Death, Where is Thy Sting?

Bob's Backstop for February 11, 2004

There are reasons that a game of catch can have significance beyond the mere tossing of a ball, and that lifelong fandom is most likely to rest with the team one knows as a youth, even if that happens to be only in a brief passing.

Baseball communities flower, as do families. Our own little corner of the internet is a prime example. Some of us go to considerable expense and bother to get together every year to spend time at the ballpark, and we celebrate other events, as well...marriages, births, reunions...the stuff of life.

We also share loss, from among our own numbers, as well as the players and families that become part of our extended families. As I break the half-century barrier, I find myself sharing those losses more and more frequently. Two summers ago, I received a call that a childhood friend's father had died. I drove the five hours to the funeral a couple of days later, only to see most of the people that had been my playmates as a child there to say their goodbyes. There were four of us boys among the twenty or so kids that lived on our street at one time or another that I would count as my best friends. As we talked after the service, I realized that this was the first time all of us had been in the same place together since the day I had moved away at seventeen. There was something special, and powerful about this.

The occasion was less solemn when we realized we were there to celebrate who we were, and what we had been to each other, as much as we there to say goodbye to one of our own. It seemed that this was the way we were supposed to say goodbye. This past summer, the father of one of the other members of the foursome passed away and was interred at Arlington, as he was a WWII POW. Of the four of us, I am the only one to still be survived by both parents. The circle of life goes on.

As we reach a certain age, we do become more aware of our own mortality. In some ways, this is foolish, because there is no time frame guaranteed any of us, for ourselves, or our loved ones. Many of us have experienced the sudden loss of a Oriole like Steve Bechler paralleling the unexpected loss of a young family member or friend, as well as the more "understandable" loss of an aged Cool Papa Bell, or the seemingly premature loss of a Pops Stargell.

The Orioles community lost another member this week, as Joe Orsulak's wife, Adriana, died at the age of 39 right here in Cockeysville. Adriana had a brain tumor, and she managed to live with it for over ten years despite having been given only a year to live. I had the pleasure of spending some time with her back in 1989, the "Why Not?" magic summer for the Orioles, when she accompanied Joe to an event at Baltimore's Fishmarket, the large nightclub/entertainment facility where I was Director of Operations (the reason I had moved to Baltimore the year before, actually). She and Joe had been married less than a year at the time; they had met when Joe was playing winter ball in Venezuela. The thing I remember most about her was her wonderful smile, and her declaration of how wonderful America was, and how nice the people of Baltimore were to her, and goodness, didn't they love Joltin' Joe!

And they did, and continued to do so for his five year tenure with the Birds. I wasn't aware that they had stayed in the area, but it certainly fits that a player like Joe would stay in the city that loved him, and the way he played the game...not so much with skill, but with gritty determination.

As our community currently treasures the time we have left with ex-manager Johnny Oates, whose brain cancer was supposed to have already taken him from us, we lost one that I, for one, didn't even know was in the situation she was in. The wheel goes 'round.

Many readers my age have already lost one or both of their parents; my folks were young when I came along, and they have been pretty healthy overall, so I've been fortunate. It seems that in recent years I've been attending more and more funerals, and fewer and fewer weddings. And it's sad. Loss is always difficult.

But it's a bittersweet sadness, because as we age, we can begin to see ourselves as part of a larger whole, hopefully even after we've passed beyond the mortal coil. I try to keep religion out of my columns, because there is a time and place for everything; I assume (and hope) that my spirituality peeks through in some of my work. I do know that I feel more in touch with my Creator, or life force, or whatever you want to call it (or even just your inner self, if none of that suits you), than I ever have before, even though the losses are piling up a lot faster these days.

Why? There's a Zen story that illustrates it for me.

A man is clinging to a vine while hanging off the edge of a cliff. A man-eating tiger prowls above him, so he cannot crawl back up the vine. The vine begins to give way, pulling itself out of the cliff wall. As the man ponders the situation, he sees a berry growing in the face of the cliff. He reaches over, plucks it, and eats, remarking, "AH! The Sweetest of all berries!"

And so it goes. Even in loss, we have so much for which we can be thankful, and so much life to live, whether it be a day, a week, a year, or thirty or more. It really is a wonderful life, and we have the opportunity to touch so many others, in so many ways. Let's take advantage of it while we can, and pluck and savor the sweetest of berries, our relationships, our loves, our old friends, and new ones alike.

And when your thoughts turn to Adriana, and to Joe, and their kids, smile for them. Will them your strength and good wishes, but don't weep tears of sadness. They will always be together in some fashion, and they lived for each other, and for life itself. No other berry could taste as sweet.

And, besides, as Jimmy Dugan once said, "There's no crying in baseball."

I love this game, and I love the family that is the Orioles...players, fans, coaches, staff, management, owners, old-timers. They are all part of the tapestry, and so are we.

Actually, I guess there is crying in baseball sometimes. It's up to us to make them tears of joy, no matter how bittersweet.

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