MY 15 MINUTES WITH TED WILLIAMS

March 15, 1988.

30 years ago, I experienced one of the most incredible days of  my life. It was like a
wedding or the birth of a child for most people, where everything is so vivid, so easy to recall,
and filled with moments that stay with you forever.

I was in my first full week of spring training with the Boston Red Sox organization in
Winter Haven, Florida. I was that kid in the candy store, the one with the huge smile on my
face and not a care in the world. I was playing baseball while wearing a Red Sox uniform and
loving every second of it. Heaven, I thought, couldn't be much better than this.

But things on this sun-splashed morning in a baseball facility lined with palm trees, were
about to get even more special and somewhat surreal. It was something that has stayed
with me until this day and an incredible experience that nobody can ever take away from me.

Never

I  just finished up catching what seemed like a hundred pitchers beneath the Florida sun.
Perspiration met the lotion lathered on to protect my face, but ended up causing a burning
when it dripped into my eyes.

In the early days of spring training, there are 10 pitchers to every catcher and you spend
most of your time squatting and blocking  88-mile an hour sliders in the dirt. I had made
the position switch to catcher during my junior year at UNC, and long regretted not donning
 the tools of ignorance sooner. I loved everything about the position, which is the most
physically and mentally demanding one in the game.

After catching a litany of pitchers for close to two hours, the camp coordinator told us to
get some swings in the cages, which were located smack-dab in-between the major and
minor league clubhouses. While catching, a fastball in the dirt ricocheted into my wrist,
forcing me to take a detour to the trainer's room to get a bag of ice to reduce the pain
and swelling of it.

There was a large gathering in the trainer's room as the pitchers,  who had thrown earlier,
were icing down their arms. Catching and blocking baseball's in 85 degree heat for
almost two hours is like running  a half-marathon, so I wasn't in any hurry to go hit.

The ice pack the trainer had given me combined with the 20 minute wait to receive it,
 seemed to rejuvenate me before I had to make the trek over to the cages.

Once I got there, a few minor-league players were just milling around trying to decide if
they wanted to take a few more swings or head to the golf course to take a few more there.
Most of them traded in their lumber for their clubs and went to the showers to clean up
before making their tee times.

I stepped into the cages and took some swings off a coach who was positioned about 45 feet
away, the shorter distance forcing hitters to react quicker and develop more bat speed.

As I was taking my swings, I noticed a large figure walking down the alley between the
cages, out of the corner of my eye. This powerful-looking figure was coming from the
major league camp where he had been  offering instruction to players like Wade Boggs,
Jim Rice, and Dewey Evans.

I kept swinging as he kept walking toward the cage where I was. An adrenaline rush
washed over my entire body, as I had a good idea who was coming my way.  I became
more focused on the pitches that were traveling my way, the echo of rawhide meeting
lumber reverberated throughout the aluminum-covered cages.

The footsteps of this large figure got louder and louder as I went through my hitting drills.
My heart started racing faster and faster as I was swinging harder and harder, drilling balls
into the nets of the cage. All of sudden, those footsteps stopped and the cages became as
quiet as a church long after Mass had ended.

This imposing figure, which stood about 6'4" had stopped to watch me hit. There were only
three people in this area of the cage now: the coach throwing me batting practice, myself, and
one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game.

He shouted out to me with this booming voice, "Now, open those hips, swing up, and drive
through the  ball". 

His voice was so unique and oh, so very strong. It sounded a lot like that of John Wayne.
But I knew damn well who it belonged to. After my follow through, I turned around to see
Ted Williams staring back at me.

I locked eyes with the greatest hitter who ever lived.

It was a moment that was so surreal, yet so powerful. I had seen Williams on tape and
in books, but I had never seen him in person, and here he was, about to talk to me about
hitting. The one thing he did better than anyone in the world.

Just me and him.

Me and Teddy Ballgame.

Having Ted Williams talk to you about hitting is like a musician getting tips on how to play
the guitar from Elvis Presley. This was unbelievable. I'm not star struck and never got
intoxicated by celebrity. Three months earlier, I was standing in a batter's box with Kevin
Costner filming a scene for "Bull Durham." I didn't consider that a big deal.

This was a big deal.

It was like Moses telling  me about the Ten Commandments. This was Ted Williams, a true American hero, talking to  me about hitting. I said to myself, "Oh my @*#$ God". Is this really happening?"

I stared at Williams as he was telling me about swinging with a slight uppercut, which I had
read and memorized from his book, "The Science of Hitting." Incredibly enough, I didn't
see him as a baseball icon. I saw him as a living legend. One of the biggest in the world.

