(Editor’s note: Welcome to Living Eulogies. All recollections are accurate in the author’s mind only. Apologies in advance to everyone who has different recollection of the same events. Send all complaints to LeBron James. See our website for full terms and conditions.)
On the surface, Danny Bryan and I shared very little in common. Back in Fox Lane Middle School, where I first met Danny, he was a lot of things I wasn’t. Danny was incredibly gifted on the football field and basketball court. He was, by anyone’s definition, popular. He was charismatic, outgoing and the middle school epitome of what it meant to be cool.
At least, that’s I saw him. Not sure about anyone else.
I’m not quite sure how the masses saw me back in seventh grade. I know how I saw myself, and it certainly was nothing like how I saw Danny. I was incredibly insecure, the target of frequent bullying and had just come off a year from hell in which my entire friend circle had dropped me.
I remember the low-water mark of my seventh-grade year clearly. It’s something I try to remember to this day, because what happened that afternoon and Danny’s role in those events showcase a truth we should all hold dear: You never know exactly what someone’s going through in a given moment, and a kind word can go a helluva long way.
The night before that day at school had been hell. My dog, who’d been a part of our family longer than I had been at that point, was nearing the end of his life. He’d lost control of his bladder, and, as such, he had to be confined to the kitchen overnight. Cleanup was easier on the linoleum than the carpet of other rooms. That doesn’t mean he liked being confined to the kitchen. I’d fallen asleep with a pillow over my ears, trying to drown out his howls of confusion and sadness from downstairs, knowing that my lifelong friend soon would be gone.
That wasn’t the worst of it.
We’d found out a few days before that my grandfather was dying of cancer. He and my grandmother lived in Arizona at the time, and my father had immediately flown out with my uncle and cousin to start what would be a harrowing drive back to New York in a rented RV, my grandfather often delirious in the back, all just so he could get home and be among family when he died.
To say that I wasn’t in a good place when that school day started would be an understatement.
Here’s the thing about middle school — or, at least, my experience in my particular middle school: It’s relentless. Absofuckinglutely relentless.
Those who were on my rung of the social ladder received no reprieve from those who chose to be assholes, whether our dogs or our grandfathers were dying or not. That that grandfather had been the single biggest positive influence in my life to that point mattered nothing to those who would rather pick, pick, pick because someone might appear to be different or weaker or whatever.
And so it was on that day.
Listen, I’m not here to say I was treated worse than other kids. Maybe it’s a sad statement to say that I wasn’t. I know others in our school and others in schools across the country throughout the years have had it far worse than I did.
But that doesn’t mean that on that day, at that particular time in my life, it was something I could bear.
The funny thing is, I don’t even remember who said the thing or did the thing that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. All that I remember is that it happened right after lunch and right before we entered into the classroom to continue the school day. Whatever it was that was sad or done was that one thing that was too much for me to handle and keep my composure. So as the class filed into the room, I bolted out the doors and put my head down and sobbed.
That’s when I heard Danny.
Now, I imagine that Danny doesn’t remember this incident at all. It was, after all, about 35 years ago. Plus, as I would observe in later school years, what Danny did for me that day wasn’t out of the ordinary for him. Danny was one of those amazing “cool kids” who also retained an intense compassion for his fellow classmates, regardless of their spot on the social pecking order. I’m sure what Danny did for me that day was something he did for other kids throughout his childhood and, I wouldn’t be surprised, is what he does for others now as an adult. Danny is just Danny, and that’s a good thing.
On that day, I stood outside, head bowed, trying to hide my emotions from anyone who might be around. I guess Danny had seen me exit as I had, and he followed.
“Hey man. You OK?” The words were like a lifejacket thrown to someone who’d just fallen overboard. But the last thing I wanted to do was tell him that, no, I wasn’t OK, that my dog was dying and my grandfather was dying and this fucking school sucked and I didn’t feel much like being alive anymore. I wanted to tell him that I hated everything about this place and that I hated how cold the world was and that people, in general, sucked ass.
But how could I tell that to Danny Bryan, who, as far as I’m concerned, lived the best life any seventh-grader could possibly have? How could I tell Danny Bryan, as this stupid rich kid from Pound Ridge, that my life sucked and I felt like I was crumbling inside?
I couldn’t.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and a squeeze. It only made the tears come harder. As pitiful as it might be, it’s actually making tears fall as I write these words today. I was overwhelmed by the fact that this kid who I thought was the coolest person on the planet at the time — for a seventh-grader, anyway — had not only noticed I existed but had stopped what he was doing to check on me.
“No. No, I’m not OK,” was all I could manage to say.
The bell rang and, if you remember middle school dayz, life is governed by that damn bell. He needed to get to class. I needed to get to class. It was time to go. He squeezed my shoulder again.
“Hang in there, man. OK?” he said.
And then he was gone, on his way to this class or that.
Middle school rolled on.
We had to put my dog to sleep shortly after that day. My grandfather made it back to New York alive, but he, too, passed away before the month was over.
I made it through middle school. I made it through high school. Danny and I never talked about that day. In the fabric of everything that made up those years, that one moment was — on the grand scale — insignificant.
But I always had and still have tremendous respect for Danny.
Oh, I remember other things about him too. How he seemed to be the first in our school to wear a polo shirt with the collar popped, which meant that, of course, everyone else would be wearing their polo shirts that way. I remember how he actually left the football team because the games were played on a day that his family’s religious beliefs kept separate for worship. I remember how he handled the objections of his teammates and others who knew our team without him was nowhere close to as good.
But what I remember most is Danny’s kindness from that one day in seventh grade. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t even have to notice that there was someone around him who was hurting. But he did. And for that, I’m grateful.
So let’s all raise a glass to Danny Bryan. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has a story like this about Danny. That kind of display of kindness … that’s just who Danny was … and I imagine it’s who he still is. Hear Hear!
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