South City Confessions: Missing friends doesn't get easier with age

Grief defeats a lot of things, but it can't scoop up the memories.

They all say you get wiser with age, as if your brain is on an elevator for the first part of your life waiting for the doors to close. It’s true of a lot of things, such as stress management and taking care of yourself. What it doesn’t help you with is getting over the fact that certain people aren’t here anymore, and a greater age won’t make it budge.

Today would have been Troy Siade’s 59th birthday, a hallmark age for any human being. On the cusp of 60, with plenty to look back on. Born in the dog days of summer while his favorite team wades through a schedule that could turn them upside down, Troy would be cutting this Cardinals team to shreds right now if he were alive. Outside of soaking in Jim Edmonds’ narcissistic, bro guy color commentary on television (Troy was bullish on everything Jimmy Baseball), he would be having a field day right now with Nolan Arenado, Paul Goldschmidt, Oli Marmol, and especially John Mozeliak.

Troy died before “Mo Knows” became a thing, back when Walt Jocketty was running things in the St. Louis front office. By now, he would have made a shirt that says, “Mo Knows… SHIT!” That was Troy. Blunt, hilarious, relentless, and a loyal friend. He’d roast you until the hairs on your arm smelt like burnt grass, but then drink with you later. He was that friend that every party, group of people in a room, or even a batch of cynical birds could use in bulk. He was the genuine article.

To say I miss him is like saying I am addicted to coffee in the morning. It doesn’t really seem to disappear, even with all the new people who have come into my life during the past 18 months at my new job. The best ones never leave their seat, at least in your own mind. Heck, I want all the new people I know to know Troy, because he would make them laugh.

Troy could make anyone laugh. He could make Donald Trump or Joe Biden crack up, even if he was making fun of them while the conversation carried on. He was a laugh generator. There was an energy plugged into his sense of humor, so you merely had to keep up. He had true balls of steel, the kind that would glue bird seed to the telephone on the desk that his supervisor, Joe Graman, would sit and use during a baseball game. On the manual scoreboard for those few years, he could do whatever he wanted.

If he gave you shit, he thought you were all right. If he gave you a ton of shit and even invited you back to his Lake St. Louis home for billiards and beers, he thought of you as a brother. It was a clear distinction between pal and close pal. Troy and I were becoming close friends when he died back in 2004 to Non Hodgin’s Lymphoma. Sometimes I feel like mourning a friend’s death doesn’t get as much weight from people as it would if a family member passed. But remember, friends are the family we choose in life. That pocket of time where guards and borders come down between two people who don’t mind each other’s company.

April 23, 2004. It was a terrible day, outside of the fact that my sister was getting married. Bad news paints a ghost-like figure over your real facade when grief strikes the shore, making it hard for people to break through with condolences. At one point, I told someone at the wedding that I didn’t want to spill tragedy on a beautiful white dress. Troy would have placed a spoiled egg on the bride’s chair instead.

Instead, he was gone before he could get into his late 30s. Troy was only 38 years old when he died. A little shy of four months from his birthday, something his friends can still celebrate today.

I remember seeing him for the last time at Busch Stadium. It was right after Opening Day, and he wasn’t too happy to see me. Troy looked like a strong, vibrant tree who had been chopped down by a vicious disease… before he got very sick. If he could have snuck into the stadium without me or his other pals knowing, he would have preferred it. Humans who ignite a room don’t want to seen in a state that’s much less than regular.

He hated that I had to see him bald, frail, and on the verge of taking a trip upstairs. I gave him a hug, didn’t really want to leave, and then made my way back up to the scoreboard to somehow work the rest of the evening. Mad or sad doesn’t cover the emotions. I was beset by life’s cruelty. Out of all the asshats in the world, you took him.

You know those times… when a task is sitting in front of you, but you’re in no mood to do it. That was the final night I saw Troy. The walk back up sucked. The next two weeks of not knowing when sucked. All of it sucked. It still sucks. I just wish he was here, hanging with me and making me laugh. He could make the last couple years of Cards baseball go down smoother.

I wish he would stroll up into the warehouse I work in, and give my leader and co-workers some shit. Roast and toast them, and then just leave. Troy could hang out with my dad and I on our weekend prowls around the city and county. All you’d need is a cigar, sick sense of humor, and capacity to hear my dad tell 4,000 word stories. I don’t do a lot of wishing, but I do with Troy.

We all bargain for more time than what’s there with the people we love. A tale as old as Father Time’s birth certificate. I wish it got easier with age, but it truly doesn’t. My advice would be to savor the good times with your friends and family, because all of it could change in a heartbeat. Life doesn’t show you the real clock.

Rest in endless grace, my friend. You’re sorely missed.