Williams was telling me about finishing high with my hands, but I wasn't really listening.
Thoughts of him going through, not one, but two tours of duty in the military during his baseball career, rushed through my head.

That would be like Mike Trout taking a break from baseball right now to fight for his country.

Twice.

Williams was a fighter pilot in World War II and the Korean War. He had the opportunity to
take a position that kept him out of battle, but Williams pretty much said, "screw that". He
flew 39 combat missions in the Korean Ward. 39! The great General Douglas MacArthur was
a big fan of Williams and for his 40th birthday. MacArthur sent the Splendid Splinter a painting
of himself with a note that said,:

"To Ted Williams — not only America's greatest baseball player, but a great American who
served his country. Your friend, Douglas MacArthur. General U.S. Army.

Wow.

I continued to take swings in the cage with Williams shouting out instructions to me. I said to
myself, "This is unreal. Nobody is going to believe this." After a few more swings, Williams
entered the cage, took the bat from my hands, and talked to me about the science of hitting.

I looked around to see nothing but a row of empty cages. If was just Ted Williams, the coach
throwing batting practice, and me. I said to myself, "Wow. Here I am with the last man to hit over .400 in a season. Please, don't anybody wake me up."

Williams told me to keep working on my swing. He said I should think about hitting "even
when you sleep. To be a great hitter," he commanded, "you have to hit all the time.
Morning, noon, and night."

I didn't say anything, but just nodded.

Williams said he had to go but I didn't want this moment to end, so I said  matter-of-factly,
"I'll walk out with you."  I may have sounded cool, but deep down inside I was humbled just
being in the presence of an American hero. I feared Williams looking down on me and saying,
 "Don't push it, son."

He didn't.

As we left the dark cages, the world seemed so much brighter, the sun proudly bursting
as spring time approached. I was walking on sunshine, just having one the greatest experiences
of my life.

Talking about hitting with Ted Williams.

There were a lot of fans who had lined the fence outside of the batting cages. Once they saw
Ted Williams appear, their eyes lit-up like bulbs on a Christmas trees. Mile-wide grins
broke out in the presence of a legend, pens were at the ready, hoping to get the autograph
of a baseball God.

One of those fans was my grandfather, who had made the journey from Sarasota to see me
suit up in a Red Sox uniform in spring training. He was a former ballplayer himself, a strong-
armed pitcher in the minor-league system of the New York Yankees.

This was a big thrill for him. I asked Williams if he could say hello to my grandfather and
the Splendid Splinter obliged. With my heart-pumping through my Red Sox jersey, I thanked Williams for the time, and told my grandfather I'd meet him after I had showered up.

It was a moment I wanted to bottle up and stash in a security vault someplace very far,
far away. I didn't want anyone to ever touch or disturb the moment. It belonged to my
grandfather, Ted Williams, and myself.

Years later, in 2004 , just before he died, my grandfather sent me a letter via mail. I opened
it and out came a picture of me from my college days at UNC. On the back of the picture,
in the neat lettering of my grandfather, were the words and numbers: 3-15-88 Winter Haven,
FL. Training camp. And under it was the autograph of Ted Williams.

I did not know my grandfather had gotten Williams' autograph on the picture that day. He
just told me what a thrill it was for him to meet him. I've kept the picture and autograph in
my wallet ever since that day 12 years ago.

It's a reminder of the special moment that both my grandfather and I shared with Ted Williams
that day in mid-March.

The late Andy Warhol famously said that everybody gets their 15 minutes of fame. I may
have received that for belting a home run in the movie, "Bull Durham", but the 15 minutes
of time I had with the most famous hitter who ever lived, is pretty hard to top.

It definitely was special.

HAPPY 50TH, MICKEY PINA

When I logged on to Facebook today and saw the name, "Mickey Pina" next to the birthday
icon on the homepage, a flood of memories rushed through my mind quicker than it takes
ice cream to freeze the brain when you consume it too fast.

I haven't seen Mickey Pina in 28 years, but for six straight months in 1988 I saw him every
single day as teammates on the Lynchburg Red Sox, the Class A affiliate of the Boston Red
Sox.

I'd like to say Pina was the type of guy you'd meet once and you'd remember forever, but he
just wasn't back then. He was often quiet and never one to be the life of a party because he
never said very much and didn't touch alcohol.

However, after watching him put together the season he did in 1988, Mickey Pina became a
guy I'll never forget. Ever.

