Happy Birthday, Dad.

My father's birthday is on July 3. Odd that I happened to come across a book by Stevie Ray, who runs the Stevie Ray Comedy Troupe here in Minneapolis, at a thrift store a few days ago. The book, titled "Why We Laugh..." has a dedication that included my dad, Chris McCoy. For those of you who don't know, my dad passed away when I was very young -- about five years old. I have read that dedication countless times and I always liked it because it gave me a small insight to someone I never really got to know, but have so much in common with. After reading it, I decided I was going to contact Stevie Ray and thank him for writing that dedication I loved so much. I did and received an e-mail back this evening. It read:

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Hi Tamara:

Good to hear from you. I'm glad you were able to see the dedication about
your father. We actually still talk about Chris from time to time because
he was such a great guy to have around, and really the type of student we
wanted most. He came with no real background in improv, but put everything
he had into it. It was easy for people who had trained for years to
audition for the troupe and try to get on stage, but for your dad it took
determination and self-confidence.

We have a wall in our school with plaques commemorating three students who
we lost before their time, your dad is one of them. It has an engraved
picture of him standing in an improv class with his name next to it.

You might be interested to know that he donated his time to weld the metal
handrails for the theatre we built at 1819 Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis,
where he took classes. The theatre has long given way to other businesses,
but his handrails are still there.

I was honored to give the eulogy at your father's funeral. I still have the
eulogy I wrote for Chris, and have attached it if you would like to keep it.
It sums up the kind of man he was to us, and how we all remember him.

I hope your life is going well. Remember, he's watching you still (when
he's not making goofy crap out of scrap metal).


Here's the eulogy:

My name is Stephen Rentfrow. I direct Stevie Ray's, a comedy theatre and school in Minneapolis. But I think I speak today not as a director or teacher, but as someone who represents all of the people that knew and worked with Chris McCoy.

I first met Chris when he came into the theatre to interview for a class in improvisational acting and comedy. Since I started teaching over ten years ago I have dealt with hundreds of students, but Chris was definitely unique.

I was sitting at my desk one day and in walks a man wearing high top tennis shoes and a black leather jacket who said he worked as a welder. He was nervous, quiet, and obviously intimidated about the idea of trying something like this, but half-way through the interview he looked me in the eye and said, "I've never done this before, but I know I can do it." He signed up for class and left. I wasn't sure at the time if he would stay with us very long. Sadly, people have a way of creating labels for themselves and they have a hard time letting themselves be anything else. Those people quit very soon after starting anything new.

On March 16, 1991 Chris took his first class. He thought he was going to learn to be a comedian, he learned a lot more. We thought we were going to teach him improv, we learned a lot more. It is a frightening thing for a man to venture into something so new and foreign. Most of the things Chris was asked to learn were difficult for him. A man who had hardly ever spoken to a group before was now told to sing solos in front of total strangers, pretend to be a dancer in the Russian Ballet, and do the most difficult thing in the world, make others laugh.

Yet whatever Chris was told to do, he did. And no matter how frustrated he got and no matter how difficult the exercise, no matter how many times he failed, he was back the next week to learn more. I remember one scene he performed in class. He was standing with his head cocked to one side and moving with that stiff-shoulder walk of his while performing a love-scene. He got done and asked, "How was that?". I said, "Pretty good, but let's try to expand it a bit. Try moving in an entirely different way, speak with a new voice and really try to push yourself to be different." He did the scene, exactly the way he had done it the first time. When he was done he asked, "How was that?" I said, "Pretty good."

Over the next two years that he was with us we all saw a change in Chris. What started as a small spark of interest had grown into a singular devotion. And the resolve he had was incredible. I remember meeting with the students from his class one day to tell them who was advancing to the next level and who would be held back. Some students who were not advancing with the rest were angry, some were depressed, some didn't think it was fair that others were advancing and they weren't.



When I told Chris he would be held back for a while, he said he knew he wasn't ready and didn't want to be moved up with the rest until he knew he was good enough. He looked me right in the eye like he did that first day and said, "I'm not quitting. I know I can do this and someday I'm going to make it into a troupe and I'm not quitting until I do"

He worked, hard. Every week for months and years he worked for the goal of getting on stage. He wrote and rehearsed and rewrote and practiced and fought and struggled, and he loved it. One evening before class he sat in my office and said, "You know Steve, I don't even know what I did before this. Now instead of sitting around doing nothing, I have something to work for. I write everyday, I practice every chance I get." He was working for something, something that most people are never lucky enough to realize. He had a dream.

I started using Chris as an example to people I would interview for class. They would say, "I don't know if I can do this. I've never done anything like this before." I would say, "There is a man here who is a welder and had never done this before, you should see what he has accomplished. Yes you can do it." And the day he finally got a chance to perform in front of an audience as a guest of the troupe, the butterfly came out of the cocoon.

His death is a loss to many at the theatre. I mourn the loss of one who had come so far and yet had so much more he could accomplish. His fellow students have lost a source of support and energy from a man with such strength of character. All of us have lost a good friend. He never let go of his dream to someday be a member of a Stevie Ray's Improv Troupe. He worked hard for that goal and much of my sadness comes from knowing that his dream will go unattained, but I think he accomplished much more than what he set out to do.

And for every scene he performed and was told, "Not good enough", for every piece he wrote and was told,"Rewrite it", for every audition he tried and was told, "Not yet", he said, "I'll try again." And what I have learned from Chris is that you are not what people label you to be, you are your dreams. Chris, I wish I had more time with you to help you become the kind of performer you wanted to be. I hope that in another time and place we get another chance.

In the years ahead when I remember my friend I will remember his dreams. I will remember the weekend baseball player who learned to dance the ballet, the quiet husband who sang the opera, and the simple welder who made people laugh.


Goodbye Chris.

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This could not have a better time.
I am feeling so nervous about graduating college in May. Finding an externship. Just being unsure about everything overall. I need to step up my game and put in the same effort my dad did. Miss you and love you.