He was only 22 years old.
He pitched his last game and then went out into the cool Los Angeles evening.
It would be his final pitch.
Nick Adenhart, big league pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels was killed last evening in a traffic fatality.
He wasn't drinking and driving.
He wasn't even driving.
He was the innocent victim in a deadly crash, precipitated when another driver ran a red light and rammed the car Nick was a passenger in.
The news on the radio said that Adenhart had pitched that night.
His final line: Six innings and no runs allowed.
It was his fourth and final major league game.
The first three had been less than stellar.
Nick had saved his best for last.
Yet, Nick's final pitching line does not define him.
It is surreal that sports announcers fall into the trap of trivializing an athlete dying young.
In the same report, it was announced that Marvin Webster, 55, was found dead in a bathtub in a hotel room. There was no mention of how he died, but of course, it was mentioned that he lead Seattle to the 1978 NBA finals.
Cold!
To the many fans of Nick Adenhart, I offer the words of A.E. Houseman who might have not known sports statistics, but he knew about those who played them and the rest of us, who dedicate our lives to cheering their exploits.
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip business away
From fields where glory does not stay.
And early through the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut.
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade.
The fleet foot on the sill of shade.
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup
And round that early laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless-dead.
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
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