 

Pina was a shade under 5'10" with the shredded physique of a bodybuilder. I called him the
"Toy Cannon", after former MLB star Jimmy Wynn who gained fame as a diminutive
centerfielder who wielded prodigious power for the Los Angeles Dodgers and Houston Astros.

After a brilliant career at Eckerd College in Florida where he became legendary for tape-
measure home runs, every team in baseball passed on Pina, an outfielder who grew up in Bridgewater,  Massachusetts, which was a Jim Rice driver and three-wood away from Fenway
Park.

The Red Sox took a flier on the hometown kid, signing him as an undrafted free-agent. Pina
was elated to get the chance to play for his favorite team, but if the eyes are indeed the
window to the soul, it didn't take much to see the raging inferno burning inside of Pina,
the result of being passed over in the 1987 draft by every team in baseball.

Pina belted 12 home runs in rookie ball, earning a promotion to the Sox team in the
Carolina League in 1988. The circuit was loaded with future MLB stars like Albert Belle,
Bernie Williams, Gerald "Ice" Williams,  Moises Alou, Wes Chamberlain, and Kevin
Maas, all who had been high draft picks or bonus babies.

Pina had not been drafted. He probably received a signing bonus of no more than $1,000.
That's it, that's all.

Whatever fueled Pina, he used it to outshine the aforementioned stars and make a very
big statement. And boy, did he ever. Mickey Pina, the undrafted free-agent, belted 21
home runs and drove in 108 runs to earn Carolina MVP honors.

As someone who was his teammate that year, I can tell you the voting wasn't even close.
No player was more valuable to his team than Mickey Pina. The home runs he hit were
majestic ones, ripping through the hot and humid nights in the South like missiles launched
from aircraft carriers in the Persian Gulf.

During our stretch run to the playoffs, it seemed like every hit Pina got, was a big one.
They either tied the game or put us in the lead. It was a sight to behold. The kid that
was overlooked in the draft made sure everyone in the league was paying attention to him.

Pina was driven and possessed a laser-like focus which I had never seen before.
It sometimes bordered on the absurd and on rare occasions, morphed into the comical.

During one game, Pina was on-deck with two outs when the batter before him made
the last out. As the teams were exchanging sides, Pina went into the batters box, oblivious
to what was going on around him. He was going through his routine before facing
the pitcher

As I ran to my position behind home plate, I could barely contain myself before
saying, "Hey, Mick. That's three outs."

When I read an article about Pina several years later about his focus and work ethic,
I can't say I was all that surprised by the words of Ed Nottle, his then-manager
in AAA.

"Mickey Pina worked too hard," Nottle said. "What a great kid. He'd take 50 minutes
extra hitting, he'd take so much stuff, it was unbelievable."

That was the Mickey Pina I remember from 1988. He was addicted to baseball. Thought
about it morning, noon, and night. Baseball was his life. Making it to Boston with the
Red Sox was his dream.

While the Sox were his favorite team, I recall Mike Schmidt being his favorite player.
Schmidt was a power-hitting third baseman for the Phillies at the time, who went on
to earn a place in the Hall of Fame. I liked to kid around with Pina and his obsession
with Schmidt.

Before one game, I was watching "This Week in Baseball" and I said to a few teammates
"Watch this."  I then yelled to Pina in the locker room, "Hey, Mick, Mike Schmidt is
going to be talking about hitting on "This Week in Baseball". Within seconds, Pina came
storming in to the TV room like a bull on wheels.

He didn't see any of us. Didn't even know we were in the room. Pina was in a trance and
breathing hard, waiting anxiously to see the clip of Mike Schmidt.

After several minutes, Pina knew he'd been had. He shouted something underneath his
breath before walking back to his locker to get dressed for the game.

Pina quickly rose to AAA in Pawtucket where he was teammates with Scott Cooper,
Tim Naerhing, Mo Vaughn, and Phil Plantier, all of whom made it to the major leagues.
When I see this picture of the five of them, I say to myself, "Mickey should've been
there with those guys. Nobody worked harder. Nobody cared more about the game, and
certainly none of them loved the Red Sox as much as Mickey did.

Pina came up just a bit short in his quest to make it to Boston with the Red Sox. I'm
sure being so close to fulfilling his dream took him a while to get over. It would be
that way for anyone who invested nearly his whole life to get there.

You have a lot to be proud of Mickey Pina. You were a great teammate, friend, and
ballplayer. The season you put together in 1988 was nothing short of amazing. You
were the MVP and everybody in the league knew you were "The Man", that year.

