If you played poker with Ian, you knew pretty quickly that he was different.
He was a problem at the table—in the best way. Intuitive, patient, quietly fearless. The kind of player who always seemed to find the right card, the right spot, the right move. He frequently went deep in tournaments, won more than his share of cash, and made the game look effortless.
He was a two time player of the year at Pepper Street, as well as the 2023 Tournament of Champions winner. He had the trophies, and the accolades above and beyond when it came to our game in The Garage Around Back.
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| So honored Ian's PSP trophies were displayed at his Celebration of Life. |
But that’s not why we remember him.
Because in a game that has a way of bringing out the worst in people—ego, frustration, tilt—Ian somehow never let it touch him. He never got salty. Never lashed out. Never made anyone feel small. He could take a brutal beat and respond the same way he handled everything else: calm, thoughtful, and kind.
And somehow, that didn’t make him soft—it made him stronger. People wanted to beat him… but they also genuinely loved playing with him. That’s a rare combination,
Ian had this dry, mischievous sense of humor that would sneak up on you. He wasn’t loud about it—he didn’t need to be. He’d drop a line, or a look, or a perfectly timed comment, and the whole table would crack up.
And sometimes… he’d just start singing.
Out of nowhere, in the middle of a hand or a conversation, you’d hear him go:
“Position! Position!”
—sung to the tune of “Tradition!” from Fiddler on the Roof
It was ridiculous. It was perfect. And it was completely him.
Meanwhile as you were cracking up, you'd realize that he had all of your chips -
Away from the table, Ian was the same guy—thoughtful, present, quietly generous. The kind of friend who leaves snacks in the fridge for you. Who checks in. Who shows up. Who builds a whole language of inside jokes and shared moments over years of friendship.
He was great with kids - I know this in the way he connected with my 10 year old little girl who mustered up her courage to ask my poker players if they wanted to buy her Girl Scout Cookies. Ian would get down to her level and engage - and inevitably buy multiple boxes.
All these years later my daughter Natalie, who is now a 21 year old college graduate, still remembers Ian very well as one of the nicest and coolest guys to ever grace our garage.
Ian loved stories—fantasy, anime, photography, ideas. He saw the world with curiosity and imagination. And even when things got hard, he held onto something that’s easy to say but hard to live: optimism.
Right up until the end, he believed he’d beat it. He believed he’d come home. And even when he couldn’t say the words anymore, he was still giving a thumbs up.
It is very hard to reconcile - that he had cancer - apparently beat it handily, and then had complications with his treatment that ultimately took him from us.
I feel anger because of this, but I know Ian wouldn't want me to linger on that or be consumed by it. It's not helpful for him, obviously, and it doesn't help the rest of us that he left behind. It is what it is, and it's ok to say it fucking sucks - but it's ultimately not productive, nor should it be how we remember our friend.
I am eternally grateful that while he was intubated in January he did regain consciousness for a time, and I was able to relay the exact words through his best friend Becca who was at his side - of how I felt and how much I loved him.
Later, after Ian had lost consciousness again, part of the Pepper Street crew paid him a visit in his hospital room. Lea Anne, Jeff G, Jason, Arthur, Priya, Bev and myself talked to him, and poured out our hearts - staying positive but also letting him know that no matter what was next, it was ok. If it was time to go, it was ok. Our love for him would be eternal.
I'm positive he could hear us. His vitals improved right before our eyes. His parents, who had learned what all the numbers meant over the days and weeks they had been there - let us know that he showed definitive improvement as we spoke to him.
So when I catch myself getting mad at how Ian left us, all the second guessing goes away when I realize how beautiful it was in that room - that Ian could hear us and there was nothing left unsaid. He knew his family and his beloved Becca, AND his crew of poker friends, who were also dear friends outside of the game - were there for him to ease his passage with love and support.
Yes, one of the things that made Ian especially rare was the way he connected with people—all people. But I'd be remiss if I didn't mention a special connection that I witnessed with him over the years at Pepper Street Poker.
The women on the Pepper Street roster, and I'm proud to say there are quite a few, seemed especially drawn to Ian. Not in a romantic way, but deeper and more meaningful than that. They shared a special bond with him. Lea Anne. Priya. Barbara. My wife Beverly. And even Michele who lived in San Francisco. She knew she adored Ian long before she even met him in person. They all saw the same thing: someone safe, kind, present, and genuinely interested in others.
He had a way of making people feel comfortable without ever trying. No ego. No edge.
Just warmth and respect.
And then there was something else—something that meant a lot to me personally.
Ian and I didn’t always see the world the same way. You could say he came from Ravenclaw, and though I was born into a Ravenclaw family, by the time I was in college I had moved over firmly to Hufflepuff.
Through all of my adult life this hasn't been easy, and it's been especially tough over the past decade or so. All of my family, and the vast majority of my friends are Ravenclaw, so I have to be mindful of this and avoid talking about Hogwarts for the most part.
I've never shared this with anyone, until now.
Ian and I would regularly engage about the current state of Hogwarts. Sometimes online, but more often than not he would arrive early at the poker game and we’d sit and talk, about just about every issue concerning Hogwarts. Muggles, the different houses, even the dark arts and even You-Know-Who himself — and those conversations could have easily gone sideways like they often do in this world.
But they didn’t.
Because Ian had this rare ability to engage without attacking. To challenge ideas without making it personal. To actually listen. He was thoughtful, informed, and curious—but never condescending, never dismissive.
And somehow, we could talk honestly—really get into things—and walk away not frustrated, not resentful… but better for it.
That’s not common. In fact, it’s almost unheard of.
For me, Ian wasn’t just a friend at the table—he was proof that people from different “houses” could actually sit down, talk things through, and still respect each other at the end of it. Maybe even understand each other a little better.
This is an INCREDIBLY rare trait in a person. Truth be told, I didn't even think I had that trait in myself at this point - but Ian, more than anyone I've ever known who came from a different house, was able to dig deep into just about every subject in the Hogwarts curriculum with me.
An amazing but true thing that we shared together.
He surprised me by having this ability, but I think most of all he made me surprised at myself - that I was able to keep it together and be genuinely interested in what he had to say about such things.
A Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff, not only civil with each other, but coming away from our talks reassured and with a friendship that was even stronger than I would've expected after daring to delve into all the stuff.
For that I will be forever grateful to Ian and he will always have a special place in my heart.
At the celebration of life we had at the Moose on April 12, Ian’s mom said it best:
“Show up. Do the right thing. Always be kind.”
And Becca added something just as important:
“Always remember to dance.”
That feels like Ian’s whole philosophy, right there.
Show up.
Be kind.
Take the adventure.
Sing when the moment hits.
Play the game the right way.
I'm super grateful that our little game was able to provide a place and space where Ian's family and extended family and friends could gather and remember this mighty man.
A special thanks to those PSP players who contributed, without me even asking, a very generous amount of money to pay for the service entirely as well as the open bar AND Celebration of Life mementos that I was able to have made for everyone. I do have a few extras if anyone who was unable to come would like them.
There’s an empty seat in our game now. And we feel it.
But if we carry even a piece of how Ian lived—how he played, how he treated people, how he moved through the world—then he’s still at the table with us.
Not physically there -
But in the tone of the game.
In the way we treat each other.
In the moments where we choose grace over frustration.
Poker will never be the same without him, that's for sure.
But I know we will all see him again someday - and I know where ever it is, there will be a poker game.
Save me a seat my friend.
