WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM- An Anniversary I Wish Didn't Exist

     I am a college baseball coach by profession. One of the things I have done for all of my 31 years of coaching is throw batting practice before each game. Normally I throw the entire 40 to 45 minutes without stopping. I'm proud to say I've never run out of gas and pulled myself out in the middle of BP. But I came awful close when the song "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" (by a group called the Police) blared over the loudspeakers that Saturday afternoon at Coastal Carolina University in March of 2009.
     Perhaps some background is appropriate here. My best childhood friend was my neighbor Kent. We spent most every afternoon together, normally playing whatever sport was in season. We did other stuff, too, like watch Batman and Robin on television. When the show was over, we ran through the woods between our houses fake-punching trees and pretending they were villains intent on destroying the world as we knew it. He was Batman. I was Robin. And I was cool with that.
     We shared dreams for the future, bags of potato chips, and good-natured jabs with each other most every day. We rode to school together, double-dated, and played together on the junior high and high school football, basketball, and baseball teams for several years running. He broke the record at the time for passing yardage for a quarterback and I broke the receiving record. We were the two leading scorers on the basketball team. He was the starting pitcher and I was the shortstop for our state champion baseball team our senior year. When he pitched two games in two days to lead us to that championship, he went from being Batman to Superman.
     Guys wanted to be him and girls wanted to be with him. He was the All-American dude and I was the tag along in his shadow who soaked in some notoriety of my own along the way. We played football and baseball together in college as well, and roomed together part of that time as well. We were groomsmen in each other's weddings. I always thought we would end up living near each other and grilling out a lot.
    That wasn't meant to be. We both left our hometown to seek our fortunes and lost touch along the way. (Social media didn't exist much back in those days). But alas, in early 2007, we reconnected by email and cellphone and promised to get together often. That wasn't meant to be either.
     Less than a year after our reconnection, in December of 2007, my best childhood friend and teammate forever, died tragically in a domestic incident at his residence. He was 44 years young. I spoke at his funeral. "Superman is no longer with us", I told the devastated friends and family who gathered that day to remember our hero.
     Time heals wounds but it doesn't erase memories. So I was caught completely off guard that day during batting practice when the Police song began. The longer the song went on, the harder it became for me to convince my right arm to reach for the next ball to throw and my legs turned to wet noodles under the pressure of a heart that was breaking all over again. It was one of the songs our senior year in high school that neither of us could get enough of. You know, the kind that when it comes on the radio, you crank the volume up as high as you can and scream the lyrics to each other while pretending to play the instruments involved.
     Ultimately I was able to complete the batting practice session without totally collapsing. But when it was over, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I snuck behind the dugout, said a few words to my departed friend, wiped away a couple tears, and gathered myself in preparation for the day's responsibilities. It had been fifteen months since my friend had died, but it was the most challenging emotional moment I had experienced since his departure. Somehow I was able to press on for the rest of that day, knowing that he would want me to go coach my rear end off to honor him. I've never mentioned that experience to anyone until the writing of this column.
     So why now? Because this week marks the tenth anniversary of the death of my best childhood friend and teammate forever, Kent Alexander. It's an anniversary that I will simply remember, but not celebrate. Instead I will celebrate his life, not his death. December 6 would also have been his 54th birthday. And I will remember it by gathering with a group of his friends like we did on the day of his funeral and like we've done on or around his birthday every year since. And I will always keep my favorite picture of Kent and me in my office where I can see it each day. In it he's hugging me during the final game of the state championship after I hit one of the few homeruns of my career. Priceless.
     Philippians 3:13-14 reminds us to forget what is behind and press on toward the goal for which God has called us Heavenward in Christ. I don't think that means we should forget those who have gone ahead of us and who have touched our lives in so many ways. I think it means when your knees are buckling, your eyes are misting, and your heart is breaking, you summon the strength God has placed within you to carry on. And you reach in the bag, pick up another ball, and throw the next pitch.