The words on this page—the contents of this written piece, like their author, are under pressure. Sentences woven together under duress. Sentiment that can’t afford sentimentality. Poetry that hasn’t the time or inclination to be too cute or quaint.

This is the third iteration of the “Go Hard” saga. The first two were written at pivotal times in my life. When the suffering I felt within did not match my exterior or that of the external world in which I dwell. When I was beset on all sides by sadness and strife, and had to will myself forward nonetheless.

There is always an inner conflict… A strain between where I am and where I want to be. A struggle between the man I am and the man I was born to be. A tension between idyllic ideals and the blunt force trauma of life in the real world. Everyone’s got a plan, as they say, until you get punched in the face.

The iron teaches that you can’t grow without pain. That negative energies like sadness and anxiety, anger and vengeance, must be converted into fuel for productivity, in order to keep such darkness from destroying us within. We build where others break. Where we are broken, like bones, we build back stronger. We are expected to be strong. It is who we are. We have no choice.

This time of year has always been characterized by good vibes. Memories and emotions, intangible feelings, of which I’ve been so fond. I yearn for that warmth. I long for that innocent happiness… For that yuletide spirit to fill my heart. But life so often gets in the way, muddying the inherent magic of the holidays.

When I paused in the past to write the first two volumes of this tale, I was struggling personally, persevering one day at a time. When life, as it tends to so often do, right on time, put me in my place and reframed my perspective. Our world lost Josh, an actor who worked on a film I had helmed. And then later Brian, one of the first vendors who opened his doors to GCode in our earliest days. Two young men who had contributed to my dreams and aspirations. Young men with dreams and aspirations all their own. Young men with loved ones left in their wake. Two young men, no longer in this physical realm. In the blindsiding blink of an eye, two young men gone forever.

These were casual friends, passing acquaintances, accidental business associates. But I know, like you know, this pain too well. The battlefield of our lives is littered with fallen soldiers. Some more surface and superficial relationships. Others more intimate. All so profound and impactful. Brethren like Josh and Brian. Big brothers and mentors like John Rock and Big Al and Coach Stan and my cousin Sean. My Dad. Men who made an indelible impression. Their losses, when abruptly incised from our lives, like all jagged cuts, leave a scar.

My soul was most recently scarred this past week, in the hustle and bustle and holiday glow that defines the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, leaving me again numb to what I so wish could be the joy of the season. An old friend. A true friend. A brother of mine left us long before his time. My buddy Neil became my friend in my formative years. In the awkward and tumultuous times of our early high school life, we became tight. So smart and witty… A talented athlete… A loyal sibling and loving son… We bonded over our common interests and humble roots. Always down to train or play ball or practice, accompanying me on my uncommon journey of self-actualization and self-discovery, Neil was a fixture of my teenage years. Quite literally living across the parking lot from my high school, he was always nearby. My folks loved him. My crew became his crew. A “mensch” even as a young man, Neil was as good a dude as they come.

Over the years, as is so often the case, people drift apart. The days get eaten up in the dizzying blur of the daily grind… The calendar crushed under the relentless forward march of Father Time. A couple of decades evaporated into the ether. And then out of nowhere, on a cold late Autumn morning, the word makes it back to me, that my old friend, my brother Neil, is gone.

It is in the fallout of these losses that we tend to do some existential soul-searching. Asking the heavens a very simple, very human question—“why them and not me?” Why Neil of all people? Why are the truly good folks a dying breed and villains seem to live forever? Why are so many of these good men gone, but I’m still here?

As I have ruminated over and rationalized this existential query over the years, I came to a conclusion. That someone must survive to tell the story. Someone must write the history. Someone must eternalize the memories. Someone has to carry the flag. By the grace of God, that someone today, is me.

Over time I have all too often expressed condolences to a friend who has lost a loved one. To summarize my sympathies, I distilled down the essence of what I see as the duty of the survivors, with a simple wish, one serving as a reminder. “May they live on forever through you and all who love them.” It is our responsibility to tell the stories. To guard the memories. To create the legend. To keep their energy here with us, alive and electric, for all to encounter. So they all know… So they never forget.

Out of nowhere, on a particularly cold and gloomy December day last week, I received a package in the mail. Attempting to remember what it could be that I had recently purchased and forgot, I opened it with curiosity. What I found shocked me. A black and red Lower Merion High School Kobe Bryant jersey. Sent with a note from a close, dear friend with whom I had recently lost touch. The symbolism, intended or otherwise, was too profound to overlook. This garment was the early jersey of a ballplayer who was my peer—a relic from a simpler time, truly a golden age. He was born in the same Summer I was. He grew up in the area where I went to college. He graduated high school the same year. A philosopher and poet warrior all his own he lived by a rigorous code and pursued excellence with all of his being every day. He was a proud “girl dad”. He had a dozen crossover points in his life timeline that overlapped with my own. And he too, like the men I referenced earlier, was now dearly departed. It was not a coincidence that my brother Dirt Malone sent me this gift out of nowhere. It was in the stars. It was a message sent from the cosmos that I will not forget.