By MICHAEL RODRIGUEZ
Managing Editor
editor@sbnewspaper.com
Michael Rodriguez
This space was initially reserved for a longwinded harangue about the consequences of intolerance, but it wasn’t really what I wanted to talk about. Something else weighed heavily on me, and I’d like to share that with you today. Be warned, though, that it’s incredibly personal. So if you’re interested in a preachy lecture on the evils of local politics and the like, stop reading now.
To Rene,
When I was about 10 years old, one of my favorite things in the world was to play basketball with you and our mutual friend Noe. As a tall, lanky kid, you’d think I’d be halfway decent. Maybe in a perfect world that would be true, but on planet Earth I stunk. What I took solace in was the fact that shooting hoops – as we used to say in those days – wasn’t necessarily about winning (at least that’s what I often told myself after the two of you would show no mercy). It was the companionship of buddies dribbling, swooshing crazy shots from a nearby street and often times breaking the windows to my parents’ garage (it wasn’t our fault since the darn thing was directly below where our backboard was placed) that I cherished. Being an unusually contemplative child, I understood then that those moments would stay with me forever. And they have.
Twenty-one years later, I’ve stayed in contact with Noe. In fact, he’s among my dearest friends. Sure, we’ve gone from pretending we were Michael Jordan and Larry Bird to pretending we don’t see gray in our hair, but we’re pretty much the same guys. Immature.
You, on the other hand, were different. Whenever Noe and I would find ourselves in some trouble with an adult, you were always the guy who knew what to say. Respectful, polite and considerate, you were the consummate peacekeeper.
There was, however, that one time you and Noe bolted from my house after I broke yet another window. “Sorry, Scott!” you yelled while running away, leaving me to suffer the consequences.
I can’t tell you why or even when we grew apart, but I can tell you that I miss those days. You’re one of the few people who knows me by my middle name. You knowing those tiny details about me is refreshing. I guess that’s why, in recent years, I’ve attempted to rekindle that bond we shared so long ago, but it can be difficult now that we’re young men going about our daily lives. I have my wife and my work, and you’re a firefighter now and a dedicated family man.
That brings us to the part of this letter that’s difficult to write.
When I received a telephone call informing me that your lovely wife Lorissa had unfortunately passed away, I didn’t know what to do. I practiced what I’d tell you and debated whether or not I should call. You remember how I always had trouble communicating with people regarding matters of the heart.
I do want to tell you, though, that after enduring a long but valiant fight against inflammatory breast cancer, I hold Lorissa in high esteem, and while there are no words that can bring you comfort at this time, my regret lies in the fact that I wasn’t there for you. Frankly, I haven’t been there for you in nearly 20 years, and I’m ashamed to admit that I never made time to meet Lorissa face-to-face. It wasn’t even until her viewing that I first laid eyes on your kids, who are darling children, by the way. Your sons look just like you, and if they share even a third of your character, they will no doubt be better men than I could ever be. I know that’s not saying much, but it’s the truth.
When you’re 10 years old, you’d do anything for your friends. At the age of 31, I realized that – sometimes – just being there is enough. And I couldn’t even do that for you. For that, I’m sorry. Please forgive me for being so uncaring for so long.
In the meantime, thank you for talking to us about your ordeal. I hope that by telling your story, it was not only therapeutic for you but also helpful to those who continue to suffer from this disease. The mere act of sharing just a portion of what you’ve endured, not to mention the strength it took to do so, says everything about you. I hope everyone in our hometown of San Benito realizes that about you. I know I do.
Maybe someday soon we can play a little ball. I’m bigger than I used to be, but I can still move. I may even let you win a game or two, for old time’s sake.
Your friend,
Michael Scott Rodriguez
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