I know that's a heavy post title. I don't want to bring anyone down to my current miserable state, so I'll try to keep it in a baseball frame of mind, but just to give you an idea of what I am presently dealing with: Death and dying is everywhere. My mother's health continues to decline. We all know what her illness is, we're just waiting for confirmation. The news is not good and some of us are not taking it well. Meanwhile, around the block from me last week, a father and his four daughters died in a fire on Valentine's Day. The city is devastated. There have been memorials in the street near my house all week. So with those happy themes dominating my life right now, I came home from yet another trip to my parents to hear that Don Newcombe had died. I loved Don Newcombe. I thought he never received as much appreciation as other Brooklyn Dodgers. Of the great African-American Dodgers trifecta of the 1940s and 1950s, I suppose Newk couldn't compare ...
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