Yesterday was Matthew's birthday. He would have been 28 this year. As I was cleaning out my laundry room last week a came across an article Matthew's friend wrote about him after he passed away. The article was published in a climbing magazine. I think it really says who Matthew was and I hope David doesn't mind me sharing it here. I have decided that I hate feeling sad on my brother's birthdays. I don't want to feel the feelings I felt when they died anymore. I want to feel the feelings I had when we were all together being silly kids and loving each other. This article helps remind me of what kind of a person Matthew was becoming. It's long so read it if you want but just typing it made me smile thinking of him up in the Gunk's doing what he loved.
Last Dance by David Schmidt
"Just keep me real loose," Matt says, scoping the final pitch of the Gunks classic route. "I can't see around the prow, but those roofs look airy." I watch as my friend silently conducts his pre-game ritual: harness, check; knot, check; rack, check.
"Alright, you got me?" Matt asks, as puffy white clouds roll across a pure indigo sky. The mirror finish of Matt's sunglasses reflects the perfection of the morning. The rock's deep earthen yellow adds even more brilliance to the moment.
My brother, Mike, and I hesitate. "You're sure you're up to this, old buddy?" I mutter, vocalizing the thought that's been weighing heavily on our minds all morning.
Time stalls as Matt somberly looks at us, sussing out my question. Am I comfortable with him leading the hardest pitch of the route? Am I worried that his sickness has gone too far-that his strength has been weakened by the months of chemotherapy and radiation? Or is it his surgery, looming less than 48 hours away, that is the cause of my concern? I lean back on the anchor and fidget with a carabiner, wishing I hadn't opened my big mouth.
A look of confidence spreads across Matt's face. Time resumes its fervent dance. "You're on man," my brother replies, giving Matt a knowing smile. The tension evaporates and it feels like old times, before the diagnosis: Ewings sarcoma, a rare cancer that forced my friend to abandon his freshman year of college. Our worries are forgotten as Matt inches across the thin leadge, 200 feet of air lapping down at the tender foliage of spring.
Time slips forward with no pressing destination. The wind bends the tree branches below and drifts through the airy alcove that is our belay. Matt is simply climbing, focusing on the rhythm of his vertical waltz. His feet glide further away from the safety of our belay, traversing toward the horrendously exposed prow. He stops climbing and glances over at me before placing two bomber cams. Suddenly, I realize what my friend's about to do.
Matt defines himself, consciously pitting his physical strength against his disease. He carefully studies the long, arching roofs and then inverts-his body tension holding him close to the rock, his feet gracefully cutting out from under him-and seeks the next hold. He moves with confidence and boldly runs out the next 50 feet without placing a single piece of protection. His movement is graceful, and the synergy between his mind and body is flawless.
"Slack!" The rope command ricochets off the bullet rock and revitalizes me form my thoughts. I watch as the purple rope jumps from my silver belay device, slithers against the yellow rock, and traverses over the airy abyss. Matt disappears above a series of roofs, leaving a massive tail of unprotected rope looping out into space. I faintly hear his distant shout echoing through the gathering wind: a victory whoop, and the timeless shout, "Off belay!"
