Runner-Runner-Rebuy

In the summer of 1987, Animal Chin went missing and I discovered skateboarding. I had just turned 13, and for my birthday I got a board with four wheels that came with strict instructions to stop playing "that Mario game" and get out of the house and exercise.

Reluctantly, I obeyed, and my teen years were forever changed. As soon as I stepped on that board and pushed a few steps, the world seemed a little different. There was a freedom to being on that board that I can't explain. I could go anywhere, though, at the time, "anywhere" meant my working class blue-collar neighborhood and some close surrounding suburbs. But, at 13, that was the world.

It didn’t take long to find others that shared my passion for the pavement. During one of my early skate sessions, a few of us took a food break at my friend Darin’s house. He popped in a skate video while we devoured cold pizza. OMFG. The Bones Brigade blew me away, and sealed my fate for the next 5 years. Everyday from 13 to 18 I skated. On school days I skated from 3pm to curfew (and often times past), and weekend days were 12-hour skatefests with the crew.

Our crew of skaters was pretty large. There were probably at least 30 of us in a loose organization of skate punk brotherhood, but we each had a smaller crew that we typically hung with. My small crew changed from time to time, grew and shrunk, but there were a few constants throughout the years - Wayne, Darin, and Fathead - the mainstays. I could name others, but when I think back to those times, these three guys stick out to me.

It’s hard to believe that was over twenty years ago. I had my whole life in front of me and could have never imagined that choices and friends I made then would have such an impact on who I am now.

The Skaters always stuck together, so in a way, it was a little social clique that distinguished us from other groups. We were skaters - they were Preps. We were Punks – they were Heads. Looking back now I see it a bit differently. The skating may have bonded us together as a group, but there was a huge disparity of other interests among us, and a true tolerance for those individualities.

As individuals, we all had our own thing. I was the nerd. Darin was the bowler. Wayne was the straight-edge kid. And Fathead was.... well, Fathead. There were many others, and the differences really enriched us as a group in a way that I never thought about at the time, while the similarities and love for skating served to hold us together.

Fathead really did have a fat head. A short stocky dude with a head the size of a watermelon. He often wore a light blue North Carolina cap that could easily hold a basketball in it. Fathead got me into team sports. One day he said, “I’m going to play lacrosse, and so are you.” I spent my early years without a father, and then later years with a stepdad that I didn’t really get along with until much, much later, so team sports were never on my radar. I told Fathead that I wasn’t really interested, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. His persistence won out, and I joined up with him.

I was never the fastest, or most agile, or strongest player on the field, but I loved it. What started as effort to get Fathead to stop pestering me turned in to a love for playing lacrosse, and then baseball, and then hockey. My passion for watching sports grew out of that. It’s hard to believe that I can pinpoint the exact moment I became a sports fan - standing in a parking lot on South Park Ave acquiescing to Fathead’s insistence.

Wayne’s house was the get together place. I don’t know how his parents put up with scores of skaters always hanging around in the house or on the half-pipe in their yard, but g-d bless them. Wayne was straight-edge, which meant no drugs, no cigarettes, and no alcohol.

I wasn’t much of a drinker at 16 or 17 myself, but Wayne was seriously committed to abstinence. He wasn’t in your face about it, and was always the first to take care of the drunk guy and make sure he was ok and got home safely. Some people gave him shit for his philosophy, but he stood tall and walked his own path. As a teenager, that’s a pretty tough thing to do.

After my first semester of college in VT, I was kicked out of school. I just wasn’t ready, and spent my time partying like it was 1999, though it was only 1992. I took the news pretty badly, and had a rough night in January of 93’ after finding out the news. Alcohol and/or LSD may have been involved. I was in a bad state and I’ll never forget how Wayne took care of me.

At 18, Wayne was a principled, stand up guy. At 34, there are still times I wish I could be more like that.

Darin was the life of the group. The man had unending energy. Always a smile on his face, always kidding around, and always getting people moving. I spent a lot of nights a Darin’s house. I'd tell my parents that I was sleeping over Darin’s and we would tip-toe out and skate until all hours of the night, eventually landing back in his room surrounded by Iron Maiden posters (which kind of gave me nightmares at the time), bowling awards, and his artwork.

We would sneak around closed buildings and find great spots to skate, clandestinely pick up his slightly underage girlfriend Carrie, and get into all sorts of harmless trouble. Darin wasn’t just fun and games though. When I was kicked out of school, it was Darin who drove me back to VT to get my things.

I spent the next semester much the same as my first, only at a local college. That summer, Darin and I were skating when the topic of school came up. I told him I blew off most of my coursework, but I didn’t really care. His normal smiley demeanor was replaced with a seriousness I had rarely seen from him. He then proceeded to give me the Gordie Lachance treatment, ala Chris Chambers in Stand By Me.

“You’re wasting your life,” he told me. “You have so much more to offer to the world and yourself, and I don’t want to see you working some shitty job living around here in 20 years. I want you to get out of here and not come back.”

Those words stung me. I was more shocked than anything at first, but he got through to some part of me that responded – “ok.”

Coming from my parents, those words just didn’t mean that much, but coming from Darin, it really hit home and woke me up to reality. I spent the next year working hard at school and was re-admitted to my original college in VT. The rest of my education followed, and I never did go back to South Buffalo.

Maybe I would have straightened myself out later or maybe I wouldn’t have. When I think about the past 20 years, I wonder if things are half chance and if choices we make have small or large impacts on the rest of our lives. I don’t know the answer to that question, but looking back at the 18 year old me with 16 years of perspective under my belt I feel confident in saying that Darin’s comments to me that day are the single most defining reason I am where I am today.

On July 28th, 2008, Darin C. Tesmer was killed in a motorcycle accident. He was driving in wet conditions on Route 5 in Lackawanna, NY, when he lost control of his bike and struck a sign post.

For the second time in my life, Darin managed to shock me. I wasn't even sure how to feel, and I felt guilty about not knowing how to feel. It had just been so long since I had seen him, it wasn't really registering yet. I treaded back to the old neighborhood a few days later to attend the wake. I drove around for a while, checking out the stomping grounds that I had been largely absent from for well over a decade.

I parked and approached a very crowded funeral home, as is typical when someone is taken from us well before their time. I saw many familiar faces, but I had been away for so long, no one recognized me. I didn't want to intrude on anyone, so I entered to pay my respects.

Carrie, the same girl Darin was dating way back when was greeting people in the foyer. She knew who I was, and we exchanged the kind of nonsense that one does when you just don't know what to say. I payed my respects, and talked to his mother for a few minutes, again - idle chit chat coming from an emptiness in my throat.

When I left, I saw Carrie in the crowded parking lot and advanced to say goodbye. We fumbled with handshaking that morphed into a hug. She told me how glad Darin would have been knowing that I came to his wake, and that's when it hit me. The full force of what his death and what his friendship meant to me.

Some people will remember Darin as a skateboarder, some will remember him as a bowler, an artist, a golfer, a biker. I'll remember him as a friend who I never had the chance to thank. Thank you Darin, you'll be missed forever.

Darin Tesmer, R.I.P. from Brandon Finnegan on Vimeo.