Stevie Ray Vaughan "Cold Shot"

This isn't so much a story about the day Stevie Ray Vaughan died (which happened 22 years ago, this Monday).

This is a story that takes place on the day Stevie Ray Vaughan died.  So as the story reaches it's culmination, you can imagine SRV songs being played in the background.

But before we get to the culmination, let's go back, to the Spring of 1990, to the end of the semester at UMass.

I had just met this amazing girl.  I'd known her from around for a while, but we had both recently become single again and we had connected.  Really connected.  Hearts pounding.

But the semester was winding down, and I didn't know what the summer would bring.

Meaning both, I didn't know if we would be able to maintain something as we returned to our hometowns, and I really didn't know what I was going to do with my summer.

This was the summer between my Junior and Senior year, and I was aware that I should probably be doing something to prepare for a career.  But hadn't spent any time planning anything.

Somewhere late in the game, I lined up a TV production internship in my hometown, but to make it official, I had to get one of the Professors in the Communications department to sponsor me.

I looked down the list of Professors.  There were many I liked.  Several I respected.  And a few I was totally impressed/slightly afraid of.  But none of them were likely to deal with me, so late in the game.

No, if I was going to slip one under the wire, I knew who I had to go to.

There was this tenured professor, who must've been a few seconds away from retirement.  I'd had him for a couple of introductory classes.  He was very nice, but clearly he was some combination of a) noticeably kinda senile, b) somewhat flaky and c) not really giving too much of a shit.

"I only give two grades for internships," he absently told me, while signing off on my paperwork.  "And all I ask is that you write me a 3 page paper on your experience.  Turn that in on time, and you get an 'A.'  Don't turn it in, and you get an 'F.'"

Seemed simple enough.

Okay, quick summer montage . . . I work a ton of hours at the local cable company doing TV production and learning valuable skills . . . to make some cash I work the graveyard shift at a local gas station . . . I fall head over heels in love with the girl, and any waking second that I'm not working or sleeping, I get in the car to go visit her.

August.  The Finns take a vacation.

With this being my last summer "off," before entering the Real World, my folks decided we should take one more family trip, to Disney World.

In the planning stages, this sounded great.  But now, I was devastated that I'd go for a week without seeing my girl.

I visited her the night before we were supposed to leave for Orlando.  Before our tearful goodbye, I asked her to do me a favor.

(Remember that this is 1990, before email, before cell phones)

I gave her my 3 page paper, outlining all the terrific things I had learned on my internship.  She was headed back to UMass in a couple of days.  It seemed much safer for her to drop the paper with my professor, than for me to trust the US Postal Service to get it there on time.  She agreed.

The Finns had a fine time in Florida, and it WAS the last chance for my parents and two siblings and I to all vacation together.  But I missed my girlfriend terribly.

After touching down at Logan, we headed up Route 1 to home, WBCN had the news:  Stevie Ray Vaughan had died in a helicopter crash.

We listened to Stevie Ray songs for the ride home.

The first thing I did upon arriving home, was call out to UMass to talk to my girl.

After a bit of chit-chat I asked, "What did my professor say?"

"Oh my God . . ."

There was a long period of what seemed like silence.  Then I realized that she was crying.

She had forgotten to turn in my paper.  It was due 2 days ago.

My internship was for course credit.  Not just the weight of a single class, but for the weight of four classes.  I tried in my head to figure out what the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "F"s would do to my already weak GPA.  Probably something I would never recover from, academically.

But you know what?  After about 5 minutes, I didn't care.  I just wanted to see her.

I got in the car at the crack of dawn and raced to see her.  Stevie Ray Vaughan played on the radio as a barreled down Route 2.
 
It was a tearful and joyful reunion.  She had hardly slept, so upset at missing my deadline.  She'd gone down to my professor's office in the middle of the night and slid my paper under his door.

I took the stoic approach.  What was done, was done.  Nothing to do about it.  "Well, you're going to have to support me, when I can't get a job," I told her.

Flash-forward to a month later.  My grades come.  I may have acted stoic, but in the moment, I felt ill, my heart pounded.  I opened the envelope.

"A."

I got an "A."

What would the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "A"s would do to my GPA?  Well, hopefully make me moderately employable.

And, the post-script . . .

In my wise years, I have learned to leave well enough alone, but in 1990, I couldn't.

How did I get an "A"?  How did he not notice that the paper was days late?

I couldn't resist.  I went to my professor's office, and asked for my graded paper back.  (Again, this was in the days before real computers, so I didn't have a digital copy of the paper; he had the only copy)

"Uh . . .hmmm . . ." he shuffled through disheveled stacks of books and folders and papers on his desk.  "Where is . . . hmm . . . uh . . ."

"Well thank you for the 'A'" I said.

"Hmm . . . yes, if I gave you an 'A' I must've read it, right? . . . hmm . . . but I don't see it here.  Well . . . "  He just trailed off, and gave me a look that said, "Is there anything else?"

I don't know if he ever got the paper, or read the paper, and I guess it didn't matter.

My academic career, much like SRV at the end of this video, was magically resurrected.


Hear the song on Youtube.