I owe Professor Chris Cakebread a Dalton & the Sheriffs shirt. It was on my list of things to do.
He and I had a tradition that started back in 2004, several years after he granted me the world’s longest incomplete in his class, back when I stumbled gradelessly through my junior year after losing my scholarship. In one of our last exchanges, we had finally settled on a payment arrangement (I insisted none, he insisted some and finally won). He told me that the Dalton logo had really grown on him (after the addition of the circle) which was high praise from a guy who intuitively knew how to value such things. (Chris was a great coach; you always knew he was behind you, even when he was letting you know that you hadn't quite gotten it yet.)
BU is known for being a machine: tuition in, graduates out. Chris was never that way. When three other professors looked at me that semester— in a full on struggle to attend class, nevermind complete work — they wrote me off and gave me the 0.0 I earned, but maybe didn’t deserve. Professor Cakebread pulled me aside, asked what my plan was, and offered me an incomplete. It took me 18 months to complete that course, but his incomplete saved my degree at BU.
After that, I started the tradition of writing emails to him after important moments in my life, thanking him for the degree that he saved (thus allowing me these opportunities). I wrote to him from my seat in the Bruins press box after filing my game stories. I wrote to him after I became a teacher. I wrote to him after I won education grants. I wrote to him after stepping off the stage at the House of Blues. (Note: most of what I’ve done to market Dalton & the Sheriffs, I learned from him.)
I found out today that he passed away. I got an email from a mutual acquaintance who was reaching out on behalf of his family. While I’m glad that he knew how much he meant to me, I’m heartbroken that our tradition has ended so suddenly.
Chris was the kind of person that I aspire to be. He was a patron to things that intrigued him. He cultivated sparks and celebrated them when they burned brightly.
I am by no means the most important person in his life. I guarantee there are hundreds others who share my level of gratitude for having been privileged enough to call him a mentor.
But, I think that says it all about him. For those of us lucky enough to have spun through his orbit — and had their direction change for the better because of it — he played a much larger role in our lives, than us in his. That kind of living leaves a helluva wake.
RIP, Cake. You are already missed.
P.S. - I promise to follow the Leafs this year in your honor. And I’m gonna send those t-shirts over tomorrow for the fam.