The Eulogy of Sam Reed (an excerpt from a draft)
I was sitting in the library of the house we used to share. I was in my favourite chair, the large brown leather chair that I think was older than I was. Whatever it's age, it was something that Sam and I had picked up when we were at a garage sale one cool fall afternoon. The old lady who was cleaning out her basement was selling it for next to nothing, and for some reason it appealed to me. I think that it appealed to me because it was so lost and forlorn looking; that, again for a reason I'm not really aware, is something that usually appeals to me. A sense of being lost. Perhaps that's why I ended up as an english teacher, trying to help students who were searching for something in their lives but not really sure what they were searching for. Or maybe it was just where I landed. It was something I always gave thought to but never came to a definitive answer. But I'm getting off track. You'll notice that I have a tendency to do that sort of thing.
As I was saying, I was sitting in the library. I was surrounded by the books that I had collected over my lifetime, mostly fiction and mostly classic books. The garbage that they published these days wasn't even in the same league as the works of Salinger, Twain, Shakespeare, Hemingway, and so on. I was elitist that way, I suppose, and I am certain that I passed that elitism on to my students when I taught them. But it wasn't something that I gave much thought to, really. I had my preferences. Everyone has their preference in life. I'm not one to judge people's preferences. But I'm getting off topic again, aren't I. I should try to avoid doing that.
I looked over the books that were sitting on the dark wood shelves that surrounded me. The room was dark, dimly lit, with most of the light coming in naturally through the windows. Today was cloudy outside, appropriate I suppose, considering the nature of today's activities. Where there weren't books in the room there were photos. Photos of me, photos of Sam, and photos of us meeting famous people. Mostly famous athletes, mostly famous baseball players. Some when they were still playing, others when they had retired. Hank Aaron, Nolan Ryan, Curt Schilling. Reggie Jackson, Cal Ripken... we had met so many of them, Sam and I. It filled him with a great deal of excitement whenever he got to meet these people, but it usually filled me with a lot of sadness. Sadness not because we were meeting these men that we held so highly, but because I knew if things had been different, Sam would have been the famous athlete meeting people like us, instead of the other way around.
Sam would have had fans the world over, desperate for just a few seconds of his time. Desperate to have something autographed, something to hold up to their friends and declare, "See? I met Sam Reed." But it was not to be, not because of a lack of talent but ... nevermind. I'm not going to get into that right now. There are other things that need to be told right now.
You might be wondering why I've decided to write this. I think I'm wondering that myself, really. It's not something I ever thought I would write. It is a story that nobody knows. Not my students, not my parents, not even my children. The only people who know the whole story are Sam and I. There are people who do know parts of it; they are the people who were involved in what happened. But they only know parts. Some good, some bad. I'm not here to tell either version. I'm simply here to write about what happened. And I think I'm doing it just for myself, not for anyone else. I think I need to get it all out so that I can understand it better. So maybe that's why I'm writing this. Maybe.
Anyway, I was sitting in the library of the house that Sam and I used to share, surrounded by the beautiful old books and photographs, and I was gently touching a photo of Sam that I had picked up from the desk. My fingers, curled from the arthritis that I had started to develop, gently brushed over the photo of him. It was an older photo, back before he had started to die, back when he was full of energy, a strong and determined man who I loved with all my heart. I was lost in thought, memories, thinking about the past, the days, months and years gone by that we had spent together. It was during my reverie that the door to the library slowly opened and Matthew, one of my students whom Sam and I had sort of “taken in” when he had no one else, ducked his head in and smiled gently at me.
"We're about ready to get going, I think. So you can come down when you're ready."
He was such a wonderful person, who had grown into a man that I was as proud of as I was proud of Sam. I looked up at him with a soft smile on my face. "Okay, Matthew. I'll be down in a minute." I placed the photo back down on the desk and slowly started to rise out of the chair.
As I was saying, I was sitting in the library. I was surrounded by the books that I had collected over my lifetime, mostly fiction and mostly classic books. The garbage that they published these days wasn't even in the same league as the works of Salinger, Twain, Shakespeare, Hemingway, and so on. I was elitist that way, I suppose, and I am certain that I passed that elitism on to my students when I taught them. But it wasn't something that I gave much thought to, really. I had my preferences. Everyone has their preference in life. I'm not one to judge people's preferences. But I'm getting off topic again, aren't I. I should try to avoid doing that.
I looked over the books that were sitting on the dark wood shelves that surrounded me. The room was dark, dimly lit, with most of the light coming in naturally through the windows. Today was cloudy outside, appropriate I suppose, considering the nature of today's activities. Where there weren't books in the room there were photos. Photos of me, photos of Sam, and photos of us meeting famous people. Mostly famous athletes, mostly famous baseball players. Some when they were still playing, others when they had retired. Hank Aaron, Nolan Ryan, Curt Schilling. Reggie Jackson, Cal Ripken... we had met so many of them, Sam and I. It filled him with a great deal of excitement whenever he got to meet these people, but it usually filled me with a lot of sadness. Sadness not because we were meeting these men that we held so highly, but because I knew if things had been different, Sam would have been the famous athlete meeting people like us, instead of the other way around.
Sam would have had fans the world over, desperate for just a few seconds of his time. Desperate to have something autographed, something to hold up to their friends and declare, "See? I met Sam Reed." But it was not to be, not because of a lack of talent but ... nevermind. I'm not going to get into that right now. There are other things that need to be told right now.
You might be wondering why I've decided to write this. I think I'm wondering that myself, really. It's not something I ever thought I would write. It is a story that nobody knows. Not my students, not my parents, not even my children. The only people who know the whole story are Sam and I. There are people who do know parts of it; they are the people who were involved in what happened. But they only know parts. Some good, some bad. I'm not here to tell either version. I'm simply here to write about what happened. And I think I'm doing it just for myself, not for anyone else. I think I need to get it all out so that I can understand it better. So maybe that's why I'm writing this. Maybe.
Anyway, I was sitting in the library of the house that Sam and I used to share, surrounded by the beautiful old books and photographs, and I was gently touching a photo of Sam that I had picked up from the desk. My fingers, curled from the arthritis that I had started to develop, gently brushed over the photo of him. It was an older photo, back before he had started to die, back when he was full of energy, a strong and determined man who I loved with all my heart. I was lost in thought, memories, thinking about the past, the days, months and years gone by that we had spent together. It was during my reverie that the door to the library slowly opened and Matthew, one of my students whom Sam and I had sort of “taken in” when he had no one else, ducked his head in and smiled gently at me.
"We're about ready to get going, I think. So you can come down when you're ready."
He was such a wonderful person, who had grown into a man that I was as proud of as I was proud of Sam. I looked up at him with a soft smile on my face. "Okay, Matthew. I'll be down in a minute." I placed the photo back down on the desk and slowly started to rise out of the chair.
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