It's probably actually the Mets year.

          My uncle passed away last night, the culmination of a long battle with brain cancer. The last weeks were hard...he deteriorated; first slowly, then rapidly losing all the elements that made him who he was. And he was a wonderful man, a wonderful father and husband, and a wonderful friend.

          But I sit to write not because I lost a beloved family member, but because I lost a great friend. A drinkin' buddy, a fishin' buddy (not that those two things were separate of one another), a man I always looked forward to seeing. I'm blessed to have spent so much time with him throughout my life; Friday nights at his parents and later my parents, and Saturday nights around the table at Mom and Dad's. He was a friend, and a good friend, of my Dad for almost 40 years and a huge part of why our family was always so close when I was a kid. My dad's best friend was my mom's brother. Unique, to say the least.

          The stories are many, and they're all sweet, or funny, or irreverent. They're aided by a shot of rye, a sip of bourbon, a cold beer on a hot day, a martini in honor of his father. He was a man who boiled down to three things: he loved his Mets, he loved his family, and he adored his girls. I can think of times, kicking back in the July sunshine with his boat swaying gently in the ocean, where he would get lost in stories of his daughters, his wife. We would be smiling and laughing anyway, but how he would beam when he spoke of them! The unspoken truth, however, was that he had four girls. He looked up to, admired, and loved his big sister just as much. What he came down to, and will continue to come down to, I guess, is not three things, but one. Love. Few and far between are the people who just want to love and care for people the way he did.

          He was a great conversationalist. He could, and would, sit and talk with anybody. I learned from him that the key to a great conversation is two fold: 1) there are two sides, and 2) it's all about asking questions. He would draw stories and jokes and personalities out of everyone he spoke to. You felt funny, and important, and interesting when you spoke with him.

I could tell a million stories of my own (in which my father plays Best Supporting Actor) about the man who taught me about baseball, the man who threw too hard for me to catch, the man whose rib I broke that one time (not my fault), the man who was generous and kind (and would never seek to be called that to his face), the man I saw Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park with, the man who was always quick with a kind word (generally disguised as a very transparent insult). The man I was lucky enough to call my uncle and my friend.

I just can't shake this image that climbed into my head last night. I can't help but feel that. somewhere, the great and powerful Bette Ann is hugging him and saying

"Ah, hell, Billy. It's too soon."

And she's exactly right.