December 13th, 2015

I remember the day, the moment, the time like it was yesterday. I was watching the Cowboys play the Packers on a Sunday afternoon and I glanced down at my cell.

I saw my friend Doug's name appear and I immediately knew something was wrong because while Doug and I were always tight, he didn't usually call me. We texted we played poker, and we hung out, but a phone call from him on a Sunday afternoon was unusual.

I accepted the call and immediately heard trembling in Doug's normally strong, assertive, confident voice. Fighting back a hurricane of tears and an avalanche of grief, Doug had to be the one to tell me about our best friend Joe.


"Poker Joe"

Some of you may hear or have heard me refer to him as Poker Joe.

We met playing cards, but our friendship blossomed not over hands at the poker table, but hands dealt in life.

I waited for Doug to say words, and then he hit me with a ton of bricks. It didn't start with "Are you sitting down?" or "Brian, do you have a minute?"

None of that.

I remember not just what Doug said but how he said it because it was the hardest thing I've ever heard a human being say to me. He was trying to say strong and get it out but I'm not convinced he believed what he was about to say.
Doug was able to summon the strength, choking back tears and emotion and anger and shock and grief, and then came the news, "Joe's dead, Brian...he died."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing

I was too shocked to cry, too confused to process what he was saying. I kept saying "No he's not! Joe's not dead. He's fine...he's going to be fine."

As I was saying this to Doug, I started to put sneakers on, I stumbled around the house looking for my keys....just anything, something so I could get the f**k out of the house and go see Joe, but I didn't even know where I was going.

Doug told me to get to St. Peter's Hospital in Albany.
There was food cooking in the oven, the dogs were out, the TV was on, but none of that mattered.  We bolted to St. Peter's Hospital.
"Doug said Joe died, but there's no way. He's fine...he's fine, you'll see when we get to the hospital that Joe's fine," I kept saying to Samantha.

The last time I saw him

Joe was not only my very best friend but he was Doug's very best friend too. If Joe wasn't with me hanging out, playing cards, watching sports, going to bars, eating sushi, or getting breakfast, he was with Doug.

On many occasions, we all hung out together. The night before Joe passed away was one of those nights. The whole crew got together at my house to watch some UFC. It was the night that Conor McGregor kicked Jose Aldo's ass in like 12 seconds and I'll never forget it.


This may sound weird, but I love watching Conor McGregor fight because it feels like a piece of Joe is still with me. Like, as long as Conor is still fighting, Joe's going to be at my house to watch it.

And it was a great night; nearly perfect.

My 41-year-old friend looked great, and was as fun, as usual, cracking jokes, and making drinks...heck he even ran a few errands for me before he came over (something I don't think he enjoyed doing lol) showing up with a much-needed bag of ice.

At about 1:30 am, the crew was leaving the house. Joe, Doug, Meredith, my buddy Jason, my now ex-girlfriend Samantha, our friend Josh, and a few others said our goodbyes, told everyone we loved each other, promised to get home safely, and called it a night.

13 hours later, he was gone

Joe was gone about 13 hours later, suffering a massive heart attack the following morning. The details are still somewhat sketchy but from what we pieced together he stubbornly refused a visit to the ER until it was probably too late.

I get mad at him sometimes.

"You stupid f*ck, you knew something was wrong!" I'll say while looking at pictures of him. Why did he wait until 3 or 4 hours after he felt like sh*t to go to Urgent Care? I don't know.

That's how Joe was, he did stuff his way, on his own time.

My best friend, our best friend, and just the best all-around guy you'd ever wanna meet died on Sunday, December 13th, 2015. Hard to believe it's been 6 years.
My son Brody who is 6-and-a-half-years-old now never got to know him, but knows exactly what he looks like and that "he's daddy's best friend who died when his heart got sick."

How else do you explain that to a kid?

Brody knows how important Joe is and was to me, and maybe I'm giving a 6-year-old too much credit, but I feel like he understands to some degree the concept of death. Sometimes Brody, completely unprompted, will wear Joe's old fedora hat that sits in my living room and ask questions about him.

Brody has been to Joe's gravesite with me a few times. He stands quietly by my side while I talk with Joe and clean off the area his body has been laid to rest.

I still tag Joe in Instagram posts that I know he'll get a kick out of. I still secretly root for the sh*tty teams he loves; the Dolphins, Orioles, Pittsburgh Penguins, and Miami Hurricanes. I sent him an email recently just saying "What's up" that was promptly returned to me with an error message.

I used to text him all the time telling him I missed him. One time, a few years ago, I got a message back from Joe's phone that said "Who's this?" and I nearly passed the f*ck out. It was from the person who now has Joe's old number. Twisted and cruel for sure, but life goes on I guess.

Why this long post, you ask?

I don't know.  I guess it's because sometimes in life, we're lucky to have one or two gems of people in our lives that make food taste better, jokes funnier, sports more exciting, tequila shots a little smoother, and life more colorful.

Tell that person, if you're lucky enough to have one like Joe, you love them. Appreciate the gift of having someone in your world you feel like you couldn't and wouldn't want to live without.

For over a decade, and every day leading up to Saturday night December 12th, 2015 that was Joe. You never know when you're going to get a phone call from a world-class guy like Doug, voice trembling...unable to say what he's about to say.

I wish my phone never rang on Sunday, December 13th, 2015

But when life (or death) calls, you have to pick up the phone.

And then somehow, someway, pick up the pieces.

Joe Shapiro, aka "Poker Joe,"
Rest in Peace My Brotha

Photo: Brian Cody TSM
That's Joe and me chillin' in Dover, VT on a weekend trip with the fellas. Photo: Brian Cody TSM

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