Short Blinks

I found out yesterday that an old friend, Allen Bailey, passed away at 37. And honestly, I’m still a little shook.

Most people probably don’t know this part of my life. Back in 2011, I moved to Kansas City fresh out of K-State. That same year, Allen moved here after being drafted by the Chiefs out of Miami. We were both just kids, really. Fresh out of college.

I was building a streetwear company called Insomniac Visionaire. I’d released a couple seasons of clothing, and in the fall of 2013, someone who worked with Allen connected us. We ended up collaborating on a Chiefs-inspired shirt called The Kingdom.

I don’t know if I ever really told him how much that meant to me. That he believed enough in what I was doing to help fund something together. I was just a young guy trying to build something, and here was someone beginning his NFL career who saw something in it.

But what I remember most isn’t the collaboration itself. It’s him.

He was a genuinely good dude. Down to earth, funny, quiet in a way I understood because I was the same. We had a lot of fun working on that shirt.

When it came time to take pictures, he came over to our apartment at Liberty Lofts by Union Station. We went down to the little fitness room, put on the shirts, and did an impromptu photo shoot. I’m pretty sure Hannah took the pictures. He was so open to whatever we wanted to do. No ego, no big production.

Nothing fancy. Just us figuring it out.

Looking back at those pictures now is strange. We were so young. I keep thinking about how much possibility there was in front of both of us back then. Life felt bigger than it ever had. We had our whole lives ahead of us, or at least that’s how it felt.

And the thing is, I still feel that way.

I went a long stretch not really feeling that, and it’s only lately started to come back.

There’s still so much life left to live. So much to figure out. In some ways, I feel like I’m only now beginning to understand what I want out of it.

It’s hard to make sense of him being gone at 37.

After Allen’s career took him away from Kansas City, we kept in touch. Not all the time. Maybe once or twice a year. A message here, a response to a story there. Some years we probably didn’t exchange a message at all. But whenever we did, he always seemed genuinely interested in how things were going.

Looking back through our messages, I found conversations about our kids. Him asking how Hannah and the boys were doing. Talking about how fast time was passing, and how much we enjoyed being dads.

I found messages from when Hannah and I took our trip to Oregon, the trip where we found out we were expecting Teddy. Allen wanted to hear about it. Where we’d gone, what we’d seen. He was thinking about going himself.

And then there were the football cards. When I got back into collecting, I realized I still had a handful of his rookie cards I’d picked up during our collaboration. I reached out and asked if he wanted them. He laughed and said he’d take one, but I told him I had a stack and thought they might be fun for his kids someday.

So I sent them. He was so appreciative, and he even sent me a picture when they arrived.

It’s such a small thing, but that’s what I keep coming back to. How kind he was. How he made time for people.

I didn’t just know Allen at one point in my life. I got to see a little of who he became, too. We met as two young guys chasing completely different dreams, and years later we were talking about our kids, our families, and the lives we’d built along the way.

We weren’t best friends. We didn’t talk every week. There’s something about getting older and realizing how many people come into your life for a season. Some stay, some move on, some you only cross paths with now and then. But that doesn’t make those relationships any less real. Allen was part of a formative time in my life, when I was young and ambitious and trying to make something of myself, and he believed in me when he really didn’t have to.

I guess I always assumed there would be another conversation. Another check-in. Another chance to see how life was going.

And now I keep thinking about his family. His kids. His home. The things he loved so much. All the ordinary moments they should have had together.

I just keep looking at these pictures of us in that little apartment gym. Two young guys flexing in matching T-shirts, me joking that my arms were just as big as his.

Neither of us had any idea what the years ahead would hold.

And neither of us could have imagined that one of us wouldn’t get nearly enough of them.

I’m just really thankful our short blinks here on earth crossed paths.

And deeply honored to have known him.