Happy birthday Gary. Wherever you are.
It could just be my perception, but the Grim Reaper is once again working on the belief that three is definitely a charm. Over the past few weeks that venerable specter of doom has taken from this world three men who have had a nearly indescribable impact on my life—E. Gary Gygax; Myron Cope; and William F. Buckley, Jr.
Yes, I know, on the surface these three men seem to have little in common—and even less to do with strategic communications. To me, however, their impact has been plenteous. They fueled my imagination, prodded me to embrace erudition, and gave distinctive voice to my passions.
As a youth, I would immerse myself in fantasy worlds spawned by the tomes of Mr. Gygax. Rolling oddly shaped dice (including some that didn't really "roll"), my friends and I would explore worlds that were rich in substance, culture, diversity, and (perhaps most importantly to pubescent boys) carnage. It gave us the opportunity to be heroic as well as wildly imaginative. We would explore the unknown. Save those who couldn't save themselves. Battle the forces of evil. Stand together as comrades—despite having disparate races, classes, and even alignments. Despite the worries of some adults, who would decry the games as gateways to the occult, we never wavered from our outlook that a small band could pull together and change the world.
As a young man at Yale, I discovered that words could be used precisely. Reading through Mr. Buckley's writings, I could feel the purpose and power. Words were wielded as precisely as a surgeons scalpel, rather than randomly bludgeoning anything nearby. While I never agreed with his politics, his panache has always roused a sense of admiration. He seemed unwilling to compromise his vocabulary for the sake of his audience. Rather, he expected his audience to increase their own capacity for understanding. Was this arrogance? Most likely. But it also brought intellectualism to bear when passions alone wouldn't be enough to sway someone's thoughts.
As a child of 4 or 5, I became enamored of the Steelers. It wasn't until many years later that I discovered their radio voice—Mr. Cope. (Having never lived in Pittsburgh, I was not exposed to him until the Internet allowed me the opportunity.) I knew of the Terrible Towel, and it's inventor. Until I heard him broadcast a game, however, I didn't realize someone with an atrociously distinctive voice could speak for my fanaticism so clearly. I even began to mute the television and listen to Myron call games whenever I could (blackouts permitting). It is still his voice I hear when the Black and Gold are in the midst of battle.
I owe each of these men. Gary for helping unleash my imagination in positive ways. William for emboldening my use of language. Myron for reminding me that amazing results can be uncovered in the most unexpected of places.
May they all rest in peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment