Watching John Lackey and Tori Hunter stand on the pitchers mound at Angel Stadium in Los Angeles, each holding a shoulder of Nick Adenhart's No. 34 jersey, I remembered how it felt April 29, 2007, the day St. Louis Cardinal pitcher Josh Hancock died.
Everything looked eerily familiar. The patch on the shoulder of each player, the memorial outside the stadium and 25 hats over hearts.
Once again, I felt the confusion. The sinking feeling in my gut that surely will take weeks to leave. The hope that I won't have to feel this way again.
Hancock died after driving into a utility truck while driving drunk. Adenhart was killed by a drunk driver last Thursday night after his first Major League start.
In rehashing Hancock's death, I thought about Commissioner Bud Selig's immediate comments: "He was a fine young pitcher who played an important role in last year's world championship team."
What's interesting - and maddening - about Selig's statement is that he only mentions Hancock as a player, not a person. He finds a way to plug the league's championship, and does not bring up alcohol's role in the accident or in Major League Baseball.
Adenhart's death was caused by a drunk driver, but since the driver wasn't a star left fielder, the issue of professional athletes drinking and driving remains in the shadows.
After Hancock's death, 14 teams banned alcohol in the clubhouse. A nice gesture, but pretty transparent. The move was a pre-emptive one to say "look, it's not our fault." The book Moneyball more accurately paints the portrait. The book sites the story of Oakland A's owner Billy Beane, who when discussing drafting a player who is anti-drinking says that the player should "have another career in mind."
What Billy Beane and Bud Selig don't seem to have in mind is alcohol awareness programs for players. There is some irony in the fact that the guy who helps you find your seat has more training on alcohol than the guy whose jersey you are wearing. In 2003, the staffs of 28 Major League teams attended alcohol management training. Thus far, Google search for "alcohol awareness for MLB players" comes up empty.
Just before taking his place in center field Friday night, Tori Hunter jogged out to touch the newly painted picture of Adenhart on the center field wall. Hunter said before the game that his perspective on life has been changed by the loss. Watching Hunter, I couldn't help but think, "is it really?" Will Adenhart's death prevent a professional athlete from drinking and driving? Will any player say to himself, "I could have been Andrew Gall0 (the drunk driver who hit Adenhart's vehicle)?"
During my afternoon commute to work, my mind was fixed on Adenhart's story. Adenhart was 22-years old, I am 22. I kept thinking, "What if that was me?" Over and over. Every stop sign, I looked twice. Every green light, the same.
Questions came pouring into my mind. After twisting through all the questions that usually surround death, the questions took a new form. They began to circle around a theme : If it had been an athlete killing a civilian, would we know his name the way we now know Nick's?
The coverage of two contrasting stories, that of Adenhart and of Cleveland Browns wide receiver Donte Stallworth would suggest they wouldn't. In mid-March, Stallworth was driving drunk when he struck and killed a pedestrian. I heard about it on ESPN, saw the headline in the newspaper, but until today, did not know the man's name who Stallworth had killed.
It was 59-year old Mario Reyes. Why didn't I know that? Because instead of Reyes's picture on the front page, it was Stallworth's. Same goes for ESPN. We didn't see his family or friends crying the way we did Adenhart's. Professional athletes never see the consequences. They never see Mario Reyes's family's press conference. They never see the pain they can potentially cause when driving drunk.
I can only hope that Nick's death will open eyes. That losing one of their own will inspire a multi-millionaire athlete to call a taxi. That seeing Scott Boras - a man most often thought of somewhere in between a snake and Johnny Cochran - break down in tears will cause someone to get a designated driver.
I have to admit, Adenhart's death struck me for another reason. About seven years ago, my father was hit by a drunk driver. The driver swerved into my father's lane, causing him to slam his car into a guard rail, avoiding major contact. This week reminded me of how close I was to not having my dad.
I now realize I was given a glimse that night of how Mario Reyes's and Nick Adenhart's families must feel. This was the man who took me to Skydome for my first Major League game, the man that taught me how to throw a pitch, how to write a column and how to be a man. And he was that close to being gone because of drunk driving.
When Scott Boras broke down, I cried. I cried because Nick Adenhart will never throw another pitch. I cried because Mario Reyes's family had to cry. I cried because drinking and driving came so close to taking my father. And I cried because I know I will cry again.
In 2006, there were more than 16,000 alcohol-related fatalities. In the 2009 drunk-driving statistical report, Nick Adenhart's name will be on the list. Life, as the game of baseball, will carry on. But maybe, because of this tragedy, athletes and fans will choose not to drink and drive.
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