All American story

WARNING: This is a tough story and may be too hard for the sensitive among us.

Miami

When our kids were small, as a warning about trusting strangers we’d say “you can’t tell by looking”.

I met Rick at the homeless shelter where I worked. About my age, he was an alcoholic… and a lovely person. We saw ourselves in each other I think.

He loved sports and like many of the folks on the street he had a nickname, he was known as Miami – the Dolphins were his team. He proudly wore a shiny Dolphins windbreaker of teal and orange.

Rick was a voice of encouragement to me in what could be a complicated community. He was always quick to thank me for the work I was doing. I’d tell him how privileged I felt every day to be able to spend my days with him and so many other folks almost as cool as him.

Over time, as happened with a lot of the folks at the shelter, Rick and I became close friends, and one day he told me his story. I’d like to honor my friend and share it with you.

Around the age of 20, Rick was pursuing his dream of becoming a Major League baseball player. He was in the minors and on the road, hoping for the call like every other player, the call that would kick him up to the big leagues, the call that would change his life.

A young dad with a promising future. I imagine him growing up in his hometown, being known for his athletic talent and carrying the hope of a lot of the people in his life. People who would someday say, “I knew Rick when he was just a high school outfielder with a rocket for an arm. I knew he was going to make it!”

His parents, dreaming of sitting in a box-seat at the stadium, rooting for their boy as he made millions of dollars as a pro. They could walk into the hardware store in town, or the super market as people would stop to ask them about their boy Rick. That’s how people dream, hope is projected on to the promising ones. We want to be connected to the stars.

As it happened, Rick received a different call than the one he’d hoped for from boyhood, a call that would change his life forever.

He was on the road with his team in another state when a social worker from the hospital in his hometown called with news. His wife and their 3 month old baby girl had been in a car accident. Rick’s wife was killed instantly and their baby was in a coma. He hung up the phone and fell into a heap. That night, he flew home and made his way to the hospital where his fragile daughter lay in really bad shape.

As much as we love stories of heroism and overcoming extreme tragedy, especially when there’s a uniform involved… this was not Rick’s story. Looking at his baby lying there with tubes and monitors all around, having just lost the love of his life, and the future they dreamed of together. Overwhelmed by the thought of raising a child on his own, he fell apart. He crawled into a bottle and never found his way out.

He told me that he quit the team, stopped playing ball and disappeared, his parents ended up raising his daughter. By the time I met him (27 years after his loss) he had made an attempt to find his way home. He had recently tried to reconnect with his daughter, who blamed him for all her difficulties, she hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. He hated himself and drinking remained his constant escape.

Maybe it was a self-imposed prison sentence, penance for not being the American hero with a glove and a winning smile. Maybe Rick could just never find the motivation to get dry enough to start over, not sure. What I am sure about is that a 20 year old kid with a bright future is not prepared to handle this level of loss. But then, who is?

When I think about how little I knew about life at the age of 20, and how much I believed about life proved to be just plain wrong.
I can’t imagine what I would’ve become if I’d been dealt a hand like Rick’s.

So there he was, homeless, sun-scorched from years of exposure, relinquishing his health and safety day after day, banished from his dreams, his family, no going back. Hanging out at the shelter with us.

The last time I saw my friend Rick he was as gracious as ever. He was sitting with a couple of other guys, on the sidewalk. He stood up and embraced me. One of those wonderful full-on embraces that friends and family give you after a long separation. He told me he was doing okay, he always told me that. No complaints. That infectious smile, his piercing eyes, no guile in him at all. I was him and he was me, we carried a piece of each other, and still do.

This is of course one story of one homeless person in a sea of more than half a million people experiencing homelessness every day in this land of ours.

Everyone experiencing homelessness has a sacred and personal story that got them there. Most are heartbreaking.

No one that is healthy and whole chooses to be un-housed.

People grow up dreaming of being an astronaut, an explorer, a firefighter, a major league baseball player... No one grows up dreaming of being homeless, no one. Something has broken.

During our last trip to Virginia I learned that Rick had been murdered. Killed by another broken soul during a drunken argument in the middle of the night.

I wept at the news of yet more senseless loss. It was my turn to fall into a heap.

When we pass our un-housed neighbors on the street it’s worth remembering “you can’t tell by looking”.