(Photo: WikiCommons)
Two years ago this week, we lost the voice that had served as so much of the soundtrack to my life for the last 50 years.
The news broke overnight, and on the morning of September 2, 2023—a Saturday—I woke up at my sister’s house near South Bend already in full Fighting Irish Preview gameday mode. Notre Dame was at home against Tennessee State that day. Like always, I reached for my phone to get the gameday social media rolling.
Hard stop. The alert read: Jimmy Buffett has died.
At first my brain didn’t really process it. I was too locked into football mode. I did some FIP work and went downstairs, where a few of the people closest to me were sitting. “Jimmy Buffett died,” I told them. “He made my life better. I’ll miss him.”
It was a strange feeling for me. I’ve never been someone to “worship” celebrities or people I don’t personally know. In fact, I usually roll my eyes at the kind of hero-worship hype that seems so common today. But this felt different. It felt real. Jimmy’s wit and wisdom had been part of my life since high school. Anytime I’ve needed a reality check—or just a lift—there are two things I’ve always gone to: prayer and Jimmy Buffett music.
Neither has ever failed me.
That afternoon, I sat in the press box at Notre Dame Stadium with my longtime friend and radio partner, Tim Prister. I shared with him how much Jimmy’s passing had already started to affect me. He was supportive, as he always is.
Notre Dame, as expected, handled Tennessee State. Late in the game, media members are allowed down to the sideline, and it is always a great view. With about three minutes left during a timeout, the familiar sound of “Margaritaville” rolled through the stadium speakers. I looked up to see the student section break out into a spontaneous dance party. It was a beautiful sight, and in that moment it hit me: Jimmy was really gone.
I had seen him in concert 25 times. He’d gotten me through tough times. But never again would I see him live. My mourning had begun.
As a tear slipped down my cheek, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Tim. He didn’t need words—the look in his eyes said it all. A simple act of empathy, one I’ll never forget.
That day taught me something. Jimmy isn’t really gone. His music, his spirit, his joy—those things live on. They always will.
So here’s to Jimmy Buffett, his indomitable spirit, and to the value of friendship in our lives.
Thanks, Jimmy.
Bubbles up.