R.I.P. Mel Freiberger, Jr.

I got to know Mel Freiberger (Mel Jr., as opposed to his father) in 7th grade, and last saw him perhaps a year ago, and the one constant spanning those four decades was his smile, which can be described in only one way: As the shit-eatingest grin I've ever encountered.

This is a very high compliment.

Mel's grin was a mutable, elastic feature. It could indicate acceptance, mischief, amusement and annoyance, and usually served to suggest that interesting times were right around the corner. Of course, you could never be sure just how they’d be unfolding, for better or worse.

We played baseball together in high school, and while not really close friends, there were certain memorable moments. As seniors fleeing a prom party police crackdown, with the soiree being moved on the fly to an alternate location, Mel yelled at me to ride with him. I jumped in, and off we went, spraying gravel, to drive 40 miles back home at a very high rate of speed.

Realizing there was something missing, we abruptly detoured to Louisville to visit everyone’s go-to West End package store (leave your fake IDs at home) for a case of cold Sterling, which sustained us through the subsequent, riotous evening. I’ll never forget it.

And so it was that for Mel, beer was the Catch-22. Like all of us, he wrestled with his demons. Alcohol was one of them, and I believe he effectively beat it before cancer beat him. Cancer’s a bitch, but I’d have bet against it in Mel’s case, because he was a tough hombre and the stereotypical sporting force of nature, probably as skeptical of “practice” as Allen Iverson ever was, but putting every last bit of body and soul into it when the actual game was underway.

This could be true of other pursuits, as in the instance of a chili eating contest at IU Southeast. Mel won it convincingly, only to be summarily robbed of his title when the niggling, petty bureaucrat in charge conjured a previously unannounced rule from thin air, declaring that contestants vomiting afterward would be disqualified.

I thought Mel’s strategy was a stroke of genius.

Ironically, given my career in beer and Mel’s abstention from it, we came full circle the last two years, when NABC purchased local-grown hops for our Wet Knobs seasonal ale from a Knobs hop grower by the name of Brandon Freiberger – Mel’s son.

Rest in peace, Mel. I know it wasn’t always easy, and the results weren’t always pretty. But it seemed to me you always had a good heart, fought through, and did your best.

Melvin G. Freiberger, Jr.