My dad said he had bad news to tell me. I sat down, and he took a breath:

“Jim Fiora died.”

I was struck dumb for a few minutes. The news was so shocking, so sudden, that I wanted to reject it as soon as I understood what my dad was saying. We had no idea that he had any health issues beyond what any other sixty-year-old man would have. My father lost one of his best friends, and I lost a man who might not have known how much of an impact he had on my life.

Known to his old Marist teammates as: “Freshman,” Jim was the quick-bonding agent of any group that had him in it. I regularly stood in awe of his ability to get anyone to laugh on any subject. Always asking sharp questions of presenters at the US Lacrosse Conventions, where he and I spent the most time together; Jim’s desire for knowledge was only outpaced by his zest for life.

I first met Jim at the 2010 national lacrosse convention in Baltimore, MD. I was the wide-eyed, twenty-year-old kid trying to not make a fool of myself in front of seasoned coaching and officiating veterans. My notebook was chock-full of all the wisdom I was attempting to retain from the different presenters, and I am sure I annoyed plenty of them with my incessant questions. Only one other person took more notes and asked more questions than I did — that was Jim.

“Jim, this is my son Gor-,” the words had barely left my dad’s mouth before Jim bear-hugged me and slapped me on my shoulders.

“Isn’t this awesome?!” He exclaimed. More excited for the convention than any other person I had seen, including the little kids at the annual fan fest.

Jim did two things for me that day. First, despite our age differences, he treated me like I had been on the Marist team, and we were just old buddies catching up over lacrosse. Second, he showed me that it’s okay to show a deep passion for what I love no matter how old I got.

Here was a man who genuinely did not care if his exuberance for lacrosse was viewed as more than it should be for his age. This was his thing, and he was going to enjoy it as fully as he could. Here was a man who, in my view, squeezed lacrosse and life for all that they were possibly worth.

For the next ten years, we maintained a friendship that spanned a generational gap. We bonded over lacrosse, officiating, and being a little bit nerdy about both. He brought me into his circle when I was young and full of anxiety about my ability to connect with other people. When I was low on energy he lent me some of his, even after he passed.

On Monday I had a game that I didn’t feel up for. I was sad and grieving over losing my friend. Then, during the National Anthem, instead of saying my usual affirmations to keep me focused, I dedicated the game to Jim and how he would officiate it — full of life, enthusiasm, and boundless joy. Wound up being my best game in a long time.

Thank you my friend. Rest easy.