Opening Day

Ahhhhhh. We've survived another winter. Today is the day we've all been waiting for--opening day.

I'm not gonna get all philosophical on you with the "time stands still on opening day" or "hope springs eternal" stuff. That, perhaps, is for another time. I'm also not going to share what I was originally going to post today--the story of my nephew's fight with leukemia. Alas, that is for another time, too. Today is about springtime and celebration, even if it's true my Rockies don't have a chance again this year. ::sigh::

In the last 18 months, we've lost three important people in our lives. Yeah, I'm going to share Nate's story another time but today is about Mark. Mark was one of my college friends; the sort of person I loved dearly but didn't always know what to do with or how to approach. He could send me over the edge like no one, but he had a heart the size of Texas, was a life-long Cardinals fan, and he was my friend.

It wasn't always that way. We didn't get a long at all when we first met in college. I found him to be brash, arrogant, and chauvinistic--and he was all of those things and would tell you that himself. Finally, Mark wormed his way into my heart. We did have a lot of things in common--books, music (including a deep and undying love for "Ladies of the Canyon" and Bruce Cockburn's early albums), movies, and of course, baseball.

Mark, as I mentioned, was a Cardinals fan from way back and one of those who could quote any record as far back as you wanted to go, and was a bit (just a bit...) of a baseball purist. His joke, which I stole (with his blessing) was that when he became Supreme Ruler of the Universe, the first thing he would do would be to eliminate the Designated Hitter. He hated the DH and wild card and anything else that took away from the purity of the game. Like Jose Canseco.

Mark and I decided we'd go on a date. I remember the conversation but I don't remember how it came about. We used to spend our summer afternoons and evenings (we were in college) going to Zephyr-Bear games. The Zs were our AAA team and it killed Mark just to call them the "Zephyrs" since the Bears had been our team before they arrived in town. One afternoon we decided we'd go on a date. Our first date would be at the first major league game in Denver--whenever that might be. We joked that our grandchildren might be in tow and we might live in different parts of of the country, but we would be there.

We got our "date" sooner than expected. Denver agreed to build a park (never, ever a "stadium" to Mark; a stadium is for football....) and we got the Colorado Rockies in 1993. Mark and our friend Jess traveled to New York for the first three games against the Mets at Shea. And then, on a sunny April afternoon, we got our date. Mark, Jess, Amanda, and I met for lunch at the Wazee Supper Club and walked over to Mile High Stadium, along with 80,000 of our closest friends.

Mark stepped away to buy programs for everyone and missed the historic first at-bat--Eric Young's dinger out of the park off of Bryn Smith of the Expos. We teased him about that for weeks, and actually years. Everyone was pumped up that day. Mark gave a lively interview to someone from a Montreal TV station, and announced to all who were in earshot that we were on our first date and that we were going to name our kids Javey Lopez and Elvis Lucifer (don't ask). That was one of the best days of my life and one of the best days of Mark's life.

We went to every opening day and closing day we could. It was one of our baseball rituals, along with never arriving late or leaving early. There was more than one freezing cold game where we sat huddled together, drinking hot chocolate, and praying that they'd call the game. April in Colorado is often cruel but baseball fans must remain focused and committed.

We also had the home plate ritual. We always entered Coors Field (or whichever park we were at) the same way. You must find the entrance closest to home plate, walk up to the top of the stairs (before the usher shoos you away....), stop, remove your cap, take a deep breath, and pause a moment soak it all in. I still do this.

Curiously, Mark never drank beer at baseball games--ever. He felt it made people act stupid and it took away from the details of the game. It was difficult to keep score and keep your focus if you were drinking beer. He also cursed Jeff Bagwell (Baaaagwell, you suuuuck!) and Jose Canseco at every opportunity.

And when Nigel moved to Colorado and we got married, Mark took him under his wing, teaching him everything he could about the game--the history, the rules, the nuances. (As a funny side note, Nigel's first baseball game was not with Mark or with me, but with my stepdad and my rabbi, about five days after he arrived in the country.... And still, he stayed.)

Mark died last summer. He was a long-distance truck driver and he was found dead in his cab just outside of Denver in mid-July, dead at 48 of a massive heart attack. I hadn't talked to Mark in more than a year. Our friendship was strained, for any number of reasons, but there was one constant: I did love him. I hope he knew that. He enriched my life and gave me so many laughs and great memories. Opening day was one of the things Mark lived for and I will always remember him fondly on this, the most important day of spring.

Play ball.