Remembering Ricky

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, April 19, 1998; Page F01 

Please forgive me if I don't feel funny today. My cousin Ricky died last
week.

He was only 44. It seemed like he'd barely even lived.

It happens all the time, in every family. He didn't feel right. So he went to
the doctors. The doctors said it was one thing. But it turned out to be
something much worse. Colon cancer.

They operated. They thought they got it all.

They didn't.

I can't say that we were particularly close. I don't think I'd seen Ricky
three times in the last 15 years. So I've been wondering why his death
affected me so -- why a couple of days ago I found myself sitting alone in
my house, at the dining room table, crying.

Maybe it's because Ricky was younger than I am. It's a stunner, the first
time somebody in the family younger than you dies. You feel your breath
catch in your chest. Half of you grieves for him, the other half for you,
because you might be next.

It's funny, but when I close my eyes, I don't see Ricky as an adult. I see
him as a child. I see him at 10 or 11, with a Yankees cap on, tossing a
baseball back and forth with his older brother, Mike. One was Mantle.
One was Berra.

The two things they loved most were music and baseball, particularly the
New York Yankees. Mike played guitar, and did some folksinging back in
the days when you could do that without being laughed at. Ricky played
drums, and later piano. For 20 years he was in a band that did weddings
and bar mitzvahs on weekends; he did it all the way into last year, when he
got too sick to play anymore.

We all went to camp together. A couple of summers I was Ricky's
counselor. I'm going back a lot of years now, but I remember one time
when he got hit in the head in a baseball game, and I had to carry him up to
the camp infirmary. I can see it so clearly, me carrying him in my arms. He
had the softest skin. It felt like one of those chamois cloths you use to wipe
an expensive car.

The rest of the kids trailed after us to make sure Ricky was all right, and he
was. All the kids liked Ricky -- the wild ones, the troubled ones, the
spoiled ones, even the mean one. Ricky was a nice kid. That's the first
word, and the best word, that comes to mind: nice. The others felt better
about themselves just being close to him.

My cousin Ricky was an ordinary man who lived an ordinary life. He lived
in the same town on Long Island his whole life. In fact, when his parents
moved to Florida, Ricky bought their place, so he actually ended up living
in the same house his whole life.

He married his high school girlfriend, Linda. He worked for a florist during
the week and played music on the weekends. Flowers and music -- so you
see, everything Ricky did made people happy.

A couple of weeks ago I found out Ricky was quite ill, that he might have
just a short time left.

I called his brother Mike and asked if Ricky was taking calls.

"Not many, but he'd love to hear from you," Mike said.

I called that afternoon. Ricky was resting. His wife said she'd wake him up.
She was sure he'd be excited to talk to me.

I cursed myself for not calling earlier.

"Hey, Ricky," I said, trying to sound chipper. "I'm coming up for the bar
mitzvah in a few weeks. I was hoping to see you."

Mike's twin sons are to be bar mitzvahed in mid-May. I was holding the
invitation in my hand. One of the reasons I'd made up my mind to go was
to see Ricky, thinking it might be the last time.

"I'm not gonna make it," Ricky said.

"Well, I guess that whole thing might be a bit strenuous," I said. "Going to
the service, and then to the luncheon. But maybe I could come over to
your house?"

"I don't think I'm gonna make it, Tony."

This time I understood what he meant.

"It's okay, really," he said. "I know I'm going to die. I've made peace with
that. I'm not afraid."

I make my living with words, but at that moment I didn't know which ones
to use.

"You playing any piano?" I asked.

"I can't. It's real hard to sit up and play."

"Well, at least spring's here, right?" I said. "And baseball's starting."

"Yeah, the Yankees look pretty good this year."

"You watching them on TV?"

"Yeah. And you know what I miss, Tony?" Ricky said, his voice thinner
than I remembered. "I miss having a catch. I miss standing outside on the
front lawn throwing a baseball around. You remember when we were kids,
and you used to come over here, and we'd have a catch?"

"I do, Ricky. You were always a terrific baseball player."

"I'd give anything to have a catch again," he said.

Ricky didn't stay on the phone long after that. I asked to talk to Linda,
who'd been so strong through all this. I could hear music in the
background. Linda told me it was Ricky playing. He had come out of the
bedroom and sat down at the piano. She was thrilled.

I went home earlier than usual that day. I took my old baseball glove down
from the shelf in my closet. I went outside on the lawn with my kids, and
we had a catch. 

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