Those of you who know me, know that I was close to both Nick Trujillo and Bud Goodall. We were pals and kindred spirits on several levels. At various points in our academic careers we all rode the wave of the culture metaphor to help us understand organizations. We each took the narrative turn mapped out by Clifford and Marcus and, at times, all dabbled in narrative and personal ethnography. Our interests called each of us to serve as chairs of the Ethnography Division of the National Communication Association, and, perhaps most important for the audience of this journal, we all are storytellers of sorts. But, as most of the world-free and otherwise, native English speakers and otherwise-is well aware, we are best known for being the trio who founded the mythic rock band The Ethnogs (a story for another time), whose mythology dates back to the sexual revolution of the mid-1960s. Through all of our associations, inside and outside of the academy, I came to admire both Bud and Nick. I learned from both and laughed with both, and while Bud was my friend, Nick was more. Nick was my brother and I was his wingman.As such, my contribution to this volume focuses on Nick Trujillo, he meant to the communication discipline and he meant to me. Above all, I want you, the reader, to come to realize as I have that Nick approached life with a sense of wonder (and wander) and an unmistakable appetite for play. In his wondering, wandering, and playing, Nick also seemed to thrive on taking chances-in his academic career and in life in general. And while I barely and reluctantly tolerate it, Nick absolutely embraced risk. Maybe that difference alone is enough to explain why he took the lead and I played the role of wingman. His love of and my aversion for risk may also explain why he wrote so much and I write so little. His death has forced me to think about that.So should have been a joyous process, the writing of this brief man- uscript, has been, except for these last few days, anything but joyous. I have struggled for months over to write about Nick for this special issue and for most of those months questioned whether I could write anything at all. I have aggravated the editors of this issue and frustrated and disappointed myself. In retrospect, as the words finally have formed on the screen in front of me, I realize, way down in the depths of my writer and wingman psyche, that finishing this piece has forced me to confront two realities. First, reflecting on to write has required me to contemplate I miss most about our friendship (or long for in any friendship) now that Nick is gone. Put simply, I miss the fun, the teasing, the competition, and the what if of fantasy chaining. I also miss the connection we experienced playing catch. Perhaps only old ballplayers will understand this bond, but Nick and I brought our baseball gloves to almost every conference we attended and we played catch. It was time spent catching up and casting forward. We laughed together and schemed schemes together. I miss playing catch. Second, and potentially more challenging if not terrifying for me, the writing of this piece has required me to face next-for me. Nick and I had planned so many what's next scenarios and flew many missions together. I am in the midst of rewriting those scenarios and figuring out missions remain now that Nick is gone. A leader, at least in part, defines the wingman.Few young boys or girls grow up dreaming of being a wingman or wing- woman. I don't imagine there are many kids out there today longing to be Robin to Batman, Tonto to the Lone Ranger, or Wondergirl to Wonderwoman. Likewise, I never set out to be a wingman, it just happened. Some time after Nick's wife Leah Vande Berg died of ovarian cancer and his grief had moved to the background, Nick began to refer to Larry Frey and me as his wingmen.There are two commonly held meanings for that term, and with Nick I served both. …