justgame

Just a Game

"I'm ready." I had heard Rick say this phrase countless times since our friendship began eleven long years ago. He moved in down the block from me in the summer before our 6th grade year, and we instantly became friends. He was tall for his age, very athletic, and always had a smile on his face that made him look somehow both like the carefree eleven year old he was, and the modestly handsome man he would grow to become. And as different as we were physically, we had lots of good times playing Nintendo, riding our bikes around the neighborhood, and spending practically every waking hour with each other. The greatest thing we shared in common, of course, was our love for baseball..
   We were in the bottom of the sixth and final inning of the championship game, and our team - the Southgate Twins - was playing for the coveted Southgate Parks and Recreation Boys Baseball trophy. Ricky (as I called him then) was our team's best pitcher, and was about to face the 3-4-5 part of our rival Yankees' lineup, so I needed to make sure he was feeling his best so we could get three more outs and reserve a spot for us in the history of Southgate's illustrious summer baseball program.
   After he threw a few practice pitches, and the Yankees' Jimmy Thesian was ready to come to the plate, I walked to the mound - as is customary for a catcher - to have a few final words with my pitcher. I put my gloved hand on his shoulder, lifted up my heavy, slightly-too-big catcher's mask with my right hand, and was poised to give Ricky a Vince Lombardi caliber motivational speech. "You know Ricky..."
   But even during the first Summer that we were friends, Rick knew me all too well. He knew exactly what I was going to say, and also that I would probably say it in twice the amount of words that were necessary. I was, after all, a future English major, not the professional baseball player that Rick would someday be. "Don't worry Dan, I'm ready."
   Somehow, Rick's cutting me off as I was beginning to talk made me realize how good of a friend he was to me. At one the most tense moments of my brief baseball career, he unknowingly helped me to relax by simply letting me know that everything was alright. I didn't worry; he was ready.
   As well as I recall the events leading up to the biggest moment of the summer of '91, I can barely recall exactly how the Yankees scored their three runs, or what our coach said to us as the other team graciously accepted our trophy. I don't even know what - if anything - was said in Rick's mom's gray Aerostar on the ride home.
   What I do remember, is that over the years, Rick's baseball skills improved until he was the most talked about high school athlete in the Downriver area. And even though I failed to make the baseball team once I got to high school, Rick and I had remained the best of friends. When the Detroit Tigers - our favorite team - drafted him straight out of high school, even when it was still "unofficial" and he was not supposed to discuss it with anyone, he was immediately on the phone with me, telling me how great of an opportunity this was. And of course, how ready he was.
   One day, while Rick was playing for the Tigers' minor league team in Toledo, he received a call from Detroit's manager. One of the team's pitchers had broken his arm, and was going to be on the disabled list for a while, so a roster spot was vacant. Not only was Rick asked to join the team in Detroit, he was going to be starting in the game that same day - just a few hours away. When I talked to my friend on the phone, I had never heard him more excited about anything in his life.
   I immediately drove down to the newly constructed Comerica Park for the biggest moment of my friend's life - and probably in mine as well. I had no problem getting a ticket, as the Tigers were in approximately their 10th consecutive "rebuilding" year, and only the die-hard fans like myself had any interest in going down to the ballpark.
   The smell of the freshly cut grass, the cold, hard stadium seat, the mandatory Tigers Game Hot Dog that I bought on my way to my seat - everything was perfect. I took a picture of the giant scoreboard in left field, which proudly illuminated "#47 Rick Brinkman" under the Starting Pitchers heading. I looked over to the bullpen to see if he was warming up, but it was difficult to tell because of he location of Comerica's bullpens in the outfield. Nevertheless, I felt like a kid again, making my first trip to the stadium, reveling in the excitement of my first major league game.
   It was time for Rick and the hometown Detroit Tigers to take the field. Suddenly, something just didn't feel right. Jogging out from the bullpen was not #47, it was not Rick at all. Upon closer inspection, it was a veteran Tiger pitcher who had pitched for five or six different teams in his long career, and - at 37 years of age - seemed to represent everything that Ricky wasn't.
   I looked back at the scoreboard, and Rick was gone there too. We were so excited, there was no way Ricky would have missed this. The worst part was that everyone else was carrying on as though nothing was wrong. No one even noticed, or cared that this imposter was pitching Rick's game - our game.
   Whenever something major happens, particularly some type of disastrous event, people always talk about how they "knew something was wrong," or how they had "a strange feeling" all day. And while I still remain skeptical of this phenomenon, when I didn't see Rick running onto the field, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it all over, from my feet that would not support the weight of my body, to my stomach that was trying to twist and turn its way out of my skin, to my eyes that were struggling to hold back the tears that wanted to stream down my face.
   I left my seat so quickly that I left my camera under the seat along with my half-eaten hot dog, and ran to the first payphone I could find. I called Mrs. Brinkman to see if she had heard from Ricky. She answered the phone through tears and managed to choke out a "Hello?" in between her painful breaths. This worsened my already horrible feelings about the situation; I could barely force out any words myself. I managed to ask "Where is he?"
   "Oakwood Hospital. I was just on my way out the door, I'll see you there."
   It turned out that Rick was less than 5 miles away from Comerica Park when his Blue '91 Thunderbird that he had had since high school struck the concrete wall that separates the highway from the residential houses on the southwest border of Detroit. Uninjured passengers of the other cars that were caught in the accident said that they couldn't tell what had caused his car to violently slam into the deadly cement on the highway, but that he seemed to be driving at a "normal" speed.
   The ICU at Oakwood is just three floors away from the room where both Ricky and I had been born, within one week of each other. It would be eleven years until we would meet each other, and another eleven years until he would take his last breath in nearly the same spot he took his first.
   When I got home, I realized that my camera was still at the park, and that I wouldn't be able to see Rick's name on the scoreboard a second time. Everything had happened so fast, I needed to be assured that I had, in fact, been at the game and saw his name in lights - if only for a few minutes. But I can only see that photograph on the bookshelf in my head. And as I look around my room and see a vacant spot where where I could have put this picture, I can also see the emptiness occupying the spot where our Little League trophy would have stood. It is funny how the absence of something can generate such a powerful memory of my friend. And sometimes the only thing that keeps me going through the rough times in life, is the vivid memory of the last thing Rick ever said to me: "I'm ready..."