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The Billy Joel song “Only the Good Die Young” has long been one of my favorites. It might be my very favorite.

It was released on “The Stranger” album in 1978, but it wasn’t until May of 1988 when I really got a firm understanding of what Billy was singing about.

“Only the good die young” is something people say when someone young passes away. It is a way for people to comfort themselves following a difficult loss.

That, though, isn’t what the song is about. If you live by the rules and don’t have any fun, you could live to be 90 and still die young.

To the contrary, if you live your life to the fullest every single day, you can pass away at the age of 20 and not die young.

That was the case with my first-cousin Jerry D’Arcy, who was killed when his Ford Bronco rolled down a hill near Fish Creek, about 20 miles southeast of Butte, early in the morning of Sunday, May 15, 1988.

Jerry was only 20, but oh did he live.

As I sat in the old St. John’s Evangelist Church the next Tuesday and Wednesday during Jerry’s wake and funeral, I stared at Jesus on the cross behind the alter. I tried hard to focus on that cross in an attempt to not cry in public.

I wasn’t successful. I cried more in that week after Jerry died than I have the rest of the days of my life combined.

It was near the end of my seventh-grade school year, and I was 14 years old. It was a hard time to lose my hero.

That is not hyperbole, either. Jerry was my idol. He was everything I wanted to be. While I was a fraidy-cat, Jerry was fearless.

As far as I could tell, Jerry wasn’t afraid of anything. He wasn’t afraid to drive his motorcycle really fast and jump the side streets as he rode on the skinny trail alongside Continental Drive.

He wasn’t afraid to ski down the steepest hills. He wasn’t afraid to break the speed limit while we held on for dear life in the back of his Bronco.

He would try to hide the newspaper from his parents when he knew one of his speeding tickets was about to hit print. He would hit the gas when the police would attempt to pull him over on his motorcycle — even when the cop was our soon-to-be uncle.

No, I didn’t say I want my son to do the things that Jerry did, but I so badly wanted to have the guts to be just like him. Jerry was like the cool kid in every 1980s movie.

Plus, Jerry was always super nice to me. There was nobody I would rather hang out with on the rare chance I was lucky enough to hang out with him.

Jerry wasn’t even that mad at me when, at the age of 11, I decided I would not ski down “the family run” at the Discovery Ski Area in December of 1985.

Sure, he shook his head as he walked back up the mountain to get me, with his skis on his shoulder. My brother and all my other cousins made fun of me, but Jerry he did not say a word about it as he took me down the hill on his back.

He never said a word about the incident to me for the rest of his life.

He wasn’t annoyed at me when, at the age of 12, I couldn’t keep up with him as he chased a coyote through the woods in the Highlands. Jerry could run like the wind. He disappeared through the trees in a matter of seconds.

He just laughed at me when I finally caught up to him — when he was walking back to me.

Jerry lived his life like the Tim McGraw song “Live Like You Were Dying,” even though I was sure he was going to live forever.

I cannot think of a single time when I was with Jerry when he wasn’t smiling or laughing. He always made me laugh, too, while showing me some of the finer things in life.

He introduced me to Mountain Dew, Fast Times at Ridgemont High and dirty jokes. Lots of dirty jokes.

Like a shooting star, though, Jerry was gone way too soon.

After playing in a softball tournament at Stodden Park on Saturday, May 14, Jerry and four friends decided to try to climb a really steep hill just off Fish Creek Road in the middle of the night. It would be like driving up the face of Big Butte, if Big Butte was a little steeper.

No, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but the price shouldn’t have been so high.

Jerry drove the Bronco to the top of the hill, and the Bronco jumped sideways to the right. They knew it was going to roll, but they couldn’t get out in time.

Jerry was crushed by the Bronco, which rolled 500 feet to the bottom of the hill. His friends were all thrown from the vehicle. They suffered bumps and bruises, but they lived to tell the sad story.

That was 36 years ago this week. This past Saturday, a group of family and friends walked up the hill Jerry climbed to place a cross in his honor. Most people on the mountain that day remember Jerry well, including two who were with him the night he died.

Others, like Jerry’s nieces and nephews, only knew him through our many stories

It took 36 years to place that cross for Jerry, but somehow that doesn’t seem like we waited too long. Had they tried it in the years after his death, it just might have been too hard.

Jerry has a huge family and even more friends. We were all so shaken by the tragedy. We are still shaken.

As we sat and cried the night of the wake, Jerry’s dad tried to comfort us. “Don’t worry,” he told us. “Something good will happen.”

He was right. So many good things happened to our family since Jerry’s death. But our family still isn’t whole. It never will be.

Jerry has been gone for 36 years now. Even though that is such a long time, I still think about him almost every day. I wonder what he would have been like today, at the age of 56. I wonder if his children and grandchildren would have been as fearless as he was.

I wish I could have shown him that I grew out of being a fraidy-cat. For the most part.

Most of the time when I think of Jerry, it brings a smile to my face and a laugh to my heart.

Sometimes, though, it is still feels like I am sitting in the pew at St. John’s Church, staring at the cross and hoping not to cry.

Last month I turned 50 years old. I have a wife, three children and two dogs. So far, I have lived a really great life that has seen way more good times than tragedies. I have had more fun than most people would have ever dreamed of having.

But if I live to be 100, there is no way I will ever outlive Jerry. Not even close.

That, I believe, is what Billy Joel’s song is about.

— Bill Foley can be reached at foles74@gmail.com. Follow him at twitter.com/Foles74. Listen to him on the ButteCast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you find your favorite podcasts.