Goodbye Pat

In December my friend and fellow improviser Pat Finn died of cancer.

Most people knew him as Finner. Some people called Finnstone, but I am not sure if Pat made that nickname up for himself, and I could not verify it before the publishing of this blog.

I cannot explain how this happens, but sometimes the people you improvise with become like brothers, and Pat truly became like a brother for me. And I’m not the only one who feels this way about Pat.

I had actually known Pat nearly all of my life. My dad and Pat's dad were best friends growing up on the north side of Chicago. So I had met Pat a couple of times when I was a kid, but I got to know him better when he and his friend from Marquette moved to Chicago back in the ’80s to do improv. 

His friend was a guy named Chris Farley.

Pat and I took classes at iO together. We did lots of shows together. The iO was small back then. The same 24 improvisers hung out together night after night, and we’d usually end up drinking at someone’s apartment ’til the wee small hours of morning. Back then, there were no such things as school nights. We partied hard, but we just called it bonding. 

Pat played rugby at Marquette. He was physical and energetic on stage. He improvised with a lot of joy, always letting the audience know he was having a good time up on stage. Pat made positive choices on stage and in his real life. He was beloved. He never said a bad word about anyone, which for a complainer like me, was a little annoying.

We became roommates with Brian McCann, and I will never forget the night he told me he was going to marry his girlfriend from Marquette, Donna Crowley.

Pat had come into my room after waiting tables at a restaurant owned by Johnny Red Kerrs, a Bulls coach turned broadcaster. When he told me the news, I was thinking, “What are you doing? You are never going to make it if you get married!”

I am glad I kept my mouth shut, because getting married was the best thing he ever did. No one was more supportive than Donna.

After he got married, he got hired at Second City and then quickly moved to L.A., where he got a big break co-starring on the George Wendt show. He and Donna lived in L.A. for 30 years, raising a family.

We kept in touch, in the last years mostly by phone. He was never angry or felt sorry for himself when he got cancer, even when the doctors had to remove and rebuild his bladder or later when the cancer came back. I always thought he got his positive outlook on life from his mom.

After Pat died, I went out to breakfast with his mom. I said, "Pat always had a positive attitude. Did he get that from you?”

“No,” she said. “He got it from...” and then pointed at the Catholic church across the street.

Pat was a huge success. He got parts in movies, TV, and commercials. He was part of one of the greatest improv groups ever, Beer Shark Mice.

But when Pat died, his friends did not talk about his credits. They talked about his character. His kindness. His ability to make you feel welcomed. His humor.

When your character overshadows your accomplishments, that is your legacy.

Pat was loved.

When I heard Pat had died, those memories of us struggling in Chicago came flooding back to me. They were some of the best years of my life, I just did not realize at the time.

Grief is so complicated.

There is a selfish part of grief, where you are not only grieving the person who died, but also your youth. A small part of your youth dies each time one of your friends dies.

It is final. The reunion tour has been cancelled.

Grief can bring us closer to people when we are vulnerable with our sadness and our tears.

And when the sadness passes and the tear ducts dry up, we are left with gratitude that person was in our life.

Godspeed, Finner.

Want to learn more about Jimmy's method of Slow Comedy without leaving your house? Check out his one-day Virtual Drop-In Class on April 20!