Saying goodbye to too many old friends

It’s Sunday night, and sleep is hard to come by.
It’s not usually this way. No, work calls me in early on Sundays, so I’m usually rather tired when bedtime rolls around. But not tonight.
You see, in Georgia, a 5-year-old boy is expected to love two things: his grandfather and baseball, usually taking in the latter while in the company of the former.
I’m not 5 anymore, and tonight that truth is hitting hard.
My grandfather passed away in his sleep back in May. The last conversation I had with him came on a whim – I called him during an hour-long car ride up from Indianapolis to my home in Lafayette. I hadn’t talked to him in a while, and I wanted to check in.
We discussed the Atlanta Braves, as we always would, taking special care to articulate our arguments so the powers that be wouldn’t have any trouble following our advice as soon as we could get them on the phone (we’d been trying for years).
The last thing I said, naturally, was “I love you,” and while I miss my grandfather every day, I’m glad I got to say it.
My father text messaged me Sunday night – he digs texting, renaissance man that he is – with the news that the Braves’ longtime play-by-play man Skip Caray had passed away. For the few of you reading this lucky enough to hail from Atlanta or the surrounding area, I’m sure you’ll agree no Braves fan could ever take that news well.
I remember the Skip Caray – son of Harey, for Chicago Cubs fans – that others do: He was sarcastic and loved a good pun. When foul balls found their way into the outstretched hands of a fan he’d say “A fan from Hahira, Ga., caught that ball,” knowing full well that fan had as much chance of being from Hahira as anyone outside the baseball-Drew family does of knowing where Hahira is. He took that show on the road, too.
The most immediate memories that came to me of Skip, however, had nothing to do with his signature style or his cranky demeanor, nor did my mind rush back to that memorable night in 1995 when he declared to the world, “The Atlanta Braves have given you a championship! Listen to this crowd!”
No, I remembered a living room, the satisfaction of a good meal on its way to my stomach and the settling in for the night that was the Braves game. At my grandparents’ house, it was what was on TV after dinner, and granddaddy and I would sit in that room from first pitch to last, debating the future of Bobby Cox’s boys until we were blue in the face and the innings were gone.
They came fewer and farther between, those lazy summer evenings listening to Skip and the rest of the crew. My exit to Bloomington coupled with the fact that most of my returns came in the winter meant granddaddy and I had to do our Brave debating over the phone. But Skip was still there, and through him we saw the same game.
It’s August now. The leaves will turn soon, baseball season is noticeably closer to its end than its beginning. Soon stadiums will empty for the last time as the diamonds begin their long hibernation between the end of summer and Spring Training.
But it won’t be quite complete for me when pitchers and catchers report next February. There will be a ringing and irreplaceably empty part of it all, the pastime that defined my childhood.
I would assume that those of you who are reading this opened the paper today to this page for the specific reason that you like sports. And I will also make the leap of faith that, having gotten you this far down the page, you have some kindred experience, some similar lasting memory from younger days that still gives you goosebumps and makes you wish that, for just one blissful moment in time, you could find yourself 5 years old again, sitting on that living room floor with the game about to start.
You didn’t have to know Skip Caray, and you certainly didn’t have to know my grandfather. But I hope you once got to know the feeling, I truly do.
Goodbye, Skip. And goodbye, granddaddy.