Sunday shook me sideways and I know I wasn’t alone. If it didn’t make you wonder, I’d wonder what was wrong with you. If it didn’t make you cry, you may need new tear ducts. If it didn’t make you think, I wouldn’t know what to think of you.
Sunday rose in the East and arced its angry way across our sky. It produced a complex, dawn-to-dusk, cacophony of emotions that landed my byline back on A-1 of Monday’s Los Angeles Times.
This was interesting given I had parted ways with the grey lady last December.
I knew golfing legend Arnold Palmer was going to die, and that I had written his “advance” obit several years ago. This is a necessary, preemptive duty at big city newspapers.
I knew I had left behind a few obits of famous people that were going to reconnect me to the paper where I worked for more almost four decades. I knew this reconnect would always be associated with someone’s death.
What I didn’t know was that Palmer was going to die THIS Sunday, on the same day a 24-year old rising star from the Florida baseball Marlins would be taken in a boating accident.
A young life, and a perfect life, snuffed out within hours.
I didn’t know Arnie was going out on the same day Vin Scully announced his last home game for the Dodgers, which ended with a walk-off homer by a journeyman player.
Or, that the fickle finger of fate would strike two days after Kevin Costner saluted Scully, at Dodger Stadium, to the soundtrack of “Field of Dreams.”
Someone had to be making this up. The rest of this article is available to subscribers only – to become a subscriber click here.