For Ben

"TRADITION. Some talk about it, we live it."

That was the slogan emblazoned across the front of the T-shirt I put in Ben Mourer's casket as I said goodbye for the last time. I also stuffed a flask of apple pie moonshine in his pocket as the other throwers covered me from the crowd.

But we'll just keep that between us.

Little did I know when I met that squirrelly little guy on the first floor of Baldwin Hall, he'd become a part of my family. People with whom you can pick up right where you leave off, no matter time, distance, or discord. People who stuck it out, earning the right to pick and poke. People who pulled when you were down and pushed when you were up. This was the TRADITION in a time for all of us that ends up going by way too fast.

Okay, back to Ben.

Somebody very smart sprinkled cross country runners into Baldwin Hall that year. In the turbulent corridors of new people, insane situations, and constant trial and error, it was these little road warriors who were usually the voice of reason in tumultuous times. Most of the ACXC guys, including Ben, fit a mold upon meeting them. Reserved, intelligent, eloquent, almost bookish. The valedictorian, the head of the class, the teacher's pet. They were calm, quiet, and consistent, that is, until someone pressed them. Then the demon came out. The one that got them onto cold, icy roads or thick, steamy trails at the butt crack of dawn to fight a never-ending clock. These were the guys who would skirt through the underground tunnels of forgotten creeks beneath Meadville for funsies.

Ben Mourer '07 was, pound for pound, one of the most fearless people I had ever met. He could give the biggest person in the room a hard time and have zero fear of reprisal. Soaking wet, he couldn't have weighed much more than my fourth-grade son, but it never seemed to matter. His beard was ratty, his shorts were short, and he would take on all comers.

Ben saw the good and pushed for it. He also saw the pity party and crashed it. He didn't quit on people. He would take care of anyone who needed it and talk to anyone who listened.

Whether you needed your hand held or your butt kicked, Ben could and would do it. He was a part of a tradition that combined camaraderie with hard work to produce success. People believed in Ben because he was selfless. What he did was never for him. The faith that it would all work out radiated into the lives surrounding him.

When Ben became a coach at Allegheny for both cross country and track and field, I knew if there was one person who could keep this tradition alive, it would be him. He was an encyclopedia of knowledge for anyone who tossed on a pair of super small shorts and pounded the pavement. When I called to congratulate him that day, he said he would do everything he could to keep those traditions alive. Over the next nearly 10 years, he did.

The athletes I encountered under Ben's leadership knew the stories of long-forgotten lore. They understood the legacy. They knew names, faces, times, distances. They knew the underground tunnels in Meadville like the back of their hands. They knew the records and the record holders, and just like those who'd come before them, they were chasing down those dreams. It was like a scene out of "Mad Max Thunderdome" when all the kids living in the desert oasis with no parents could recall the stories they were too young to remember. Tales of people who had come and gone before their time. Ben had kept the legacy alive and well in up years and down. His kids were a part of that family we joined all those years ago. They were forging those same bonds we had known, carrying on what had been created in sweat and turmoil.

You don't really understand why you are given certain people in your life. They may join your path for 50 feet or a 5K. When you're young, and you stumble upon great things, you think you'll always find more of them. But there are certain people who are special for a reason. The ones you train with, study with, and get stuffed inside a bus with. It's all the time spent getting the best and the worst and everything in between. He didn't realize it at the time, but Ben became a focal point for people who hadn't seen or heard from one another in years. It was his invitation to the Gator Invite and subsequently the alumni golf outing that brought great friends back into each other's lives. People who had been so special but had been lost in the vacuum of those post-collegiate years.

It is now, in the aftermath of his death, that the family is coming back together. The faces of brothers and sisters changed by time rekindle timeless bonds forged in the fires of competition. And they were all brought back together by one person. Someone with such an impact in what seems like a fraction of time that was more significant than anyone could understand.

As the rain came down on me, waiting in line to see my friend one last time, I could see the number of lives Ben Mourer had impacted. Professors, coaches, athletes, students, and even the staff in the dining halls lined up to send off a friend of mine. Ben was in my path for what only felt like a few feet, but he will stay with me until that day my journey ends. So until that time, old friend, I just want to say, you are sorely missed by your family here.

We hope wherever you are, you will be watching - hopefully with Marty Goldberg '62 - the Gator Invite and your memorial cross country classic next year.