Happy 50th birthday, Mickey Pina. I will never forget you, brother.

GOOD-BYE, MISS NANCY

Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

In 1950, author William Meade Prince tagged Chapel Hill as the "Southern part of
Heaven." With its magnificent tree-lined roads and spectacular university in the middle
of the small town, many people still think of it that way and it's hard to argue with the
description of it.

In 1983, I arrived on campus and began to live out my dream playing baseball for the Tar
Heels in Carolina blue. Born and raised in New York, I, like so many of my teammates
were 'Yankees' through and through. Many of us had an edge, thought we had all the answers,
and never had a problem with confidence. We had so many players on the roster from
above the Mason-Dixon line, you could say we put the 'North' in North Carolina baseball.

Making the transition to a different culture and way of life seemed pretty easy for us,
especially with all its sweet tea, barbeque, and mellifluous accents. Other than that, I didn't
really think there was a big difference between the two regions, except for maybe the weather
and beautiful girls.

However, that changed near the end of the Fall baseball season when we were having
a picnic after a practice. It was the moment I really knew I was in the South.

"Miss Nancy."

Mike Roberts, our baseball coach with a thick Southern accent hatched in Tennessee,
uttered those two words with affection towards his wife.

"Miss Nancy."  Nobody in any part of the country but the South, puts a "Miss" in
front of a woman's first name. I remembered hearing it over and over again in
 "Gone With The Wind",  the American Classic which was set in the deep South
(Atlanta).

There was "Miss Scarlett", "Miss Melanie", and "Miss Prissy" uttered over and over
throughout the movie, signifying the utmost respect and admiration for a woman.

When I heard our coach address his wife in that manner, I realized this indeed, was
the South and the "Miss" before the Nancy couldn't be more fitting, signifying so
much admiration and respect of a woman who was deserving of it.

With her style, grace, class, beauty, and kindness, Nancy Roberts seemed truly
perfect. She was always impeccably dressed, her black hair perfectly coiffed,
and extremely poised and well-mannered.

Nancy Roberts could've been cast in "Gone With The Wind" as the quintessential
Southern woman, and as the wife of a coach who spent more than 20 years at the
university, "Miss Nancy" became the First Lady of Carolina Baseball, a role she
played so well, but there was no acting, it all came so naturally.

Eva McCullough's, wife of beloved "Coach Mac", an assistant to Roberts, leaned
on Nancy during their days together being the spouses of coaches who spent long
hours at the stadium and away from their families.

"I remember what a great role model she was for me," Eva McCullough said. "I
was so immature and clueless as a parent and I learned so much from her."

During the high-intensity of baseball games at Boshamer Stadium, I remember
Nancy always being so dignified and so composed, which wasn't all that easy. Most
of the opposing fans came to Chapel Hill just to heckle her husband on the field,
showering him with foul language and insults. I imagine Nancy had to heating up
inside, but she never, ever lost her cool.

Born and raised in Greensboro, North Carolina, Nancy played basketball in high
school before moving on to UNC, where she met Mike. She may have come to be
known as the wife of the baseball coach, but Nancy was much more than that to
players and the women that eventually became their wives.

Patty Hubbard, wife of former All-ACC third baseman, Jeff, found strength in Nancy
after losing a son several years ago.

"Nancy was a beautiful example of the hands and feet of Jesus," Hubbard said. "She
embodied Philippians 2:3, always serving others with quiet humility."

Nancy was a great mother who helped raise a daughter, Angie, and a son, Brian, who
was like her "mini-me." During  my freshman year, I vividly remember the scar on Brian's
chest after having open-heart surgery to patch a hole in his heart. He must've been five
or six at the time, and I remember thinking what a brave little kid he was to be able
to endure that frightening procedure.

Brian had his mother's coloring and quiet and respectful manner. The mother's pride
and joy grew into a major league player, enjoying a solid career with the Baltimore
Oriole and New York Yankees.

Several months ago, Nancy, like her son, had surgery on her heart. However, complications
ensued and an infection ravaged her body. Miss Nancy Roberts died February 10th at
the age of 66. She's gone far too soon but her memory will live on forever with all the players
who came through the UNC program during her time as baseball's First Lady.

Miss Nancy will be laid to rest this Saturday in Durham, North Carolina. She impacted
the lives of many, never asking for a thing in return, 'always serving others with
quiet humility.'

"I will miss her  as my role model and my dear friend," Patty Hubbard said.

Rest in peace, Miss Nancy, you will be missed.

