Ricky Dore: January 27, 1969- January 1, 2016

"I think Ricky Dore died," my sister texted.
"How do you know?"
"My Watertown friend, Sasha. She said it's being posted everywhere by mutual friends."
"Let me see if I can find out anything," I texted back.

Ricky Dore. His brother Bobby. Mr and Mrs Dore. Uncle Dennis. Gilbert Street. My first play-hood. Ricky was the first friend I ever met, the first friend in a line of friends in this life. It's weird. I have a vague recollection of it in memory. I'm on the sidewalk in front of my house. I'm riding a tricycle. Ricky is there too watching me. I offer him a turn. He accepts. I think we may have just moved into the house next door to the Dores. It was probably a spring day. I remember wearing a heavy jacket.

Ricky was my age; Bobby was my brother's age and it was a natural friendship. We had sleepovers. Mostly over Rickys. They had a bigger house and it was always more fun. They had the best toys. His parents used to buy boxes of Ring Dings and Twinkees and late at night I'd often sneak into the kitchen for a treat. We played wiffleball and kickball in the street and in the backyard-- and the greatest feat we could accomplish as fledgling major leaguers was to hit the big round ball with the big plastic red bat over the house for an automatic grand slam.

Bobby was more of a handful than Ricky and he always seemed to have something up his sleeve. He was sharp too. I was always trying to hustle trading cards off Ricky and he had no clue. Bobby knew that a Carl Yazstremski baseball card was no match for a Bob Watson. So of course my trades were vetoed.

Mr Dore was once my baseball coach, along with my dad and Mrs. Dore was once my cub scout Den Mother. I was not a good liar. They would bust me all the time-- especially his mom. She could spot my 6 year old lies a mile away. You did? she would say. Oh what was it like, oh really, she'd say. And I knew it too and could feel the trap closing in on me and could do nothing. Yes, I said, my dad made us leave after the 8th inning though. Oh good, she said. Where was it that the the bullpen cart come out to the field? Was it left field or right? she asked. My mind was all over the place. Can I go out now? I asked. I would hear here giggling to herself.

Uncle Dennis worked for Raytheon in Waltham. I don't know what he did for work but at home he drank a lot of beer. He had a gut so big I thought he might burst. He lived in the upstairs apartment of this two story house, minding his own business and drinking his beer and watching TV. His bedroom was on the front of the house, in what may have once been a porch but now remodeled. I remember him looking down from his window from time to time when we got rambunctious.

I got hit by a car, crossing Gilbert Street in front of my house. I don't remember getting hit. I don't even remember the moment leading up to the decision to cross. I do however remember being in the ambulance and wondering if I was dying and then I remember being in a dark metal tube with spooky colored lights. It was a great neighborhood and I remained friends with Ricky even as our family moved from Gilbert to Carey Avenue to Bromfield Street.

As I got older I met newer kids who I had more in common with like Scott Costello, Bobby Frissora and Frank Basile and I naturally gravitated towards them more as I entered 6th grade. That common denominator was mischief and trouble. Another story for another time I suppose. I remained friends with Ricky and the neighborhood. I have this vivid memory of Ricky, rubbing his hands together, excited and working himself up, the heat from his hands igniting a funny story or joke in him. He was a tender soul, harmless.

When I moved to Randolph, I eventually lost touch with Scott, Bobby and Frank-- those who I thought were my best friends. Not Ricky though. Sometimes my dad drove me to Watertown and I would stay at Ricky's house for the weekend. But, once high school came and a new set of obstacles and friends even Ricky's friendship faded, naturally. Maybe every other year I would receive a call from him and we would make plans to meet up but we never did. The last time I saw him was in January 1992, at my parents house for my Aloha party before my first adventure to Hawaii. I last saw Bobby one New Years party at my parents house, I believe 88 into 89. My brother was suddenly hanging out with Bobby for a spell back in 2006 or 2007. Sadly I think it was because my brother was buying drugs off Bobby.

Ricky, Kev, Dano, me and Scott Lesser 92

Bobby with Brenda in Dave's room.

Back to now. I went on Facebook to try and see if I could find his page, if he had one. I had done this once before when I first signed up for Facebook years ago but I must have come across a hundred Richard Dore's and wasn't even sure if he had an account so I called it quits. This time I googled him and found his parents address and saw they still lived on Gilbert Street. Then strangely, I found his Facebook page. There it was, just like that. It took me about five minutes.

So at first I noticed there were no RIP Ricky's posted on his wall; in fact, he hadn't made any comments since 2012. His profile picture looked good. He looked healthy, happy. No mention of his brother or a wife or kids. Beneath his picture it said: me, myself and I. There was a picture of a niece with a trophy that he seemed fond of. Nothing else. So I sent him a message. Write me back. Then I scrolled through his friends list. I recognized a few names from the hood but I doubt they would remember me and I wasn't going to intrude on anyone's life. I checked out a few friend's pages, nothing. No sign of Ricky's death anywhere. Until I came across Mark's page, who still lived in Watertown and his post said, "RIP Ricky Dore. I can't believe you're gone." There it was, plain as day. My first friend, gone. When I followed the ensuing thread, someone noted he had a major heart attack. A few hours later when I went back to Ricky's page, it had been removed, just like that.

I had to break my silence and know. I sent a brief letter to Mark introducing myself and my relationship with Ricky and his family. I asked if Bobby were still around. Then silence for two days. When he did respond he apologized for being the "bearer of bad news." Ricky was dead and his brother had died about five years before him. Then he copied and pasted the information to the wake. I was blown away. I didn't go to the wake. I thought about it. I asked my brother but he didn't want to go. I wanted to pay my respects to his parents. I'm sure they would have remembered me. I didn't want to go alone. And like I have before in the past, for various reasons, I chickened out.

If I could say one last thing to him, I would tell him: Rick, I wish we could have met up later on in life. I'm sorry about Bobby. I feel horrible for your parents. I wish I knew what happened to you guys.... You have been in my thoughts and memories since I heard the news. Thanks for being there in the early days, Rick.