Two losses

In Philly...

On black-armband days like this, you think dark thoughts of loss, the sudden taking of comrades with whom you shared days, weeks, months, years, decades and generations, traveling with a ballclub as many intertwined lives were weathered like driftwood on a tropical beach that suddenly became storm-tossed and gray.

Rich Ashburn was taken from us after a Phillies victory in Shea Stadium Sept. 9, 1997. We all know where we were and what we were doing when news of his death in a Manhattan hotel room broke on Angelo Cataldi's WIP morning show.

Harry Kalas was taken from us after collapsing in the broadcast booth of a ballpark, Nationals Park, hours before the Phillies he loved so much for so many years were to oppose the Nats in their home opener. We will remember where we were and what we were doing when the news he had been rushed to George Washington University Hospital was overridden by club president Dave Montgomery's announcement of his death.

In Detroit...

Mark Fidrych reminded you of your childhood, no matter how old you were when he pitched. This was his charm, his curse, his legacy. He personified athletic innocence.

The Bird got his nickname from walking like Big Bird and his fame from talking to baseballs. He jumped over the white lines on his way to the mound — and when somebody got a hit off him, he spit out his gum and refused to throw that ball again.

When he walked past a phone booth, Fidrych would always check the coin slot to see if there was any loose change. He walked into the Tiger Stadium clubhouse looking like he’d hitchhiked all the way from Massachusetts. General manager Jim Campbell had to buy him a suit.

In baseball.