Hurls Returns

Many decades ago when I played Little League, John Longinotti was the hardest thrower in the league. Everyone feared batting against him. When I finally had my chance, he drilled me in the back. I went down like a sack of cement. Lying in the dirt next to home plate, I didn’t cry, but I whined and moaned a lot. I could feel the welt, inflamed and rising. Eventually, I arose and later in the game even got a hit off him. Take that, John!

I’ve been thinking of that incident recently.

Where to begin? About six weeks I learned my brother Pat had some serious health issues. Then, a month ago he died in Riverside, CA. The whole situation was a mess. Despite his age (77) and poor health, he had made no provision for his death. No will, no trust, no money or insurance. Because he was divorced and his only daughter was estranged, the burden fell to his four siblings to settle his affairs. We took it on.

If you don’t know my sibs, they are amazing people, just a remarkable trio. A teacher, a therapist, and a pastor. That doesn’t sound very impressive, but trust me, they are unreasonably, unequivocally gifted. Truly, at times, they intimidate me. It ain’t easy being a Hurley in that clan.

After Pat’s death, we divvied up the tasks and took care of business. There was a brief ceremony a few weeks after his passing, and Pat’s remains were laid to rest in Winton, near his hometown of Atwater.

Pat was a walking contradiction in many ways. All of us carry those plusses and minuses, the tensions of our better half and other half, but most try to hide the darker side. Pat? He showcased the whole enchilada every day. He gloried in it, living each day with one foot planted firmly in the past and the other charging toward the future. Charming and contentious, brilliant and foolish, funny and caustic, insightful yet completely tone-deaf. The eternal Beach Boy hellbent on bending the world to his values. He was all of those things and more every day of his life.

Here’s his full obit if you want more details.

Pat was generous to a fault sometimes. In 1985 Melanie and I only moved to Chicago to take a teaching job at Wheeling job because Pat and his wife let us live rent-free in their home in Evanston. Or so we thought. We found out later that Pat set up that arrangement without discussing it with his then-wife. That didn’t work out well for him or for us either.

To call him a gifted orator is an understatement. I’ve never seen a better high school speaker. Ever. He could banter for thirty minutes mesmerizing an audience of 2000 teens in a steamy gym on a Friday afternoon. They were playdough. Later, that same silver tongue might infuriate or demean some poor soul who gave him the wrong rental car or overcooked his cheeseburger.

In the past year when I spoke to him, he would compliment my blog in one breath and then demand I write about his influence on my life. “I was the most important person in your life,” he would argue. I tried to explain I didn’t write puff pieces about my siblings or anyone else. I told stories and made observations, looked for insights in the commonplace.

The truth was that I was very grateful for him, but he was like a tasty plate of chicken rife with shards of bones. You never knew what each bite would bring. He was complicated.

Ironically, I am finally writing about him. I’m sure he would have had issues with my take on his life, complimenting me with one breath and chastising with the next.

Still, I mourn his death, even as I pen this. He was my brother and I loved him. I always will. I’ll remember the good and shelve the bad. Playing Hearts, pizza from Michaelangelo’s, Cubs games at Wrigley, Albert Brooks movies. There’s plenty of good to dwell upon, so I’ll camp there.

I had intended to fly to CA for his memorial, to grieve with my other sibs, to find some closure on this issue. We would have told stories about Pat (there’s an endless supply), laughed and cried together, but I missed the opportunity.

A week before I was supposed to leave, I came down with Influenza B. It’s the achy body-teeth chattering fever-no appetite-cough up a lung flu. I do not recommend. Zero stars from me on Yelp. No way I could fly to his memorial. I would have been miserable, and possibly infected everyone I contacted.

It was the right choice, the only choice, really. As bad as the flu was, missing that time with my siblings was even more miserable. But what are you gonna do?

The illness lingered more than two weeks. I had no desire to write or work or do anything. Sleep was nearly impossible, and being awake was not much better.

Just as I was coming out of the funk, Texas decided to freeze. Freezing rain, sleet, lows in single digits, below freezing temps for four days. The icy sheen on all the roads made leaving the house impossible. This was mostly ice, not snow, and Texas (unlike Chicago) just ain’t built for this kind of weather. Schools shut down for a week. Life turned into staring out windows and wondering when it would end.

Again, I just couldn’t muster the focus to write. I prowled the house like a raccoon on amphetamines, driving my family crazy. Couldn’t work out or go out. The storm hit eleven days ago and the ice only fully melted Tuesday. But it did finally melt. Life is back to normal.

Sibling death and subsequent work to clean up the mess. Missed trip to CA. Type-B Influenza. Frozen Texas tundra. Lingering grief. No surprise I lacked the energy to write.

But I’m back now! Life drilled me with a fastball between the shoulder blades, and it stung like a searing hot poker. Curled up at home (plate), I writhed in pain for a bit. Then I rubbed some dirt on it, and trotted to first base. The welt remains.

Vince Lombardi said, “It’s not whether you get knocked down, but whether you get back up.” I got back up.