Feb. 1 "The Tragedy"

This is last Thursday's column. Forgot to post it up on here until now. Mea culpa.

"Learning to cope"

Every blade in the field,

Every leaf in the forest,

Lays down its life in its season,

As beautifully as it was taken up.

— Henry David Thoreau

It’s never easy in any situation. For a lot of us, it won’t matter one way or the other, but what happened Saturday night makes this perhaps even more difficult. For high school kids — and for many of us younger than 30 — there are fewer concepts more abstract than death. And especially for young, comfortable, suburban Americans, there are fewer situations for which we are so ill-prepared. High school prepares you for one thing: Life. Living.

The seemingly endless expanse of time just ahead seems filled with limitless opportunity. Anything and everything can happen. That’s why you’re in school, getting an education. There’s a life to be lived, things to be done.

I think many would agree life never feels more vibrant, more real, more full than in youth. One’s entire life lies ahead, one’s physical condition is generally at its peak. Opportunities are endless, freedom is limitless. If anything, one feels invincible — certainly not vulnerable, certainly not at risk. Certainly not how many of us feel after Saturday.

I think that’s why it’s universally tragic when someone still preparing to live his or her life loses it. Obviously, those who were close feel the most, but you didn’t have to know Michael Ucci to feel pain or loss. Nor do you have to know Bret Clifton, Marie Ucci or Justin Baker to feel anguish and sympathy.

It won’t be any consolation to many, and it might be offensive to some, but I think there’s some solace to be taken in the accident itself, because the four kids in that car Saturday were feeling alive. All of us have been in similar situations — Saturday night, enjoying youth, maybe driving a bit too fast — time and again. Why You feel the wind. You feel the night air. You feel alive.

But how do you cope

I don’t have any answers to that question. When I was a sophomore in college, I lost one of my high school classmates to suicide. We all struggled with our own demons in our own way. I remember walking past Tony’s casket at the funeral — not the high school reunion any of us had expected — and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. Why didn’t I do something Why didn’t I call him Why wasn’t I a better friend in school Why didn’t I figure it out Look what happened!

But that’s not healing. That’s torture.

I’ve come to know what could be called “the flower” of Tracy’s youth through my professional station, watching and reporting on young men and women in peak physical condition performing feats I can only dream of doing.

For what it’s worth, I think how the same young people so unprepared to handle what they’ve been dealt this past week are conducting themselves in manners beyond their years. Everyone’s doing it differently — wrestlers writing Michael’s name on their arms; basketball players, many of them former teammates of Michael’s and Bret’s, wearing black armbands for the rest of the season; others observing moments of silence or quiet prayer.

And going forward. That’s the most important thing.

One of West High’s coaches told me he considered postponing a game Tuesday but didn’t because he and the team felt that’s not what Michael would have wanted. It’s cliché, but he’s right: the best way to remember, to cope and to heal, is to do what the four were doing Saturday and would be doing now if bad luck or fate hadn’t interceded: Live.