What unfinished promises, laughter, and one arcade cabinet taught me about grief, love, and legacy

He Was the Brightest Light in the Room

My cousin Al was the joker.

Not just funny in the casual sense—but truly gifted with humor.

A lot of people who knew me throughout my life thought I was the one with all the jokes.

What they didn’t know was that Al was funnier than me.

We spent years trying to outdo each other—constantly pushing the joke further, trying to make each other laugh harder.

That was our language.

That was our rhythm.

And wherever Al went, laughter followed him.

He was the bright light in every room he entered.

The kind of person whose presence changed the energy around him.

His Love for Wrestling Was Legendary

Al didn’t just love wrestling.

He lived it.

He knew everything.

From World Wrestling Entertainment classics to All Elite Wrestling modern matchups, from Ring of Honor deep cuts to old-school legends like Bruno Sammartino and Bruiser Brody—

he carried wrestling history in his head like an encyclopedia.

Every championship belt.

Every era.

Every feud.

Every title reign.

He could sit down with anyone and have a full conversation about any generation of wrestling.

And I admired that about him.

His passion wasn’t casual.

It was real.

It was deep.

It was part of who he was.

He Had a Dream That Was About to Begin

What made me happiest was seeing him inspired.

Al wanted to create his own wrestling YouTube channel.

His own podcast.

A place where he could build a wrestling community—talk dream matches, live stream events, debate eras, and connect with fans who loved the sport as much as he did.

He looked at what I built with Jetpulse… and wanted to build something of his own. And I was ready to help him.

We had already started preparing.

I was gathering equipment.

Planning his recording setup.

Helping him build what could have been one of the coolest projects of his life.

We were days away.

Days.

And then…

he was gone.

The Last Conversation We Ever Had

The last thing Al needed help with wasn’t his podcast.

It was an arcade cabinet.

He had bought an Arcade1Up machine because he saw the Street Fighter cabinet in my apartment and wanted one too.

That was Al.

If something excited him, he jumped in completely.

On a Thursday night, he called me on FaceTime.

He needed help assembling it.

I told him:

“I’ll come Sunday.
We’ll order pizza.
We’ll finish building it together.”

That was the last conversation we ever had.

Sunday never came.

In Another Universe

Sometimes I think about it like this: In another universe…there’s pizza on the table. Jokes flying back and forth.

And that arcade cabinet—built together—is sitting proudly in his room.

In this one…

it sits in mine.

Fully built. Powered on. Ready to play.

I guess I still showed up.

Just not the way I planned.

What He Left Behind Still Lives Here

Out of everything that remained from his belongings… one of the wrestling belts was the one I found.

And now it lives with me too. Not packed away. Not hidden in storage. But integrated into my home.

Part of daily life. Because that feels right.

Because Al was never meant to be remembered as absence.

He was presence.

Energy.

Voice.

Laughter.

Passion.

And some things don’t leave.

They just change where they live.

What Grief Taught Me About Him

There’s a unique kind of pain in unfinished plans.

Not just losing someone—

but losing the moments that were supposed to happen.

The pizza we never ordered.

The jokes we never got to finish.

The Sunday that never came.

That’s the part grief doesn’t prepare you for.

Not just what ended—

but what never got the chance to begin.

What I Carry Forward Now

We spent years trying to outdo each other in laughter.

And somehow… I never got my last shot.

But every time I make someone laugh now— I know part of that came from him.

And every time I pass that arcade cabinet… or glance at that belt on the shelf…

I’m reminded:

Some conversations never really end.