(There is a story behind the featured photograph, and it comes at the end, so please read or scroll.)
My lifelong friend Barry Sears died unexpectedly in his sleep earlier this week at the age of 65. We remained very close well into our 30s, and never fell out of touch for very long afterward, for which I’ll be eternally grateful.
It seems social media can occasionally be a facilitator of good outcomes.
If I might quote the obituary: “Barry was known as a man to depend on; someone who would listen or lend a hand when needed. He cared deeply for his family, friends, and the world around him, believing that you should give back whenever you can.”
Fundamentally and recurringly, Barry was a good person, a trait echoed by those mourning his passing. I can add only one small observation, which always meant a great deal to me.
Barry derived considerable strength from his Christian faith, and I’ve always been an atheist, but not once during six decades of friendship did he ever actively intervene in my absence of faith. Consequently, I respected his all the more. There is more than a little to be learned from this, in my estimation.
He loved baseball and music. A mutual friend tells a great story.
I would chat with Barry in the lobby of the B&W tower when I last worked downtown. When I first met Barry, it came up in conversation that we were both unapologetic fans of the same favorite Judas Priest album. Once you wax loquacious about the greatness of “Killing Machine,” it is easy to talk about everything else.
In mulling Barry’s departure from the planet, I think back to the ways that he touched me and influenced my life. There are many. One that casual friends and observers might not know is that indirectly, Barry was responsible for a huge part of my career in beer by inviting me to lunch at the fledgling Sportstime Pizza in New Albany, eventually to become New Albanian Brewing Company.
I wrote about it a few years back.
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40 Years in Beer, Part Twelve: Those first ever draft Pilsner Urquells in Prague, 1987
One afternoon in August, 1987 an archaic device affixed to the wall started making noises. I lifted the plasticized receiver from its cradle, gently brushing against the numerical rotary dial.
(Recall that we lived in caves back then, brandishing big clubs to pursue brontosaurus steaks.)
The caller was my old pal Barry Sears, asking about my recently concluded second journey to Europe. We chatted about the trip, and then he suggested we continue the conversation over lunch at a new spot on Grant Line Road in New Albany—well, not exactly new, but recently changed. A moribund Noble Roman’s Pizza outlet had converted under different management, and it was now a local eatery dubbed Sportstime Pizza.
I knew that Barry and his father Carl enjoyed bonding over meals at area restaurants, and could always be relied upon to provide informative reviews during this word-of-mouth era preceding internet ubiquity, so a couple of days later we met at Sportstime for pizza and soft drinks, as I couldn’t quite bring myself to consume draft Budweiser so soon after returning from Europe.
Verily, when people go to restaurants they tend to order their favorite meals, maybe hang out and socialize for a while, eventually pay the tab, and finally leave. Hopefully they’re sated and satisfied, and the result is a fair transaction for everyone involved, customer as well as the establishment.
For me, even if I didn’t know it at the time, this one brief experience of eating lunch at Sportstime with Barry completely altered the trajectory of my entire life. I didn’t entirely leave the building until the buyout in 2018, 31 years later, and still dine there today wearing my “former co-owner” Halloween costume.
That’s one hell of an impact for an ordinary pizza joint in forever somnolent New Albany, proving yet again that serendipity rules the world.
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For most of us, the pathway to our goals in life is serpentine, and it takes a while to get there, if we ever do. Barry got there, becoming the sort of broad-shouldered pillar that buttresses communities. I’m very proud of Barry and what he built with the time he had. He’ll be sorely missed. My thoughts go out to his wife, children and family.
Now, about the cover photo, taken at Sportstime Pizza in 1988.
Barry was not a drinker, but he was a big guy and could put away a few beers whenever he felt like it. It transpired that he actually liked Falls City, as brewed at the time by Evansville Brewing Company.
Ted Nugent had a live album called “Intensity in Ten Cities.” Barry described the results of this session at Sportstime, apparently at a juncture where cans were out of stock and the reordering brought bottles, as “The Intensity of Ten Cities.”
But I just can’t explain that Bengals shirt. Ewww.
R.I.P., my friend.
