Last year for my birthday my brother, Jeff, gave me “Once More Around the Park,” a collection of stories by Roger Angell, who has been described as “baseball’s finest, fondest chronicler.” Jeffrey, no doubt, came upon the book, published in 1991, while perusing the shelves of one of his favorite used book stores. In 2022, Roger Angell died at the age of 101.

Of the many baseball books that Jeffrey and I have given each other over the years, this was one of the best. The comforting cadence of its prose brought back memories of afternoons when, as a kid, I’d listen to New York Yankee games on a transistor radio.

This February, like every February, marked the beginning of Major League Baseball’s spring training. The day when pitchers and catchers report has been an important one on Jeff’s and my mental calendars.

For good reason. Spring and baseball and rebirth all go together. The official season hasn’t started yet. No player has yet made an error; no team has lost a game. Spring training epitomizes possibility. It is a time of hope.

For the past few years, Jeff and I have been talking about going to Florida to see the Yankees in spring training. We’ve speculated about how, maybe, we could hang out with Aaron Judge, at least for a few minutes. As I said, spring training is a time of hope.

But Covid scuttled this idea twice. Another year some work thing or another got in the way, and in 2022 the owners locked the players out. 2023 beckoned. And last year on a storybook perfect Sunday afternoon in late September, we returned to our spring training plans as we sat in the third- base-side mezzanine of the big ballpark in the Bronx and watched the Yankees play the Red Sox.

That day Jeff had driven me and my wife, Dale, and his wife, Regina, from their apartment in Queens directly to some out-of-the way asphalt near the stadium that bore no resemblance to an actual parking lot or a legit parking space. But somehow it was. Talk about a real New Yorker.

Meanwhile, back at the stadium: four times that afternoon Aaron Judge came to the plate. Four times we beseeched the Baseball Gods to bestow upon us (and the 47,00 other fans) joy and happiness. But four times Judge did not hit his 61st home run. He had two strikeouts, a walk and a fly ball to center.

The results of Judge’s at-bats reflected one of baseball’s inherent contradictions: even as it disappoints, it offers hope. That’s because there’ll always be another chance, another game, another season. Time can make things right. The title of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s memorable book about her love for baseball, the Brooklyn Dodgers and her father is “Wait Till Next Year.”

And we saw a great game. The Red Sox, ensconced in last place, played like the American League championship was at stake. In the ninth, trailing 7-5, Boston loaded the bases, which presented a moral dilemma: should we secretly hope for the Red Sox to get a hit and tie the game (or even take the lead) so that Aaron Judge could lead off the Yankees’ ninth? Or should we root, as every fiber in our being was screaming, for the batter to strike out? The Red Sox batter resolved the conundrum by hitting a routine ground ball, an easy fielder’s choice, and, just like that, Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” was booming through the PA system.

As we left the ballpark, Jeff expressed confidence that Judge, with plenty of at-bats still to come in the remaining games, soon enough would surpass Babe Ruth’s record of 60 home runs in a season and Roger Maris’ 61. Time, he said, was on our side.

Turns out, it wasn’t. A month later Jeff, who was in terrific physical shape, suffered a completely unexpected cardiac arrest. The EMTs did not arrive in time. He was 75.

The obituary we wrote said, “Jeffrey would always take time to smell the flowers and make sure that those he loved did the same. He was an accomplished guitarist and tennis player, an avid reader, a poet, and a writer of sonnets. He received his Master’s degree in urban planning and had a long career developing housing for underserved communities. His family and friends will hold him dear in our hearts forever. He was a gentle soul.” At the graveside service, the Rabbi said that Jeffrey would be inscribed in the book of life.

This year I’m missing spring training yet again, this time because I can’t imagine being there without him.

But come summer, I’ll go to a game. I’ll arrive early so that I can walk around the Stadium to Monument Park, behind the center field fence, where Yankee greats are honored. There I’ll say hello for Jeffrey to Yogi, Whitey, Goose, and, of course, the Mick. I’ll thank them for all the memories and remind them how Jeff and I would visit them together and how much he would have loved to have been there one more time.

Bill Newman is a Northampton-based lawyer and co-host of the weekday WHMP radio show “Talk the Talk.”]]>