Hey Bill. How're you doing?

My buddy Bill popped up in my memory today. It's a combination of things, I think: the sinful shootings down at Virginia Tech, start of baseball season, gathering my kids to watch Jackie Robinson's widow speak, Kevin's heart valve surgery next week, watching Opening Night of the Daytona Cubs.

Bill loved baseball, just like me. The Bowie BaySox had to play a season at the old Memorial Stadium in Baltimore for a year, and we went up to watch. We argued: He wanted every game to be 16-14, going 14 innings. I always liked the 2-0 pitcher's duel. Nah, you're all wrong, he'd say. I want to be here all day. I got things to do, I'd say. He liked minor league baseball best (he's in the Red Wings Hall of Fame, you know), and I think I like it best now, too.

Bill died about a while ago. Sure, it was a painful funeral, but it was the day he died of the heart attack that haunts me when I dwell on it. I got the call, and called Marlene. She was Bill's second wife, and I was their best man. How can I help, I asked.

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to get too close to that agony. I was afraid of the Grief Abyss. I wanted distance. I wanted a pass.

How can you help, she asked. Bring me back my husband. Bring Bill home. And she screamed and screamed for as loud and as long as she could.

I drove fast down 95 and called a psychologist I knew. This is going to get bad, I told her, and I've got my own grief memories. I don't want to trigger them. Keep her calm, she said, and keep her comfortable. If she gets into a dark space, change the environment. See if she'll go for a walk, even just to get the mail.

The day and the evening went as expected. Made some funeral arrangements. Took turns fielding the phone calls. She wrote the obit. I made more coffee.

Later the neighborhood wives came around, and Marlene's grief was overwhelming everyone. We were all sinking into a dark space. Hey, I said, who wants to go for a walk. I know I do. Too cold, said everyone. It was late December. Just to the mailbox, I said. One of the women took Marlene down the street to the condo mailbox, and the rest of us tried to clean the house in 4-5 minutes.

She looked through the holiday mail. It was something to do. Then she opened a Christmas card Bill had mailed to his wife at his own house. And it arrived the day he died. In it, the told her he loved her, loved her, loved her.

And Marlene wailed, her face melted like a clown. I said nothing, hugged her, left and drove to a very nearby bar.

I feel very guilty for not keeping up with Marlene. Her emotions and my memories are so very overpowering. Bill's tribute page still stands: http://www.harborsights.com/bill.

Holding the kids the other morning, having them watch Jackie Robinson's widow, I kept telling them this is very important. Is he different than us because he has black skin? They watch me, having no idea what's the right answer. No, I said. We're all the same. In baseball, we're all the same.

The kids don't understand why I think baseball is important. I enjoy a minor league game better than the majors. And I like pitcher's duels best, especially when they go into extra innings.

Note: Marlene wrote an incredible eulogy.