The following was first posted three years ago in advent of that year’s D. A. Taylor tournament. This year it will begin on Thursday, December 4th and conclude on Saturday the 6th. And the “staying power” described below has only increased since I first wrote of it.
This Thursday we will be hosting the annual basketball tournament in honor of D. A. Taylor. Whenever I permit myself to think about him, I find myself wincing and smiling at the same time. The staying power of the foundation formed by his friends in his memory is remarkable. Rather than fade, it seems that with each passing year the memories grow sharper and more distinct, and each year his old buddies grow more committed to preserving them. And while that says a lot about D. A., it says perhaps even more about his friends. Finally, it says something about this school.
If you never knew DeShannon Artemis Taylor, you missed something. This young man, cruelly taken from us by meningococcemia at age 16, had a personality larger than life. To quote the Bard of Avon, he really could “set the table upon a roar.” He was a fabulous athlete and a top-notch student, but most of us remember him primarily for his style and razor wit. Tom Duquette will tell you that when traveling with the lacrosse team there was a certain quality of laughter that would roll to the front of the bus when D.A. was at work. And if it needed quelling, there in the middle of it all would be the young Mr. Taylor, trying his hardest to suppress that smile but not really succeeding. When it bubbled to the surface of his face, there was something about that grin and those flashing eyes that was utterly disarming. That quality of joy made his prolonged suffering especially hard to endure.
But this is not to memorialize D. A. That has been done superbly many times and far better than I can manage. I can remember Jordan Jacobs, Drew McKnight, and Russell Carter, stripped to the waist and dancing out their grief under the tutelage of Elbert Watson while a large group of seniors pressed into the old dance room to watch and to share in the intimacy of the moment. I think of the poetry written for him, one piece particularly by Gail Flax. Every time I pass the sculpture made for him, I think how perfect it is – black, strong, and bubbling up from within with life and motion.
No, this is about his friends. This is about a group of adolescents who were visited by terrible tragedy and found purpose in it. To list them here would be to omit someone, but few people have any idea as to the scope of activity of the D. A. Taylor Foundation. There are dinners in Manhattan, a basketball tournament in Norfolk, concerts in San Francisco. And none of it is partying for its own sake. These former schoolmates, now fully men, have figured out a way to transform grief into good, and they find the experience ultimately rewarding. It has become much more than honoring a lost friend. For them, friendship has taken root in the soul. There is a spirituality to their celebrations that these days is very, very rare.
Where is that coming from? I think it has to do with two things. The first is “team.” Not all of the Foundation members were D. A.’s classmates; some were older and some younger. But many of them played either lacrosse or football with him. To the extent that belonging to a team connotes the sharing of sacrifice, each of them is drawn to an annual replication of that experience. The events put on in his memory have a sense of communion, and to use a very old word, the making of an oblation. Each of the celebrants feels as if he owes D. A. something, and each is glad to join with others in acknowledging the debt.
The other source of the Foundation’s staying power, I think, is the longing for innocence. These folks have passed the age of thirty, and they work in law offices, in investment banks, and in businesses all across this country. Of course they hit the elliptical and they play pick-up basketball, but for all of them life has become, if nothing else, more complicated. There are bills to pay and meetings to attend and family obligations to observe.
What could provide better respite from all that than to re-immerse yourself in the triumph of locker-room exhaustion after a particularly grueling practice? What can block out the typical concerns of adult life better than re-living the moment of winning the TILT championship? What can banish everyday worries better than the memory of the smile on D. A.’s face after one of his particularly successful bits of mischief? And because those moments of innocence and joy were riven for a while by his passing, who wouldn’t want to recreate them?
The Foundation does Good Works. There are scholarships to deserving young students and awards to those who distinguish themselves on the playing field. More than that, the Foundation preserves a time in which life was as simple as intercepting a pass or breaking away to the goal. Although it comes with a terrible cost, the memory of D. A. Taylor provides those who were close to him a very special place to go. He can still make them smile.