I was seventeen. I won a guitar in a raffle. I had no idea how to play.

Two of my friends were already in a band. I asked if I could watch them practice. I’d sit on the floor in front of Greg and Tony, studying their finger placement on the neck—between the frets. Later, alone in my room, I’d place my fingers in the same spots, eventually learning they were chords.

One day, Greg asked if I sang.
I said, “Nope.”

Tony and Greg overheard me singing along to Run River Run by Loggins and Messina. They looked at each other and smiled. Tony said, “You’re in the band.” And just like that, a short spin through local musical history began—along with a lyrical and melodic journey that continues for me to this day.

Greg could play anything. He loved harmony more than lead vocals. He was never on time for rehearsal—whether in my living room or in Tony’s garage—assuming he showed up at all. But he was so damn lovable that we could never stay mad for long.

When Greg walked into a room, it lit up. Tall, blonde, lean, tan—pure twenty-year-old energy. He was the right arm of our spiritual and logistical leader, Tony. We discovered our voices had real chemistry. We entered a local talent contest. We won.

After a summer of gigs and a couple more years of community college for me, life did what life does. Greg worked at a lumber store. Tony became a trucker. I headed to Texas to chase a career and then to finish undergrad. We drifted apart, as friends do. Visits became less frequent. Promises to fix that grew bigger. And the chances of getting the band back together grew smaller—but never disappeared.

Decades passed.

Greg and I stayed connected through social media and a handful of reunions at the mythical—now only an echo—No Name Lounge. Aside from some wrinkles and a newfound passion for hard-right politics, he hadn’t changed a bit. His hair was still long. His stories were even grander. New projects were always just around the corner, pitched with full Shark Tank enthusiasm. I knew they weren’t coming to fruition—but they were alive in his beautiful mind, and that was enough.

We debated politics. We reminisced about our short, sweet band life. We argued about the greatest decades in music (I don’t have one—I love them all, which drove him crazy). We laughed. We toasted. We hugged. We pledged—again—to drag Tony in from Tennessee and get the band back together. We also knew it probably wouldn’t happen. But as we age, those promises keep hope alive.

Greg passed away this week. Far too young.

My heart sank at the news. And yes—it’s cliché to say, “I just talked to him a couple of weeks ago,” as if that somehow makes the ending less possible.

I’ll remember how he could run like a gazelle and track down a fly ball in center field for our high school team (Go Dolphins). I’ll remember his high harmonies on every Eagles song. I’ll remember his stories about the big things happening “next week.” I’ll remember how he could build things—how he knew his way around lumber. Most of all, I’ll remember how he encouraged me to sing, to write, to play—and to savor every moment the three of us spent laughing our way through practice.

Grief is only love that’s got no place to go. ~ Stephen Wilson, Jr.

I love you, my friend.
You changed my life.
Rest in play.