Early retirement
For Robbie Hall (Aug. 5, 1985 - Nov. 6, 2022)
Distance happens. People go in different directions, our angels and demons taking up temporary residence in others’ lives while forever haunting their rent-free homes.
I don’t think heightened conversation would have prevented Robbie Hall’s premature retirement, but I recognize that could be a defensive platitude. Regardless, regret lingers.
I miss his Facebook posts. Reading that aloud, it sounds incredibly stupid. But it’s true. He was one of the funniest writers I’ll ever know, and his words were enjoyed by, at best, dozens, thanks to a pulseless algorithm. I was a regular reader, but never once told him, “Man, I love your work.” It may not have changed anything, but he deserved to know people were listening to him.
Or, at least tried to.
🎃
Robbie wasn’t much of a basketball player. His release was awkward, attributable in part to his lanky, junk-food fueled frame, and thus – despite a seven-year age gap in his favor – our games were far less competitive than they were conversational. But, man, were the conversations delectable.
Nonetheless, he played with me. We struck up a new bond over the NBA after years of conversation dominated by anything except sports. He was, like most thoughtful folks who spend most of their life traveling the road least traveled, a fan of the San Antonio Spurs. I was, like most impressionable teenagers who watched LeBron James in the late 2000’s, a fan of the Cleveland Cavaliers.
Outside of our few games in the late 2000’s, I don’t know if Robbie ever played basketball with other people; his social anxiety likely didn’t afford him the opportunity. I hope others were able to hear him on the court.
🎃
When I read Robbie’s suicide note, I was shocked. But I wasn’t surprised.
Robbie wasn’t shy when it came to his depression, or alluding to where it would lead. Not might – would. He spoke about living, and ending, his life in a manner akin to how the best athletes cope with retirement: it could be put off, but it was inevitable.
It won’t ease the pain suffered by anyone who knew and loved him — it doesn’t for me — but I don’t know that anything could have been done to prevent Robbie’s death. He’d been ready to retire for a long time.
He threw in the towel at 37, three years before Tim Duncan. Robbie was the first person I remember contending that Duncan was better than Kobe Bryant, a torch I’ll continue to carry in his stead. He fell in love with Kawhi Leonard as he helped the Spurs win their fifth title, and out of love as he became a “headache” on his way out of Texas. Still, he enjoyed watching “The Klaw” led Toronto to its only championship, and hoped that he could make history with the Clippers, too.
We made numerous plans to attend games when San Antonio played near Kentucky but never saw them through. I wish we had, but now reality feels more appropriate than having gone.
I reckon he’s having a good laugh, knowing we’ll never make canceled plans again.
🎃
Robbie was, like all of us, complicated. He wielded an incomparable wit, and often used it to distract from scars, both personal and ones he left on others.
“I take being for granted and live under this false pretense that I should never be accountable for my actions, so when I’m faced with repercussions that lead to an undesirable outcome I find myself baffled,” he wrote in a series of Facebook messages to me on Nov. 7, 2011. “I’m not a good person. I’m hideous and hateful. And I just don’t fully appreciate the things that are given to me in life.”
I was as incapable of helping someone in the throes of a depressive rant as any other 21-year-old. Eleven years and one day before his death, he thanked me for my ear. I respond:
“What good are people if they don’t listen?”
I heard Robbie then, but don’t know if I was listening. I hope I’ve gotten better.
🎃
Robbie was the first person I knew who collected action figures, comic books, movies — all the various trophies of geekdom — and did so with, in my interpretation, confidence. Perhaps that was a misread, but he nonetheless became an aspirational model: you could enjoy “childish” things and still be a part of adult society. Such a realization is muted in 2022, with a pop-culture mainstream dominated by movies and paraphernalia draped in capes, but it was motivating for a middle-schooler in 2003; so much so that, now at age 31, I’m somewhat embarrassed by all the plastics to which I’ve provided haven. My walls send Christmas cards while my bank account curses him.
