The man. The legend. One of my heroes. And by the way, the ‘S’ stands for Stockton.
If ever I decide to breed again (unlikely) and I have a son I will be naming him after this man. I’m sorry Hunter Steele, Mommy really is just that far round the hat rack that seems like a good idea.
I posted the same picture a few places and wished him a happy birthday (I’m sure the afterlife has some form of social media I mean cmon, everyone has Facebook) and pretty soon after a friend shared some stories with me about his very own Hunter:
Reminds me of my good mate, Goat, to whose Hunter, I played the attorney for a few of the best years. He chose Hunter’s way out too but by the gods he tore it up while he was around. As with the Scottish toast: Here’s tae Us; wha’s like us?…damn few…and they’re a’ deid!
At this I became determined to celebrate both HST’s life and the life of another legend in his own right both sorely missed (by those that knew them and those that only got to hear the stories) so I did the only thing I know how to do to celebrate anything. I got horrendously drunk. And cried. A lot. But who could blame me with stories like this?
A true story: when Goat died I missed his death and his funeral. I was overseas having a good time. I think he would have appreciated that. Then when I found out, it was pretty hard. I asked how the funeral had been and they said he went in a white coffin with flames painted down the side and they played “We care a lot” by FNM at top volume. I nodded. That evening I bought the best bottle of whisky I couldn’t afford (we were brassic) and I poured two glasses in an empty room (cleared for decorating), one for him, one for me. Then I sat there thinking about him over a few hours until the rest of the bottle was gone apart from the glass that sat there for him. I toasted him, one for him, one for me, and left his glass, sitting there, still full – I remember this, as I left the room for bed.
In the morning, with a small headache, I went back to the empty room as the sun came in through the window and saw that his glass was empty too. I chuckled and left the room. True story.
That’s pure tear-jerking gold people.
He was my co-pilot for a few years and the only guy I ever knew who broke his leg playing *chess*. If you took the world and gave it a really good hard bollock-twist 45 degrees, he’d be the bloke who’d be there already and laughing at you for arriving so late. But he’d pour you a drink to celebrate.
That night I drank more vodka than I thought possible. Probably not by other peoples standards – people who can actually hold their drink – but by my own standards I drank myself under the table. Twice. I had to be carried to the bed, stripped and provided with a sick bowl. It was ridiculous, embarrassing and excessive. I feel I did them both proud. I’m not a believer in a great deal. I don’t do churches, or ghosts, spirits or souls but that night was a celebration of life and it’s the closest can get to spirituality. I had to write about it, even though I’ve struggled to, and I’m still finding it hard not to be emotional about the whole affair. All of my heroes are dead. Sometimes that can get a bit lonely. I’m not sure if lonely is the right word but there it is. So it goes.
I’d like to think in my own way I brought them both back for a while, Hunter and Goat, because as a wise man once told me “no-one is ever really dead when people get hammered and remember them “.
I even saved a bit of vodka for them.