To My Cousin

I will be 72 years old in a month. The last pitch I threw with purpose was 60 years ago. Yet baseball remains an integral part of my life, with an overflowing bag of memories of those who shared in many of the happiest days of my youth. Like my cousin.

He was born three weeks after me in 1952. We lived in the same town. Our mom's spoke to each other at 8 AM every morning, without fail, and then several more times throughout the course of every day. They came from a family of five, four sisters and then a late arriving brother. Family was for them, and by extension for us, the very center of life.

Whenever my parents were away I stayed at my cousin's house. Through the years he and I became good friends. And our closest connecting tissue was baseball.

Mel Allen and Red Barber. Baseball and Ballentine. The transistor radio, with the leather case, informing us of how our beloved Yankees were faring, as we huddled close to it in our pajamas, staying up later than we were allowed. My cousin's grandpa giving his own play by play to us of the pros and cons of the contest and the broadcasters.

My cousin was a wonderful person, with a quick smile, warm and encouraging. He hid the fact that he was an absolute genius behind many layers of sweetness and calm. 

I am sure we had catches over the years, certain we went to his elementary school, but a stone's throw away, and hit some balls to each other in the playground there. But those times are lost to the fog of age.

What does remain is the joy that I felt with him in his house. Not merely listening to his mom speak, with intended humor, of the good and bad list that she kept. Not just going downstairs to his dad's optometry office, where we spent many mornings running through various protocols to help us with our capacity to absorb and retain information. Not just being so at ease and comfortable with him. But our shared passion for baseball and our team.

Over the course of a long and storied career, my cousin accomplished many great things. Renowned in his field, an author of note, a law school professor for nearly three decades. His prodigious achievements universally recognized and appreciated.

But through it all, wherever his brilliance led, he never lost his simple passion for baseball. We continued to discuss the ups and downs of our team from the early days of Mickey Mantle to the glory days of Aaron Judge and the dominance of Gerrit Cole.

My cousin passed away earlier this month. Spring training then underway. I am certain that if he were still here we would be in deep conversation about what we could expect this coming season from those on the diamond in whom we would be so thoroughly invested .

Opening Day comes later this week. While I await its arrival with much joy, it will be tinged with sadness, with recollections of gathering around that radio and of a cousin who left this world a better place. But left far, far too soon.

Here's to you my friend. Play ball.