UMass Magazine Online

Winter 2002

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Extended Family

MEMOIR: T. HILL, BO TYSON HILL, SUGAR HILL, RUSTY

by Michael Petrocelli '90




	ONE MORE TIME: the late Todd Hill'90, left, with his friend Mike Petrocelli, Christmas 2000.

OCTOBER 9, 2001: AS I sit on a train to New York City, the final resting place of one of my oldest and closest friends, I’m not sure if I’m writing this for him or for me. I first met Todd Hill in early 1986. We both rushed the same fraternity at UMass, and though we were in the same pledge class it took two to three weeks for him to open up and display the mischievous wit I came to know him by. We were both 17 and unaware that he had already reached midlife.

We were very different. He was African-American, I am white. He was Baptist, I am Catholic. He was raised in an upper-middle-class home. I grew up poor. I was always bouncing from major to major. He stayed pre-law until graduation. In college and after I was “The Duke of Love.” He was “T. Hill,” “Bo Tyson Hill,” “Sugar Hill,” or “Rusty.” We were different but it didn’t matter. It never does with friends.

He had the greatest sense of fun. When he showed up to a party it literally got better: the music seemed louder, the girls became prettier, the beer grew colder. He was the “good” part of a good time, and his sense of humor was legendary. He could find a way to make a complete stranger break into laughter.

Once he attended the Oprah Winfrey Show. Oprah shakes everyone’s hand after the show, and when Todd’s turn came, he kissed her hand and told her he was giving Stedman “Thirty days to straighten up and then I’m taking over.” I wasn’t there, but I hear Oprah laughed.

TODD TAUGHT ME HOW TO DANCE. In the mid-’80s it wasn’t cool to bring your business to the dance floor when you had no business being there. But I noticed quickly that girls lined up to dance with Todd. So, being an enterprising guy and a beer beyond my limit, I convinced him to teach me how.

“Okay Duke – when I’m done you’re gonna move like James Brown.” James Brown? I assumed that he was one of the older brothers in our fraternity. But it worked. For about a decade I was the “hardest working man” on the dance floor. This year I started seeing a woman who loves to dance. Todd and I planned a refresher course. The relationship ended but Todd had me convinced that with the right moves, I’d win her back. Sad to say, we’ve shelved our plan.

Todd and I stayed in touch post-college. When I moved to Upstate New York we’d talk weekly by phone about UMass basketball. It was the “Calipari Years” and times were good for UMass fans. When I moved to Western Mass we attended UMass games together. It was the “Bruiser Years” and times were still good for true fans and good friends.

When I moved back to Boston, Todd and I were the last of a dying breed . . . dinosaurs . . . single men in our 30s. Todd was a touch-point for all the different groups that spring up – “the married guys,” “the married guys with children,” “the Boston guys,” “South Shore guys,” “North Shore guys,” “out-of-state guys.” Everyone managed to keep up with Todd or at least with the stories that came from spending time with him.

I LOST MY HAIR AND gained weight. Todd gained weight and wore glasses. This year we decided to turn back the clock, to get back into the shape we were in 1986. He’d call or e-mail daily warning me not to be late to tonight’s “Todd Hill Workout.” There’d be “no mercy” if I was late. Invariably he was late himself.

When I’d ask him what we were doing that night he’d say, “Turning back time.” We’d groan and grunt through our routine, at the end of which, if you were anywhere within earshot, you’d hear him say, “Despicable Duke. You’re a disgrace to the ‘Todd Hill Workout’ and it’s affecting my reputation at the gym.” I’d laugh through the aching muscles.

Todd eats. It would never matter how hard we worked or how much we did. He’d eat away the results. I’m told that whenever he traveled for his company he’d order a hot fudge sundae on the last night of the trip. It was one of his many rituals.

On Christmas of 2000, at a friend’s party, Todd led at least 100 people in a completely ad-libbed “off color” Christmas carol. I think we screamed, sang, and demanded “One more time!” at least ten times. It was like being back at UMass in our college days. One of my old fraternity brothers turned to me and said, “This is vintage Hill.” It was. And it was his last Christmas.

HE LOVED THE RED SOX. Who among us doesn’t? I went to my first games in years with him during this past season. He’d call at the last minute with outstanding seats. I joked that the “2001 Sox” were Ramirez, Martinez, and Hill. He’d tell me that he had a bigger impact this year than Nomar.
Sadly, my friend Todd Hill didn’t make it out of the World Trade Center Marriott on … Well, you know the date.

He doesn’t send me any more e-mail or call. He won’t lead us in song at Christmas-time and there will be no more dance lessons. Stedman will get to keep Oprah. UMass basketball will rise again. Nomar will have to pick up the slack.

I attended Todd’s Remembrance Mass last weekend and saw all the friends I had lost touch with. It was truly beautiful and a fitting tribute to all my friend was and is.

AND NOW THESE ARE MY darkest days. I find myself crying in the shower, in my car, in my sleep – wherever and whenever I think people can’t see me. I feel lost without him. I’m sure others do too.

Tonight I’m traveling to New York for the first time since September 11th. On October 11th, one month to the day, his last day, and my final night in the city, I will order two hot fudge sundaes. One for me, and the other for a good friend in case he decides to show.

I know that it will, in all likelihood, melt. But in my heart I can’t give up hope.

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