What I learned from Darryl Grumling

Dear Darryl,

I’ve been wanting to write this for a while but never did. It got to a point where I put this off for so long that I didn’t think I needed to write it anymore – I thought the things you taught me were already cemented in my knowing. Then I tried to remember what I was initially going to write: “What I Learned from Darryl Grumling.” Only I couldn’t remember what I learned. Now I know I have to write this.

Darryl, I really miss you. I miss you more now than I ever did when you were here. I never appreciated you for who you were, the kind, gentle soul that so blessed my life. I never gave your presence the presence you needed in return.

It took me a while before I put it together, but I probably spent more time with you over the 3 years I knew you than I ever have spent with my Grammy and Grandpa. We probably had more conversations than I’ve had with some of my closest friends. And you’ve probably shared more stories with me than I’ve heard from any of my roommates over the years.

It’s funny how time passes and moves. I’ll be honest, sometimes I wasn’t in the proper headspace for your stories. You would start talking to me about PJP golf or Daniel Boone baseball and I was too focussed on myself to care. I would think to myself how annoying your stories were and how you didn’t get the hint that I wasn’t interested. But you were interested. You cared deeply about these stories and the people in them.

I didn’t get it at the time. Now I think I understand it better. You were telling stories that deserved to be told. You were a small town high school sports writer. You loved high school sports, not because they were the most outstanding athletic events in the world, but because they were about small town kids making their dreams come true. You would name drop high school students nobody has ever heard about like they were household names.

Darryl, you spotlighted kids that nobody else cared to spotlight. You made people feel welcome, you made people feel important, and you made people feel like they were winners. You wrote stories about winners that wouldn’t have been told had you not been here.

You told stories that deserved to be told.

A strange thing happened to me when you passed. I feel like I became more closed off. I was so emotional that I was unbearable, so I started to wrap my emotions up. I feel like in recent months I’ve become somewhat narcissistic. I appear nice on the outside but really have a pretty negative view of others, of myself, and of the world.

Then I think about you. I think back to how much you loved the work you did, how much you needed to tell these stories that nobody else was telling. You weren’t just a sportswriter — you were a friend to those kids. You gave them the recognition they deserved. You gave them the hope they needed to keep playing. You made them feel like they mattered to more people than just their families.

You became their family.

Darryl, I hope to do work half as passionately as you one day. I hope to tell stories with half as much zeal, passion, and conviction as you. I hope to shine the light on others, even when I’m not too happy with myself. I hope to do work that matters for people who care, just like you did.

There are a few things I learned from you, and I want to numerate them here in a list. This isn’t everything I’ve learned from you, but the biggest points.

1. Sing others’ songs until they remember the words

I heard this saying from Aubrey Marcus as he was referencing the channel Paul Selig. Darryl, you were just about my biggest fan. You always praised my accomplishments and made me remember the great things I did. You called me “Mr. PJP,” and “The Homecoming King,” and “The Trackstar.” You made me feel loved and like I was worthy of praise. You reminded me of who I was until I remembered for myself. I want to be this person for others. I want to lift others up when I’m not having the best day. I want to make others feel good when I feel lousy. I want to be for others what you were for me. And when I’m not recognized for the good work I do, I want to remember that you’re still in my corner, cheering me on. I will always be an all star to you.

2. Be present and listen

Darryl, I wasn’t always interested in your stories, but you were always interested in all of us. Us caddies are not the most exciting bunch, but you made us the heroes we always wished we were. I wish I paid more attention to your stories. I wish I didn’t wish I was somewhere else. I wish I just listened without judgement, I wish I asked more questions, and I wish I got to know you better. I wish I heard your cries for storytelling, for health, for friendship. What I wouldn’t give to hear one more Darryl Grumling story.

3. Celebrate every moment

There were so many days where you got to work and told me a story about something small that happened on your loop yesterday. Somebody hit it from 175 yards out to within 5 feet, somebody made a monster put on 12, or somebody drove the ball 300 yards. You were so excited for other people and you celebrated for them. I want to be the person who cheers on the success of others, not envies their success. You helped me see the value in showing others love regardless of where I’m at in my life. Just show love and the rest will fall into place.

Darryl, you left this world too soon. I wish I reached out more, I wish I offered you some more tangible health advice, and I wish I was more present in your presence. I still think about you all the time, especially when I’m at Stonewall. I hear your voice talking to me when I’m walking across four and on the fourteen fairway. Your spirit was not lost in your death.

It was a sad day when I attended your funeral. I really, really missed you. I still really, really miss you. We were friends, and even though I didn’t show it I really did love you. You were like my fun uncle who was always in my corner, who always had my back. You were in so many people’s corners over the years. You cheered so many people on. You made so many people feel like they belonged.

Darryl, I know your life probably wasn’t what you dreamed it could be. But you came into my life when I needed you to be there. You made me feel like I am worthy of love, like I am doing a good job, and like I belonged. Thank you for being such a good human being and for being yourself. Not everybody accepted you, but not everybody matters. You made people feel like they matter, and that’s what counts.

I will never hear “no dice” or “the rat race” or “Slim Quick” without thinking of you. Thank you for showing me what it means to be a friend, even when I wasn’t the best friend for you.

You will always be with me.

With love,

Mr. PJP

July 11, 2020