I don't want to hear the clichés. I don't want to hear how Angles rookie pitcher
I don't want any of it.
When ballplayers die, Major League Baseball, its operatives and the media do everything possible to comfort us, to numb the pain and give purpose to the purposeless. Just as we were told when death struck
I don't want to hear it.
Adenhart, a young man with a limitless future, is dead because someone who was allegedly drunk decided to get behind the wheel. There is no happy ending; no silver lining; no neatly wrapped Little House on the Prairie conclusion. Life goes on, but not for Adenhart. He is gone, and no matter how many video tributes are played on scoreboards throughout the majors, he will not come back. The woman out there who he was supposed to one day marry will wed someone else. The children he was supposed to sire and raise will never exist. There will be no more birthdays or Christmases or gleeful nights at the ballpark. There will be no gracefully growing old. No grandkids. Nick Adenhart does not exist. He is dead. Forever.
This is the message -- as painful as burning flesh -- that needs to be told. And told. And told. And told. You drink, you drive, you risk extinguishing somebody's life. Period.
And yet where, exactly, is that message?
In the days leading up to Adenhart's death, New York was abuzz with tabloid headlines concerning
Alcohol? Driving? Eh, no biggie. But to make fun of Yogi Berra ... now that's news.
Maybe I'm too sensitive. Just last November
So, please, remember Adenhart for all the right reasons. His decency, his kindness, his talent. But also remember the reality at hand: He is not here -- for no good reason.