As the closing arguments have now been made in the trial of Darryl Roberts for the murder of my friend, teammate and classmate Christopher Douglas Wright, I—like many of my fellow classmates from the Baylor School Class of 2003—have been left with a flood of emotions, questions and deep sorrow.
We know that no verdict, no sentence and no words can bring Chris back to us. But we hope that justice, at the very least, will speak loudly and clearly for his memory.
Two years ago, our class gathered for what was meant to be a joyful reunion—celebrating 20 years since we graduated from Baylor. It was supposed to be a time to reflect on the lives we’ve lived, the friendships we’ve kept, and the bonds we’ve built. Instead, our celebration was cut short and our hearts shattered when Mr. Roberts ended Chris’s life with a single shot at point-blank range.
Since that devastating day, not a moment has passed when I haven’t thought of Chris—his wife, his three beautiful children, his brother, sister-in-law, niece, nephew, mother and father. The Wright family has long been a foundational part of the Baylor community. And I find myself constantly wondering how they’ve managed to carry the weight of this loss, one that no family should ever have to bear.
In recent weeks, as the trial unfolded, my memories of Chris have grown sharper, more vivid. I sat in that courtroom and listened as the defense sought to paint a picture of him that none of us who truly knew Chris could recognize. They questioned his character. They questioned if Chris was someone capable of hate. They questioned if he had uttered racial slurs that made Mr. Roberts feel diminished.
I also read the articles and public comments—many of them later deleted—that attempted to reshape the memory of who Chris was. And for a moment, I felt paralyzed. Unsure of how to respond. Unsure if I should.
But then I looked at my son—and I knew I had to speak out. Because if the roles were reversed, I know with certainty that Chris would have done the same for me. That’s who he was. Chris Wright wouldn’t let a false story define you—not for your friends, not for your family, and especially not for your children.
To his children: your father was a good man. A great man. A man of character, love and light. He saw people. He respected people. One memory I’ll always cherish is from a golf outing in 2018. I had just become a new father, and Chris was preparing to welcome his first child. He sat in my cart for a few holes, and I remember the look on his face—hopeful, nervous, full of questions. We talked for half an hour about fatherhood, about life. Chris treated me with warmth, respect, and a desire to grow.
That was Chris. He learned from everyone. He saw the value in people. He greeted my parents with kindness every time he saw them. He made you feel seen. That’s why we called him "Captain America"—not just because of his physical stature, but because of his spirit.
As a Black student at a predominantly white private school, I had my share of uncomfortable moments. But never with Chris. He treated everyone with dignity, no matter who they were. If he ever felt he had wronged someone, he would stop everything to make it right. That was how he was raised, and it was how he lived. He was a ‘yes sir, no ma’am’ kind of man. A firm-handshake-and-look-you-in-the-eye kind of man. A stand-up guy in every way.
So no, I cannot stay silent while someone attempts to rewrite the story of who he was. I wasn’t there the night Chris was killed. I do not know every word exchanged. But I do know this: given my interactions with Chris, the Chris Wright I knew and loved—the one we called “Captain America”—I could not see him saying the things he’s been accused of saying.
To his children: your father was a hero, the kind you read about in comic books and see on movie screens. He was not perfect—none of us are—but he lived a life full of love, respect and goodness. He tried to be the kind of man you can always be proud of. And I promise you—many of us already are.
To his wife: we stand with you. If you ever need anything, please know that the Baylor Class of 2003 is here for you and your family.
To Mr. and Mrs. Wright: words will never be enough. No parent should have to bury their child. But you are not alone. We love you, we honor you, and we are lifting you up in prayer, asking God to give you comfort and strength in the days to come.
And to Chris: we love you. We miss you. We carry your light in our hearts. Thank you for the joy, the kindness, the laughter and the memories. You will never be forgotten. Until we meet again.
With love and respect,
Mike Hayes
On behalf of the Baylor School Class of 2003 and the entire Baylor community
GBR.
Co-Signed by:
The following Alumni of the Baylor School stand with this statement
David Knox, Class of ‘02
Jeff Willis, Class of ‘03
Chad Phillips, Class of ‘03
Ricky Johnson, Class of ‘03
Michael Isabell, Class of ‘04