Your Ballplayin' Days

When my family moved into our new neighborhood in the 1970s, the first person who greeted me was the boy across the street. His name was Dana. 

I guess word had spread through the grapevine there was a new kid in town; a new kid in Hidden Valley.

During our childhood years, we were frequently together. He was my Halloween trick-or-treat partner; he and I would often play with our Hot Wheels cars or GI Joes.

And as we grew up a little bit, we always played whatever sport was in-season. Basketball in his folks' driveway; football or baseball in his family's vacant lot. 

Then, when we got older, one of the guys really got a hold of a pitch, launched that baseball and one-hopped the house across the street. Dana's dad made the slow walk out to the pitcher's mound and told us, "Boys, your ballplayin' days are over." 

It was the right call.

Yesterday, I went to a Celebration of Life event for my friend. Dana passed away, suddenly, (too early) last month. 

Those words: "...your ballplayin' days are over..." were ringing in my ears. 

Going to the celebration was also the right call. 

Throughout our childhood, Dana was my rainy day buddy and, later, my wingman when I drove us to school during my senior year (his junior year).

He was also willing to don a tuxedo and stand up for me as one of the groomsmen at our wedding.

Here we are, together (sans tux) at the rehearsal.

Sadly, after the wedding, we lost touch. There wasn't any sort of falling out. We just moved in different directions. I remember running into him in restaurants, twice, in the past 20 years.  Our greetings were always warm and cordial 

Like our time on the sandlot, our active time as friends had passed–even though he is one of the special people who helped weave the fabric of those early years. I will always think of him that way. And whenever we re-connected, it was just like old times. 

I told you a lot about how the Summer of '78 was the year I became immersed in modern rock and pop music. Dana helped guide the way. And after I graduated from college and moved home in preparation for a first job and our wedding later that spring, he and I picked up like it was '78 all over again. 

Or our ballplayin' days. 

I thought a lot about those times–and regaled others with stories of our childhood antics–at the Celebration. Building a snow fort. Sharing and swapping our Halloween loot. His impression of Igor, saying "Walk dees way..." that never failed to crack me up.

Most of the people there represented later years. Friends of his daughter. His co-workers. His brother and sister-in-law.

But I was there to represent the boys of Hidden Valley; Lewis and Larry. Bobby and Mike. Joe and Steve. Those were the boys who watched in amazement as the baseball took flight that day.

In some ways, it feels like the ball never landed. Or maybe it just did.

JG