(*) FANALYTICS: Ignoring the signs

Two years ago, when the steroids issue reared its ugly head again, I wrote the following passage:

"One of the admonishments was that everyone turned a blind eye to the problem. I'm not sure we all deliberately buried our heads in the sand; I think we just did not realize that something bigger was going on. All we saw was a marginally-related group of isolated events.

"We went day by day, (observing these random events) but we rarely asked tough questions or demanded answers. Why would we? We were never faced with these particular types of events. There was no reason for us to see beyond their face value or to try to string them together. We had no reason to anticipate any bad outcomes. But after it was all over, we were forced to look back. Only then did we put the pieces together and realize, 'Wow, how could we have missed that?' "

While I wrote this about steroids, the more I re-read it, the more I realize that much of it is just basic human nature. Even journalists, employed to piece together patterns and ferret out truths, get caught up in the apathetic day-to-dayness of life. It's unfortunate, but not unique.

So we missed the signs on steroids use. It matters much more when we miss the signs on bigger things.

Let me tell you about my friend Walter.

I met him during my sophomore year of college and we fast became friends. He was the cartoonist on the college newspaper when I became the managing editor. He was the lefty-slugging first-baseman on our beer-league softball teams (I was at second). I played the music at his wedding; he ushered at mine. He moved to New Hampshire; I followed.

In the summer of 1984, we both latched onto a little green book I had found in a B.Dalton's Bookseller in Manchester. Our first fantasy sports experience—a hockey league—launched that fall. The next spring, our first baseball draft kicked off a 10-year run. We were a handful of teachers, a psychologist, a lawyer, a tech executive, a sports card shop owner, and me. We'd sit around my dining room table buying ballplayers while the wives all went out to spend our potential winnings.

Walt (in the center of the picture above) was the early winner, nabbing four titles in the first seven years. I won the last three, lulling myself into believing I could write about the game and still pay the rent. I think he was always a bit dubious at that prospect, and equally bemused about my eventual success.

A year after the baseball strike dissolved the league, I moved my family to Virginia. Daily life takes over when you're in the midst of raising a family but Walt and I tried to stay in touch as best we could. Over the next 18 years, I felt bad that I could not be more a part of his life. But no matter what happened, he always grabbed a seat at the back of the room at First Pitch Boston.

A week ago, Walt collapsed and died of a pulmonary embolism.  He was alone, his body found some hours after not showing up for work. He was 56.

You see, after his divorce, Walt's weight ballooned and his health deteriorated. He continued to navigate his public world with caring, wit and humor. He navigated his physical world with a cane; his knees were shot.

I don't know about anyone else in his life, but I never talked to him about it. I never asked if he needed help because I assumed that he was under a doctor's care and, well heck, he was an adult and guys just don't talk about things like that. By time you're in your 40s and 50s, you should have a handle on your life, right? I knew he would have too much pride to ask for help anyway.

Still, I should have at least asked.

"But there was no reason for me to see beyond the face value or to try to string things together. I had no reason to anticipate any bad outcome. But now that it's over, I'm forced to look back. Only now am I putting the pieces together and realizing, 'Wow, how could I have missed that?' "

Fantasy baseball is a social game. I think that little green book made it abundantly clear that the most valuable aspect of the experience is the camaraderie. Our lives are shaped by these connections we make. But it's often superficial.

We talk about the types of people who play in our leagues. We know the guy who overpays for his home team players and then complains when his team flounders. We complain about the guy who won't make a trade unless it is heavily weighted in his favor. We dismiss the guy whose trash talk covers up the fact that he knows a lot less about the game than he claims.

What we don't talk about are the real people behind those personalities. I think back and remember those few guys from the dozens of leagues I've been in over the years, who left an impression on me in other ways.

I remember the guy who was the clown at the draft table, who we egged on as he downed his four "primer beers" before he rostered a single player. (He always needed a ride home.) I recall one older gentleman who was a heavy breather at the table but always went out for a smoke in between rounds. More recently, I remember a guy at First Pitch Arizona who piled up his plate at the Saturday buffet with two hamburgers, three hotdogs, a huge mound of potato salad and two bags of chips, and then took up two seats at the afternoon draft.

I don't know what happened to those guys. I do remember those for whom I now know the outcomes. I remember Steve Schmits. I remember Frank Duffy. I remember Walter Heinhold.

With my friend, I don't know that there is anything that could have been done to change his outcome. For me, though, I never even asked the question. It could have been a simple conversation. It might have gone like this:

Me: "Hey man, you doing okay?"
Walt: "Eh, I'm fine. I'm living."
Me: "No really, you've put on a bunch of weight. That can't be good."
Walt: "Nah, I'm fine, really."
Me: "Ok. I don't want to be a jerk about it, but if you ever want to talk, or need help with anything, just give me a holler. Seriously. I'm glad you're okay, but I'm worried about you, man. We've been through a lot together. I wouldn't want anything to happen."

And maybe that would have led to a bigger conversation. Maybe it would have just been a matter of helping him find the right resources. These days it only takes a few mouse clicks to get someone connected with anything from a drug counselor to a nutritionist to an appropriate medical specialist.

Or maybe the conversation would have ended there. I don't know; I never tried.

One thing I do know is that he would never have asked me for help. In 38 years, even during the direst of times, he never asked for help with anything. He had too much pride.

Screw that. Pride is admirable; being alive is infinitely better.
 

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