What do we do with Loss in this sport?

Yesterday, I saw a series of posts about the death of Danté Dunn – Peachy D. in the axe world – a thrower I’d seen and chatted with almost exclusively at Urban Baltimore though he was from Cincy. He was, like many people in axe throwing, a personality unto himself. A guidepost that let me know I could shed the “real” responsibilities of my life for a while, and just have fun.

I didn’t know him well. We never had deep conversations or hung out outside of watching matches or saying quick, clever one-liners to each other. He was planning, at one point, to write an article for this blog, but that was about a year or so ago, and we never solidified anything. I don’t want to pretend like our relationship was anything more than what it was. But I am very familiar with what other people are likely going through right now, and think it’s valuable to talk about it.

Community joy must mean community grief

A lifetime ago, I was a bike polo player. Much like this goofy sport, I was also one of the popular “journalists,” having a (much more popular) website. I was part of Lancaster United, a 12 or 16ish person group of enthusiasts who traveled around, played, and perpetually tried to get everyone and anyone to join in.

Caleb decided to join, and he was a unique person unto himself. He was joyful, funny, loveable – and also terminally ill. He joined because he loved bikes, loved competitive sports, and wanted to do something that wasn’t just dying.

It made sense. Caleb had created an organization called A Week Away, which gives people experiencing life-threatening illness, and their families, a week vacation to just be people. Just a week to put their toes in the sand, or spend time hiking, or whatever. Caleb wasn’t much for letting things happen. He was much more of a “I’ll make things happen” sort of dude.

He never got the chance to get really, really good at bike polo – but he was on his way. He managed to get goals, managed to joke around and all of the other stuff, too. He rapidly became part of our club. But illness doesn’t really care about making friends, and within too short a time, he was gone.

We hadn’t experienced the death of a club mate at that point. The emotions ranged from anger to sadness to a disinterest in meeting up to play (how can we continue to hit around a ball while on a bicycle when someone just passed? How could that be respectful?).

For some reason – I truly don’t remember how it came about, we did decide to meet up on our scheduled day. It was in December, and someone brough a little Christmas tree. Someone else brought whiskey. Someone else brought some blankets.

We set up the tree and turned on the little battery-powered lights, and we all toasted to Caleb, and to his passing, and then we played bike polo while crying. We paused matches so we could have a hug or just think for a bit. It was a weird sort of night, but we did it together with a little tree in the corner of the park, shining out.

I don’t think any of us really knew how to address a fellow bike polo player dying. And it had the potential to be isolating, but because we all grieved together, and made space for that grief, we were able to honor what Caleb meant to us – how he affected us – and not feel like we were just keeping that sadness in ourselves.

Community is community, in light and shadow

I guess what I’m getting at is this: It’s reasonable and understandable to grieve loss in whatever way feels right. It’s also important to know whatever community a person was part of will feel different. It might even feel profane to continue participating in that group for a while. But even with those questions, there is a community of people who are all joined together by each other and by the silly, triumphant sport we decided to dedicate a lot of our lives to.

I have found, through experience, creating a community opportunity to mark and grieve is very, very valuable. There’s a reason humans have done this throughout history, and despite all indications to the contrary, axe throwers are humans.

Listen. I don’t have any footing when it comes to talking directly about Peachy D., or his impact on the community, or what comes next. Judging solely on what’s been posted on social media, though, he was loved deeply – and that’s plenty for me to get a sense of the person outside of my limited interactions.

Whether you knew him well, or know people who are grieving from his passing, or simply want to recognize parts of the axe throwing community are going through something hard right now, I encourage you to gather together and mark the passing Danté – in whatever way feels right. Reach out to the people sharing their grief. Share a moment with each other. And if you’re feeling a lot and don’t know where to put those feelings, please do reach out to friends and family. The axe throwing community isn’t just here for good times (at least it shouldn’t be) – and there are lots of people who will be happy and willing to share space with you.

May his memory be a blessing.