In my adolescence, Robbie allowed me to borrow so many of his DVDs and trade paperbacks — perhaps the highest act of kindness from someone who was overly protective of things that money could easily replace. The Long Halloween remains my favorite Batman story to this day; I don’t remember specifics from the hours-long conversation we had about the Caped Crusader after I devoured his copy, but I remember leaving his house that day feeling like my opinions, and feelings, mattered. At 13, validation from anyone in college resonates.
He and his wonderful mother, Velma, were the first people I knew who loved horror movies. Ours was a house that cherished moviegoing, but we didn’t chase scares. Velma exposed my sisters and I to Final Destination and a host of other mid-2000’s fare, but outside of those viewings I didn’t dabble in the genre until much later in life. Robbie was an encyclopedia when it came time to study up, though. He enjoyed so many things, but films — especially the scary, funky and wacky — were his favorite. And his reviews were appointment viewing. The last one that he shared to his Facebook page:
In 2016, I attempted to watch an episode of Tales from the Crypt every day of October. I’d never actually watched the show, and solicited Robbie for recommendations. He shared his 10 favorites:
“And All Through the House”
“The Ventriloquist’s Dummy”
“Korman’s Kalamity”
“My Brother’s Keeper”
“Abra Cadaver”
“Top Billing”
“The Reluctant Vampure”
“What’s Cookin”
“Split Personality”
“Death of Some Salesmen”
Thanks for sharing all that you did with the world, Robbie. And with me.
🎃
One of our last back-and-forths in Messenger was on Dec. 30, 2019. It was part of a brief exchange regarding his break-up with a girlfriend. He seemed to be in good enough spirits, for him. Couched between some on-brand, off-color humor, he wrote:
“Creaking into my mid-thirties has been an interesting thing, as I sometimes look back at the person I was in my mid-twenties and don’t really recognize that person so much anymore. But the self doubt and depression is still there and stronger than ever.”
We didn’t converse extensively too many times after that, but into this year occasionally corresponded through social-media posts. He was always incredibly complimentary toward me, but never more than in the last year, through my engagement and wedding. I don’t know if Robbie ever felt much happiness for himself, but he felt it deeply for others.
Or, at least tried to.
🎃
I wrote everything preceding this section in the days following Robbie’s suicide. I wasn’t sure that I ever wanted to share it with anyone until this week, when something happened that, I think, would’ve brought him some brief joy.
The Cavaliers played at San Antonio. If you’re not following the NBA this season, all you need to know is that the Cavaliers are pretty good and the Spurs are far from it. The Cavs, however, have so far struggled away from the friendly confines of Cleveland, and that trend continued in San Antonio on Monday; they trailed the lottery-bound Spurs by double digits for most of the game before mounting a furious rally that was ultimately foiled by heroics from guys that only NBA sickos know.
A disappointing loss aside, it was a terrific finish to a basketball game, and it brought a smile to my face to think that it would have brought a smile to Robbie’s. It was missing just one element: his post-game spiel. It would have been, without a doubt, equal parts smug, flattering and self-deprecating. I imagine it would have looked something like this, but far more memorable:
“While I think the Cavaliers are poised to be the best team in the NBA by no later than 2024, it’s refreshing that some things are perpetual: death, taxes and the Spurs dishing out Cleveland steamers to the team that LeBron left twice.
In all seriousness, that was an enjoyable watch and the Cavs, while inconsistent, are fun. As I watch these Spurs lose 50 more times before securing the right to draft Victor Wembanyama in June, I’ll be rooting for Garland, Spida and Evan “King James II” Mobley … except on February 13.
I know you’ll want to spend Valentine’s Day with your beautiful bride, but if I could interest you in basketball ménage à trois that day before, we should all try to go watch your guys get revenge.”
I wish we could’ve made plans we’d never keep one more time. Rest easy, Robbie.
You matter. If you’re in distress, feeling down or are having suicidal thoughts, please call or text 988.