The Futility Infielder

In the past week I've experienced as full a spectrum of emotions regarding the passages of life as anyone probably should in an eight-day span. None of this has much to do with baseball except tangentially, but I need to share it nonetheless as I count my own blessings.

Last Saturday, I attended the wedding of Issa Clubb and Johanna Schiller, a beautiful ceremony up in the Catskills. A close friend since college, Issa was my roommate at the time I created this site (he's perhaps best known here for the David Segui Foul Ball Incident), and we've enjoyed hundreds of ballgames, thousands of meals, and heaven knows how many pints of beer together. In Johanna, he's found a wonderful soulmate, one who occupied the very next cubicle to him at Criterion, and as I said in toasting their union at the reception, I couldn't be happier for either of them.

On Tuesday I received the joyous news of the birth of Clemens Charlot Goldman, the son of my good friend Steven Goldman and his wife Stefanie. Young Mr. Goldman is named not for the big dumb ox and former Yankee Roger Clemens but for the infinitely more witty and irreverent Samuel Langhorne Clemens, who in his alter ego of Mark Twain begat A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Huckleberry Finn, and other classic tales. A couple of weeks ago, my wife Andra and I had the pleasure of dining with the expectant Goldmans, making the arrival of this babe all the more tangible. Mazel tov to them both.

Less than an hour after I heard the good news emanating from Camp Goldman, I received much more tragic news. A friend and business partner of the woman who introduced me to my wife had taken her own life at age 34. I didn't know Kim very well at all; in fact I didn't even know her last name until after her untimely passing, and I probably saw her on less than a dozen occasions. Nonetheless, in the brief time I knew her she touched my life and those of my friends with an unforgettable warmth that compelled me to attend her funeral service this morning.

I met Kim at the housewarming party Andra and I threw for ourselves upon moving in together two years ago. She arrived early with our mutual friends, bearing gifts: yo-yo water balls. She had recently discovered the squishy, springy joys of these silly toys, and it didn't take ten seconds of playing with one to understand why. Kim and I bonded in laughter and fun as we bounced them around while marveling at the view of Manhattan from our rooftop. I spent a good part of my baseball watching that summer and fall with that toy as my security blanket through tense moments, a nice little outlet for my petty frustrations, and when it expired, I replaced it with another and thought of Kim.

Kim was an exuberant, charismatic woman who emanated a warmth and generosity that was instantly recognizable. She never greeted me with anything less than a beaming smile and a hug, and as I think of her, I'm reminded of the title of an obscure song by the pop group Blondie: "I'm Always Touched By Your Presence, Dear." That may sound incredibly trite, but it's true. To this casual acquaintance, she was never less than a joy to be around.

In attending her service today, I came to know Kim a little bit better, and particularly to understand just how deeply her generosity ran. This was a woman who routinely went to the main post office in Manhattan every December to collect letters to Santa Claus, doing her best to fulfill the Christmas wishes of hopeful children, selflessly spreading her love to those who might never even know who she was and encouraging her friends to do the same. To those of us who recoil in cynicism at the crass commercialism of the holidays, her actions provide a model of the small effort we can make to help make the world a better place for those around us.

The poor woman obviously had her own demons, but who among us does not? I'm heartbroken to know that in her darkest hour she was unable to see that the love she so vividly radiated was reflected back towards her a hundredfold by those whom she touched. I know that if someone like me, who only knew her for a short time, could feel the sadness I do right now, then those closest to her must be enduring an unfathomable sorrow. My heavy heart goes out to her friends and family. Rest in peace, Kim.