A Friend Remembers Greg

Frank Villaume shared his memories of Greg at the 2026 Lasting Legacy Gala

The following remembrance was shared by Frank Villaume, a childhood friend of Greg, at the 2026 Lasting Legacy Gala:

I’d like to change gears for a moment — from speaking as a member of the grant committee to shifting to what feels like the far more meaningful role: one of Greg’s old friends.

As I was nervously standing up here under the lights waiting for my public speaking anxiety to kick in, I realized I have only myself to blame,  Last year, I gently suggested to Patty that we could use a few more stories and remembrances about Greg at the gala. And she agreed!—but helpfully added, and countered, that she wanted to hear about Greg from one of his friends. So… here I am.

The truth is, of course, that I’m incredibly honored to have been asked to speak and I’d like to thank Patty, Jenny, Patrick, and the entire Marzolf family for the opportunity to reflect on Greg tonight.

It’s not easy to put into words…. the feelings you have for a friend who is no longer here. When I met Greg in kindergarten, even at that young age, there was something unmistakable about him—he was simply easy to love as a friend. He was the kind of kid you JUST KNEW would matter in this world, someone who would shape the people around him. What I could never have imagined then was just how far his impact would reach—that more than 25 years after his passing, Greg would STILL be inspiring people and bringing us together.

Those of us who knew him carry his memory and legacy deeply. And I think even those who never had the chance to meet him can feel it—in the way his story lives on. I count myself among the lucky ones. I got to know him, to grow up alongside him, and to call him my friend.

Greg was a remarkable kid who captured attention—not because he demanded to be noticed, but because he never did. I don’t remember him ever once complaining, Whatever he may have shared privately with his family about his gradual but progressive physical limitations, what he showed the WORLD was a quiet, steady positivity—the kind that made it seem like he had everything going for him.

As kids, we didn’t fully understand what was happening as Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy slowly changed what Greg could do. In gym class (keep in mind this is old school 1980s gym class), we used to have to run laps together, and we noticed that Greg gradually slowed his pace, then walked, and eventually used a wheelchair. In the innocence—and blindness—of youth, I even remember feeling a flicker of jealousy that he didn’t have to run like the rest of us. It’s hard to admit that now. But we simply didn’t yet have the perspective to understand what strength really looked like.

And Greg WAS strong—strong in ways that went far beyond anything physical. He was a leader among us. Whether it was Scouts, sports, or just being together, Greg was the kid you gather around. He had a way of bringing people in, of making every moment feel like it mattered. He laughed easily, without any sense of despair, and had a smile that reassured all of us.

As his condition progressed, we told ourselves we were protecting him—that we were helping him. But the truth is, he was the one holding us together. He gave us purpose and a sense of loyalty that shaped who we were as friends.

Some of my favorite memories come from our time in Cub Scouts. Back then, everything felt like an adventure, and Greg was at the center of it. He was a primo scout, unlike me. I still remember exploring the old brickyards on Water Street—rugged, uneven terrain, that would have challenged anyone. Greg didn’t sit it out. He powered through in his wheelchair, and we were proud to push him along—not because he needed us, but because we wanted to be part of his determination… and we wanted HIM with us.

And then there was the haunted house we built in the school cafeteria—full of creepy tunnels and carefully crafted scares. Even as our scoutmasters tried to rein us in, Greg’s mischievous creativity pushed it just far enough to make it unforgettable, especially for the poor kindergarteners who probably didn’t sleep for weeks.

At Highland Catholic,///our grade school, there was no elevator. As kids, we turned that into teamwork— often lifting and carrying Greg from floor to floor during after-school activities, convinced we were overcoming something together. Looking back, I’m pretty sure we knew this went against all the obvious rules of safety—and I still hope he never told his mom. But as time went on, the limitations of that small school became harder to manage, and eventually Greg had to transfer to another school.

I still remember how that felt like a sudden and painful loss. And like so many friendships, distance slowly changed things. We were still friends—we even competed against each other in our high school Junior ROTC programs—but we had grown into separate circles. I regret the ways circustances pulled us apart before I fully understood how precious our time was.

Life has a way of bringing things full circle. My kids now go to Highland Catholic, and in a twist of fate, my daughter broke her leg this year. She was able to return to school far earlier than expected because of the elevator that was ultimately built in Greg’s honor.

I know Greg dreamed of becoming a doctor. As a physician myself, there’s a deep and humbling irony in that. He had that dream, well before I did, and yet I’m the one who has the chance to live it. There are moments when I stand at a patient’s bedside—and I’m reminded of him, especially when I’m tempted to take the weight of this profession for granted.

It is a privilege I don’t take lightly—because I know the kind of compassion, intelligence, and strength Greg had. I know he would have been an extraordinary physician.

And to all of you here tonight—doctors, researchers, caregivers, families—who dedicate your lives to fighting diseases like Duchenne muscular dystrophy: in doing your work, you honor Greg’s legacy in the most meaningful way.

Greg may not be with us anymore, but his impact never left. It lives on in the ways he showed us what it means to face life with courage, to lead with kindness, and to bring people together.

And that is why we are still here, all these years later—

Because a friend like Greg is never truly gone.