane, Pan Am Flight 103, exploded over the skies of Lockerbie, Scotland - killing all 259 on board and 11 more on the ground. Matt, myself and all the people whose lives Steve had touched (and there were quite a few of us) were devastated by this unspeakable tragedy. At the memorial service, Matt was in charge of the music, and it was all we could both do to keep from completely breaking down.

The next time I saw Matt was five years later during a frantic, last-minute Christmas shopping trip to the mall. In the intervening years, he and his parents had moved to Peaks Island, Maine and Matt had turned his passion for rowing into a passion for boat building - a hobby he shared with his Dad. We sheepishly made small talk, both embarrassed by the distance that had grown between us. I had gotten married and had a kid, with another on the way, and for some reason he still seemed ashamed about dropping out of Cornell. As we parted ways once more, we promised to do a better job of keeping in touch. Unfortunately, that was the last I ever saw of Matt.           

On the morning of June 10th 1994, Matt parked his Volkswagen Jetta at Odiorne Point State Park, unloaded his hand-crafted kayak from atop his vehicle, slipped silently into the surf and was gone. We’ll never know what happened that fateful day off the coast of Rye, New Hampshire. The official report was that he became hypothermic and drowned after somehow getting separated from his boat. Personally, I’d like to think that a rogue wave came by and claimed him as one of its own.

It’s now 20 years later and I still think about Matt and Steve quite a bit. I think about them and I miss them. I remember what great friends they were, the fun we had together, and the lives they left behind. Yes, I remember that epic Thanksgiving trip to Syracuse. But I also remember the stupid stuff. Like streaking at the Nashua Country Club in front of a four-some of bewildered golfers, or sneaking bulk snacks from Shaw’s Supermarket, or seeing if we could drink from all the water fountains in our high school during the two minutes we had between periods, or even the day I spent in Matt’s oversized shoes.

Not surprisingly, that 5-day trip we made together, and the devastating losses that followed, shaped almost every aspect of my life. From the way I parent, to the way I treat people, to the way I think about myself, my goals, and my dreams. It taught me that my life is a finite one and if I want to make the most of it I need to begin now. Today. I’m sad that my friends are gone, but I’m grateful to them for having left me with a burning desire to succeed and the essential knowledge that the key to my success can be found within. Sure, during that time I’ve done some things that others might think are crazy. But, I know my free-spirited friends would most definitely approve.

In the years since they’ve both been gone, I’ve tried to lead a good and full life in their memory. I trust that God is watching, but if he isn’t, I know that Steve and Matt certainly are. I hope that I’ve made them proud of the kind of person, friend, and father that I’ve become. And, when my "borrowed time" does eventually run out, I look forward to the three of us getting back together for more great and epic adventures. Because, no one has friends like that anymore. 

At least not me, anyway.