Doc
Back in 1978 a young outfielder with the California Angels, Lyman Bostock, was shot dead in a case of mistaken identity.
I was just 13 years old at the time, but was as big a baseball fan as you could be. I'd seen Bostock hit a homer at a game between Toronto and Minnesota at exhibition stadium. Bostock had been with the Twins then. It was the first homerun I'd ever seen live.
So, his death shook me.
Was the first wave of thinking about death, in what has become a lifelong dance. The new book is called The big D.
The dance continues.
My son, Jake, texted me during the day on Tuesday.
"Roy Halladay died."
I was on a shuttle bus on the way to the airport in New York. I hadn't seen any news of the day. (No wonder my mood was good).
"WHAT!!!"
"Plane crash. Man, Doc was great," Jake wrote.
And he was a great pitcher for Toronto and Philly.
Not good...
...great.
He caused the Yankees fits, but as a baseball fan, I enjoyed watching him perform.
As per usual, I didn't go read any of the coverage.
(Just dancing).
I boarded the plane.
When I landed there were two more texts from Jake:
"Man, this is so sad!"
And
"He donated $100,000 to kids in Toronto and Philly, every year!"
Jake was feeling as I felt when Bostock passed, and my poor kids started their dance earlier than I had, and they still ache when they think about lost family members.
I needed to be wise for him.
But I was out of wisdom.
Takes me a whole book to arrive at conclusions!
So, we simply commiserated.
Talked about Halladay's playoff no-hitter.
His family.
His life-long passion with aviation.
Celebrated what we knew of his life...
...'cause that's all you can do.
And as I closed my eyes on Tuesday night I considered Bostock rounding the bases back about 40 years ago.
A big, strong athletic kid.
Gone. A short time later.
Dance.
RIP, Doc.
I was just 13 years old at the time, but was as big a baseball fan as you could be. I'd seen Bostock hit a homer at a game between Toronto and Minnesota at exhibition stadium. Bostock had been with the Twins then. It was the first homerun I'd ever seen live.
So, his death shook me.
Was the first wave of thinking about death, in what has become a lifelong dance. The new book is called The big D.
The dance continues.
My son, Jake, texted me during the day on Tuesday.
"Roy Halladay died."
I was on a shuttle bus on the way to the airport in New York. I hadn't seen any news of the day. (No wonder my mood was good).
"WHAT!!!"
"Plane crash. Man, Doc was great," Jake wrote.
And he was a great pitcher for Toronto and Philly.
Not good...
...great.
He caused the Yankees fits, but as a baseball fan, I enjoyed watching him perform.
As per usual, I didn't go read any of the coverage.
(Just dancing).
I boarded the plane.
When I landed there were two more texts from Jake:
"Man, this is so sad!"
And
"He donated $100,000 to kids in Toronto and Philly, every year!"
Jake was feeling as I felt when Bostock passed, and my poor kids started their dance earlier than I had, and they still ache when they think about lost family members.
I needed to be wise for him.
But I was out of wisdom.
Takes me a whole book to arrive at conclusions!
So, we simply commiserated.
Talked about Halladay's playoff no-hitter.
His family.
His life-long passion with aviation.
Celebrated what we knew of his life...
...'cause that's all you can do.
And as I closed my eyes on Tuesday night I considered Bostock rounding the bases back about 40 years ago.
A big, strong athletic kid.
Gone. A short time later.
Dance.
RIP, Doc.
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