I was never a very big fan of football as a child, but I slowly grew accustomed to watching it, and recently began to develop a liking for it. I never have, and still don’t know much about all of the teams, so I stood as a neutral party in a house divided. My sister favored the Packers, my father the Buffalo Bills, my mother the 49ers, my father’s best friend, Rob, who acted as an uncle to me, favored any team that was going against the 49ers, and Joyce, his wife and an aunt to me, was a diehard Seahawks fan.

I still remember the final game of the playoffs that fateful year. The 49ers and the Seahawks, a house divided once more. Joyce and Rob were over for the game. That night was filled with smack talk, laughter, and oddly enough, Rob singing Bruno Mars at the top of his lungs, and Joyce cheerfully chiming in on the chorus. He was drunk, but happy. Looking back now he lived his whole life that way, happy.

Joyce’s team won that game and the two left with a promise to return next Sunday for the super bowl. The week flew by and next thing I know its Saturday and my mother and I had just returned from early morning dance practice, or hell on steroids as my friends refer to it, and a little bit of shopping. Relaxing upstairs with my knee throbbing I was enjoying the day. I vaguely heard my mom frantically consoling somebody through the phone. She shouts for me to bring her the tissues from my dance bag. I rushed them to her ignoring my knee as she hustled around downstairs in a frenzy. On her way out the door she stopped and embraced me, quickly explaining what happened. Rob had a major heart attack and the doctors don’t think he’ll make it. Joyce was hysterically crying, so my father was going to meet my mom and Joyce at the hospital.

She left and I sank to the floor silently sobbing, I played my music at top volume, one sad song on repeat, hoping, praying for something, anything, to drown out my worries. My sister and her boyfriend came home and attempted to comfort me, but I was inconsolable drowning in my own worry.

My parents returned and my mom and I broke down in a crying heap. Rob, who promised to beat up any boyfriend I ever had, who drank, and smoked, rafted, golfed, worked on clocks, helped build trains, and most of all, joked. He made everybody laugh. His habits probably contributed to his premature passing, but it doesn't matter. He lived his life like he wanted, and in my mind time won’t ever let make that lesson fade.