Leaving Home, and Coming Home

                I took a trip back to college this past weekend. It had been awhile – more than a decade, in fact – since I’d set foot in Chapel Hill, N.C. Raising young children can make it difficult to drive 500 miles, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise that we’d gone so long without visiting Tar Heel country. But when two friends contacted us with plans for a reunion of former sports writers from my school’s daily newspaper, Amy and I knew it was time to bring the girls down South.

                As we drove down Interstate 95 on our way to North Carolina, I recalled the many trips I’d taken up and down this crowded highway.  I also remembered my dad and other friends asking me if I planned to live in the Research Triangle after college. I was, after all, writing about North Carolina sports for a living back then, which included covering the amazing basketball scene of the Atlantic Coast Conference. I also had unlimited access to dogwoods, sweet tea and barbecue. What could be better?

                I had thoroughly enjoyed the University of North Carolina, I found the sports scene to be truly enthralling, and I had come to meet a lot of great people in Chapel Hill. But ultimately, I wanted to be back north. My reason was simple – there were just too many pieces of New York that felt more like home. I wanted to hop on the No. 4 train, exit at 161^st Street in the South Bronx, and see the mighty gates of Yankee Stadium before me. I wanted to drive eastward along the Pulaski Skyway on a clear night, heading toward the Holland Tunnel and viewing the elegant Empire State Building as it pointed skyward. I wanted to pop over to my old neighborhood in Staten Island for a pizza at Denino’s or Joe & Pat’s and an Italian ice at Ralph’s. When another journalist friend asked me why I was coming home, I told him it was because there was no Yankee Stadium in North Carolina. He said I had a point.

                As we traveled down I-95 on Friday, I was reminded of that Southern longing for New York several times. The signs for Brooklyn Bridge Road in Laurel, Md., called to mind the greatest bridge in America. The exit for Bowling Green, Va., reminded me of the oldest public park in New York, where tourists board Circle Line boats for the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. The signs for Willis Road in Chesterfield, Va., reminded me of New York Knicks legendary center Willis Reed, and the majestic Madison Square Garden court where he’d filled the paint. Even the highway that brought us into Chapel Hill – Route 54 – holds the same number as Rich “Goose” Gossage, whose blazing fastball closed out so many Yankees games in my childhood.

                New York’s geography and culture are deeply engrained in my self-identity and thoughts. When Amy and I lived in Massachusetts for five years earlier in our marriage, we felt similar longings for a glimpse of the skyline or a taste of the pizza. By the time Amy was pregnant with our second child, we were back in the New York area. By the time our girls were old enough to walk without complaining, they were strolling the High Line, Rockefeller Center and Brooklyn Heights.

                That said, geography does have its limits. This weekend, ultimately, was not at all about New York – no matter how many highway-sign connections my mind could make. Saturday night, we found ourselves in one of the great minor-league baseball stadiums in America, the Durham Bulls Athletic Park in Durham, N.C. As the Bulls ran roughshod over the Buffalo Bisons on the field, I sat in Section 124 beyond the right-field foul pole along with seven former sports writers of The Daily Tar Heel, as well as the paper’s longtime general manager. I hadn’t seen any of them in at least 10 years, so there was a lot of catching up to do. As we sat together, we shared stories of work, parenting, family and vacations. We talked about the past, the present and the future. We met one another’s children, and tested one another’s memories. I watched my old friends interact with their sons and daughters, and felt the love that passed between them.

                As I sat with my old friends on this glorious night in early summer, I thought again about home. It’s true that certain places feel more familiar than others, and draw us back to them like magnets. But ultimately, there’s nothing more like home than a day spent with people you care about deeply. I haven’t set foot in North Carolina for almost 12 years. But as I scanned the outfield here in Durham and listened to my friends tell me their stories, there was no place in the world I’d rather have been.

So yes, home is a bridge and a stadium and a pizza pie. But in the end, those New York spots only mean so much to me because I’ve shared them with family and friends. In the same way, Chapel Hill and Durham will always be home, whether I’m living there or not. Because these are places where I’ve connected with others. Back in 1993, we were hunched over computer monitors, scrambling to meet newspaper deadlines. This weekend, we were lounging in the outfield seats, talking and cheering and doing the wave.

            Wherever that kind of connection happens, whenever you feel it, you’re home. No maps or exit signs required. 

Angels Too Early

I can remember the sudden horror I felt when I learned that Bob was dead. We had lived on the same dorm floor during our first two years of college, and had both traveled hundreds of miles to attend school in North Carolina. Some days, we’d run into each other in the fifth-floor lounge of Hinton James Dorm, especially if there was a ballgame on the TV. We’d talk about our places on opposite sides of the rivalry – he was a Red Sox fan from Massachusetts, while I was a Yankees fan from New York. Other days, we might see each other while cramming for a final, and share a quick conversation to distract us from the task at hand. I can recall him stopping by my room with some other friends to sing happy birthday to me during my freshman year, before we all walked across the street to watch North Carolina play Duke in a men’s basketball game.

Bob was truly a terrific guy. He was a scholar, an athlete, a friend, and a caring individual. And then, one Saturday afternoon in September, a drunken driver crossed over the yellow line on Highway 54, slammed into Bob’s Honda Accord, and ended his life. At the age of 20.

I remember the beautiful church ceremony in Chapel Hill a few days after Bob’s death. They played Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young,” and we thought about the incredibly vibrancy that Bob had carried with him. We thought about the promise his life had held, and how it had all disappeared in a second. A van had swerved into his path, and that was it. I wrote a column for the school newspaper, sharing my own memories of Bob with the larger school community.

Bob was on my mind Thursday, when I learned that Los Angeles Angels pitcher Nick Adenhart and two others had been killed in a car accident, allegedly by a drunken driver. Police have arrested a 22-year-old and charged him with three counts of murder, stating that he had nearly triple the legal blood-alcohol level. Adenhart was 22 years old, and his death has stunned his family and friends, the Angels organization, and the world of baseball. The young man was tossing shutout baseball on a major-league diamond Thursday evening, only to see his life end in a flash just a few hours later. It is nearly impossible to believe. And yet, it happens dozens of times every day.

According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, an estimated 12,998 people were killed in alcohol-impaired driving crashes during 2007. This adds up to 36 people per day. Some, like Adenhart, are famous. Others, like Bob, are not. All of them are loved, and none can be replaced.

My wife and I have been car-shopping lately, and we’ve been debating the merits of the cars we’ve test-driven. She’d like a minivan; I’d prefer something more fuel-efficient. Whatever. We’ll eventually agree, then we’ll buy something and drive it off the lot. As we do, we can only hope that Bob, Nick, and the thousands of other drunk-driving victims are looking out for all of us.

The Angels and Red Sox have played against each other this Easter weekend. If there’s a fifth-floor lounge in heaven with a TV running, maybe Bob and Nick have had the chance to catch a game together. I’ll bet they had a lot in common, and plenty to talk about.