Anthony Patrick LaPidus

And Tony’s life did have tornadoes. I don’t want to rewrite him now that he’s gone and pretend otherwise. He struggled. He battled addiction, made mistakes, hurt people, disappeared sometimes, came back, tried again, fell down and got back up. Tony was, as I keep saying, a sweet man with a trailer full of bad decisions.

But the remarkable thing was that underneath all of it, the sweetness survived. He remained interested in people. He knew the names of the people working at the gas station and took enourmous pride in having a solid friend group since high school.
 

But if there was one thing Tony loved fiercely, it was being a dad. AJ, Dominic and Jake were never just his kids — they were his boys, and he adored them. And even after their marriage ended, Lori never stopped being family to Tony. They had built a life, raised three boys and weathered more than most people ever knew. Their relationship changed, but the bond between them remained incredibly important to him.

And at the center of everything they had built together were AJ, Dominic and Jake. Tony loved being their dad.  He was a list maker his entire life, and some of his most important lists were for them: things he wanted them to know, to do, lessons he had learned the hard way, and mistakes he desperately hoped they wouldn’t have to make themselves. I think part of fatherhood for Tony was trying to flip some of his own wrong turns into road signs for his sons. 
 

And that is one of the hardest parts of losing him now: Tony was getting ready for his next chapter with his boys. AJ and Dominic were working out West, and Tony and Jake were preparing to go be with them. He joked about becoming a full-time domestic dad — cooking, taking care of things, being around, just being Dad. After a lifetime of hustle, noise, business, battles and chasing whatever was next, he was ready for something beautifully simple. He wanted to see sunsets. He wanted to slow down. He wanted to be present. He wanted time with his boys.

Tony wanted a big life. He had hustle in his blood. He built businesses, made deals, played & coached hockey, threw parties, cooked meals into midnight, drank good Whiskey and Chianti, listened to Metallica, and could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow leave knowing everybody. He wanted to lasso the moon. 

In the last few years, something in Tony softened. Faith found him. He talked about God, Jesus, forgiveness and grace in a way I hadn't heard from him before. One of the most powerful things he ever gave me was his ability to look back at our parents—not just at what they had done wrong, but at how young and overwhelmed they had been—and forgive them. That knocked me over. Tony had been given grace by a lot of people in his life, and eventually he understood both sides of it: sometimes you have to give grace, and sometimes you have to be willing to receive it.

I wish I had more time with him. I wish there were more late Chinese dinners, more stories, more arguments, more ridiculous phone calls, more of him. But I also know how lucky I was. Tony showed up for me my entire life. Not always perfectly. Sometimes barely holding himself together. But he showed up.

And when I think about my brother now, that is what I want people to know. His life wasn’t tidy. It was big. It was complicated. It was funny and painful and generous and sometimes completely insane. But there was a tremendous amount of love in it.

And I loved him very much.