BRONX, NY – This past Friday morning, my brother Chris passed away peacefully in his sleep in a hospital bed in New York’s Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. I don’t want to get into the particulars regarding his last years, months, days, but instead would like (if you’ll allow me) to celebrate his life as it applied to sports.
Baseball. Long before I ever grew a soul, and a brain, my brother was a fan of the New York Mets. His interest in all the all remaining sports and leagues combined was virtually zero when compared to what he felt for his beloved Mets. He lived through the lean years of the mid-to-late 1970s, only to see the Mets blossom—and become a season ticket holder—during their mid-’80s heyday. Only after watching the likes of Bruce Boisclair and Elliott Maddox and Skip Lockwood play day in and day out could you truly appreciate a magical year like 1986.
Those who knew Chris—and there were many—knew exactly where to find him at Shea Stadium. Pretty much every Tuesday and Friday night home game he was parked in his awesome seats in Loge Level Section 8, “his living room” as my friend Ken Belson just described it, down the third base line. I went to a lot of games with him there, and it was positively infuriating how many times we were forced to watch Steve Trachsel (“The Human Rain Delay”) ply his trade on the bump for the Mets. I should say it was infuriating for me. Chris would actually get a kick out of at how ticked off I’d be.
Predictably, those halcyon days at the concrete Queens monolith in Flushing ended when Citi Field was built, Loge Section 8 was no more, and Chris and many of the diehards priced out and kicked upstairs to new seats in the not-quite-nosebleeds. That lasted a year. The same magic wasn’t there, and from that point on Chris just went from game to game and seat to seat, whenever and wherever they might be. He never stopped loving the team—still texted me regularly about games or about being saddened by the news of Ed Kranepool’s death or other news—but I believe a piece of him remained back at Shea.
Wiffle Ball. Chris wasn’t particularly athletic, and he didn’t play little league baseball or any other sports really, but he still loved when a bunch of us would gather on the street to play Wiffle. Again, he wasn’t good, and almost all of his at-bats looked like some sort of unintentional and ill-advised “butcher boy” play, but he loved to play. There’s a lesson in there, that almost no one ever heeds. You can completely stink at something and still get enjoyment out of it. It’s true. Just ask Short Matt about his acting and screenwriting career!
Boxing. Four years my senior, Chris used to tease the sh!t out of me as a kid. Many fights ensued. He was bigger so I was often pinned with little to no effort. Then one Christmas Dad got us boxing gloves. He thought that would be a great way to settle our differences. I LOVED the idea, Chris was less enthusiastic. He liked the Ali antagonization a whole lot better than his little brother attempting to relentlessly whale on him Joe Frazier-style. Predictably, neither of our boxing careers ever launched.
Basketball, Hockey, Football. More than anything else, Chris was a New Yorker. So, even though he didn’t care near as much for the other three major sports, he did root for the Knicks, Giants, and Rangers and wore the corresponding jerseys, t-shirts, and caps. Thankfully, he realized the Jets and their ilk were a lost cause. He was smart that way, and in many others.
He’s not around anymore, and I already miss him. He was a really nice guy, an always-helpful friend, and a gentle soul. I like to imagine he’s somewhere now in his old seats in Section 8 watching this Braves series screaming: LET’S GO METS!, LET’S GO METS!, LET’S GO METS!
Let’s go, Chris. You were a great brother.
