“We all gotta go sometime. Might as well have some fun while you’re here.”

– Dick Olson

My dad was about to go into his sixth knee surgery, and his orthopedic surgeon was asking him exactly how he’d come to be in possession of his fairly battered body. Dad told him a few stories, including one about his multiple trips into Cheyenne biker bars with a few drinks under his belt, to loudly exclaim, “look at all the f—ing bikers in here!” Most of those nights either ended up in jail or the hospital, sometimes awake, sometimes not, often with something broken. He admittedly had a peculiar notion of “fun”.

I remember watching Broncos games with dad and his glee in the abandon of defensive players like Steve Foley, Steve Atwater, Von Miller, and more. Guys who flung themselves into the play as if they were a missile instead of a body, seemingly without much care for how they came out of the far side. Having been a defensive player in high school, he had a particular affinity for those who gave themselves entirely to his favorite game.

“Nobody knows what to do with crazy.”

– Dick Olson

I’m driving down a Fort Collins street one night, when a car zips around me, and cuts me off so closely, I can barely imagine how they hadn’t clipped my bumper. In a furor, I laid on my horn before realizing there were five guys in the car that had nearly run me off the road. They all quickly started telling me I was number one, so I stupidly laid on the horn even longer. That only got the car to pull across the road we were going down, and all five guys to get out and wait for me. I stopped several yards shy of them and got out of my car as well. As they started to walk my way, I reached back in my car and pulled out a baseball bat. They all came to a stop. I yelled something about taking at least a couple of them out, and they turned around and drove off into the night while I damned near passed out from the adrenaline of stupid, stupid, stupid crazy.

Pop loved watching Colorado Rockies games when Charlie Blackmon joined the team, because you “just never knew what Chuck Nasty was going to do.”, which he thought often left opposing pitchers and teams off balance. He highly valued unpredictability, as he thought it often a precursor to shaking things up in every best way. The outcasts and iconoclasts were the players Pop would gravitate every time, often the odder the better. Even as a macho Wyoming cowboy, he had a ton of love for the Dennis Rodmans of the world and how their approach left everyone gaping.

“Take care of your tools, and they’ll take care of you.”

– Dick Olson

I don’t remember how many shovels I was sent back to re-clean, how many times I could “scrape just a little more” off the underside of our lawnmower. It was maddening. In his defense, I’ve never had one of his ancient tools rust or give way, and that with enough desire and effort put in to have tried to bust every last one.

When Peter Forsberg had gone through some lower leg troubles at the same time he was struggling with new skates during a stint with the Colorado Avalanche, dad stayed tuned in to how Foppa was constantly looking to battle his physical ills and equipment needs. Halfway through the season, as Forsberg’s health was finally turning the corner, you could also tell he had tuned in his skates to a degree that was exactly what he was looking for. I remember sitting with Pop through a Colorado penalty kill that Forsberg was leading. Peter got the puck a scant ten seconds into the minor power play, and then simply killed it off by out-skating every other guy on the ice for the next minute-fifty, without ever once passing it away. It was brinksmanship at the ultimate level, and all dad kept screaming as Forsberg made the other team look like fools was, “THAT’S HOW YOU F—ING TAKE CARE OF YOUR TOOLS!” while grinning like a madman.

“Skills are impressive, but brains are even better. Put them both together, and… Whooooo.”

– Dick Olson

I always impressed my Pop more with occasional smarts than any god-given talent I might have shown along the way. But I always had a hard time getting him to watch my favorite sport, NBA basketball, because he felt so many of the players played so thoughtlessly and foolishly. Watching Denver Nuggets games with dad could always be an exercise in frustration, as a J.R. Smith appearance would almost invariably chase him from the room, while Andre Miller could “hold court” with him all day. But it wasn’t until center-savant Nikola Jokic joined the team that I not only got him to tune in more often, but could often get him talking about it at breakfast the next morning. The Joker was the guy my Pop was always calling “that f—ing magician”, and trying to describe what fresh miracle he’d seen him achieve to my stepmom. As you may have guessed by now, Pop said “f—” a lot. A lot lot. A lot lot lot.

I’ve been so lucky to be taking care of my Dad through a cancer battle these last five months. Sitting on our opposite couches each night, I’ve learned things about him, my family, and myself that I’d never known. Filling in pieces of a puzzle that are me and mine in ways that told me so much more about who we are and where we came from than I had known in the previous 50-some years. He was a gifted storyteller, and a witty motherf—er. He could charm a fencepost, and was still one of the most introverted and private humans I’ve ever known. I adored him. Like so many sons, he was my hero.

When I went out to run our errands on Wednesday, I realized a couple hours in that I was having trouble deciphering one of his notes. I called the house to get some clarity, but he didn’t pick up. Probably just stuck on the toilet or something. I gave him another 15 minutes, and he still didn’t respond. As I started driving home, I simply started calling over and over, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Coming in the garage door, I immediately saw him on the floor, unmoving. I didn’t have to take another step to know he was gone. That was good, because I didn’t take another step for about ten minutes while I stood there and left a lot of tears and snot all over the kitchen floor.

I love you, Dick Olson. I sure miss you already, and watching every sport this season will be bittersweet while I remember all the funny, witty, stupid, poignant things you stuck in my head, game after game. Laugh after laugh. I will probably sit over on your couch and have some of your crappy blended whiskey and decide if anyone can possibly find the eyeballs in the back of that fucking magician’s head. Thanks for everything you gave to me, to my sister, and to each of our kids. You handed down a lot of joy and wisdom and just a teensy bit of crazy. Godspeed to wherever you are headed, and here’s hoping you throw everyone there a few curveballs of your own upon arrival. We all gotta go sometime. Might as well have some fun while you’re there.