How many people could say they lived the life they dreamed?

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

He was a boy when I knew him, a friend of my son’s, 14 or 15 the first time he knocked on our door. I don’t remember the day or even the season, the days and seasons so much the same back then, teens in different shapes and sizes always at the door, knocking or ringing the bell. I can picture him clearly, though, as if it weren’t 40 years ago that he came calling, as if the boy he used to be had stood in my kitchen just yesterday.

He had a mop of dark, shiny curls. Big brown eyes with a shine of their of own. A shy, sweet grin. And a solidness, a compactness that made him seem sturdy, even older at times. Mike Ippolito. He was funny and shy and polite and indiscriminately kind. For me, he is frozen this way in time.

He lived down the street a quarter of a mile away and he worked at the corner store with my son. It was a part-time job for both of them when they were in high school. I don’t know what else they did together. Played baseball in the backyard? Skated on Dean’s Pond in Canton. Watched the Patriots on Sunday afternoons and the Bruins every time they could.

“Hey, Rob! Mike’s here,” I hollered up the steps how many times? But that’s all I did. Opened the door. Said hi and yelled that Mike had arrived.

We took him on our family vacation one year. I think it was 1987. We flew to Phoenix and drove north to Lake Powell, where we’d rented a houseboat, my husband’s idea, and good thing because it was my husband who wound up driving this monster for seven straight days, the thrill of piloting ― “I want to steer. When is it my turn?” the boys yelled — obliterated by the monotony of captaining this behemoth 16 hours a day.

In 1987, houseboats were not what they are now. There were no working toilets, no electricity, no navigational assistant and no air conditioning. (Take note of the no air conditioning.) One night, when our houseboat was parked next to another, a storm woke us. Because below deck had been an inferno we had dragged our sheets and pillows up onto the roof and, despite the gnats that flew into our eyes, ears, and nose, it was bliss for a while. We covered our faces and slept.

And then it began to rain. Not drip, drip, I think it’s raining. It poured. The rain got us on our feet. But it was the gale force wind that got us on our knees because it not only whipped our pillows and blankets right our of our hands, it was hurling our houseboat toward the houseboat parked next to ours.

“Quick! Get in the water. Rob! Mike! Jump! Now! We’ve got to stop this boat!” O Captain! My Captain! screamed. And jump they did. They leaped into the dark water, Mike first.

Mike first. We laughed about this for years.

And that’s it. That’s the only story I have about a boy who was not just my son’s friend, but was his best friend for many years.

Mike and Rob remained friends. They didn’t see each other much but they kept in touch. At first, they phoned. And then it became just texts. Mike and his family lived in Tewksbury. My son and his family lived in New York and two years ago moved to Scotland. Geography divided them.

On Sept. 26, Mike Ippolito died unexpectedly. He was 54. Lisa, Mike’s wife, wrote Rob to tell him. I was there, in Scotland, when her letter arrived. She wrote about how much their friendship had meant to Mike and along with her note, included a few clippings of Mike’s writings. (In addition to his full-time day job, Mike had been a sportswriter for the Tewksbury Town Crier for 20 years.) She also included clippings of what Mike’s peers wrote about him.

My son read every word. And then he said, “He lived the life he used to dream about, Mom. He wanted to get married. And he met Lisa. He wanted to have kids. And he has two great boys. He wanted to be a sportswriter. And he was. He did it all. When we were kids, if he could have looked into the future and seen this? He would have taken it.”

“Mike was as genuine as they come,” Town Crier sports editor Jamie Pote wrote in a full-page tribute. The paper is reprinting his columns. There’s talk of scholarships in Mike Ippolito’s name.

People may live longer than Mike Ippolito lived. But how many live the life they dreamed?

A fundraising event will be held on DECEMBER 11 at Tewksbury High School to raise money for six scholarships in Mike Ippolito’s name. If you cannot attend but would like to donate, you can use Venmo@Town-Crier-Sports