TIM MURPHY AND 'RESPECT'

Of all the tributes and pictures that have flooded Facebook over the past few days honoring
Tim Murphy, a former Norwalk police lieutenant who died Monday after battling cancer, there
is one that has seared my consciousness forever.

A photograph of a procession with a hearse transporting Murphy's body, presumably to
a funeral home in Norwalk, shows up over and over on Facebook, paying tribute to a man
who served the community for more than 30 years. It's an image that doesn't need to be
photoshopped or altered in any way, for it is perfect, capturing the emotions of a police
force which salutes a brother outside the station where they often worked side-by-side.

It's a photograph that is a simple, yet powerful one, taken not by some paid professional
who can expertly stage something to bring out emotions, but rather by a remote camera
high-above the station, a higher-power seemingly taking a peak from the heavens, making
sure a beloved son is being properly cared for.

The picture is worth far, far more than 1,000 words but only one is really needed to
accurately describe it:

RESPECT

The definition of respect by the book is "a feeling of deep admiration for someone or
something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements."  On the street, respect
must be earned and is never, ever given. Ever.

Universal respect is something most of his desire, but few ever achieve, especially in
a jaded world ripe with jealousy, ignorance, and entitlement.

Tim Murphy, in his 33 years on the Norwalk police force and 55 years of life, earned
total and unquestioned respect. If anyone ever questions it, all they have to do is look
at the picture taken outside his former place of employment. Officers saluting, people
stopped in the street paying their respects.

Kyle Lipeika, a Norwalk police officer posted this comment on Facebook, summing up
what Murphy meant to him and everyone else in the law enforcement community.

"The next couple days will be tough, but we will stand tall and we are all proud to
have worked along side a true professional who has taught, guided and influenced
so many people throughout his life. LT. Tim Murphy your legacy will live on and
tomorrow we will honor your life and accomplishments because you have earned
and deserved all the respect."

That is Tim Murphy. That is respect.

REST IN PEACE, TIM MURPHY

"The greatest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude."
                                                                                    -Thornton Wilder

Tim Murphy died Friday morning after a hard-fought battle against cancer. He was just
55-years-old.

For all those who knew Murphy from his hometown of New Canaan, CT., he was the type
of guy you wanted to hang out with, confide in, and call a great friend. Murphy was a kind
and gentle soul who had three great loves: his wife, Kimberly, hockey, and his career as
a Norwalk police officer.

Murphy had a sterling and impeccable career protecting and serving a city that bordered
his hometown of New Canaan, but one that was far more dangerous than the tony-town
town he grew up in.

On February 26 of last year, Murphy turned in his badge and retired from the police force
after 33 honorable and distinguished years as a man dressed in blue.

Two days later, Murphy was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.

It all seemed so cruel, so unfair, and just so wrong. Murphy, whose only mean streak
surfaced while crushing an opponent during a game of men's hockey, was the nicest
of guys, one who would not only give you the shirt off his back but his entire wardrobe,
as well.

Murphy fought the good fight, battling a disease that rarely loses. As I saw pictures of
Murphy posted on Facebook over the course of the last year, I was convinced he was
going to beat cancer.

Friday morning, I was stunned to learn he did not. Murphy passed away at his home in
Florida, taken away from us far too soon.

I choose not to grieve his death, but rather show him my gratitude for all he did for
others in his life. Murphy served a community for more than 30 years, knowing with the
inherent dangers of it, every day could very well be his last.

I am grateful for the times we spent together at the gym, on the streets of New Canaan,
and during work as I spent a good deal of time covering Norwalk and the police beat as
a news reporter. He always put a smile on my face with a good story or made me
laugh with a good clean joke.

Tim Murphy was the best. A man with a heart of gold and an incredible spirit. He was
one of the great ones, a person who touched the lives of many and one who will never
be forgotten.

Rest in peace, Tim Murphy, you deserve it.

BUD GRANT AND 'THE REVENANT'

It took only one moment to rinse away the stink from Saturday's night's game between
the Pittsburgh Steelers and Cincinnati Bengals. When Bud Grant walked to mid-field
for the coin toss of the Seattle-Minnesota playoff game Sunday, all was good again
in the NFL.

Grant is the former Vikings coaching legend who drove his teams to four Super Bowls.
He looked like a coach out of central casting with a chiseled face, steely-blue eyes, and
the demeanor of a bad ass.

Grant retired from coaching in 1985 after 18 seasons with the Vikings. The all-time wins
leader in team history hasn't been seen much since then, and there were even many who
actually thought he had passed away.

On Sunday, Grant was 'The Revenant', making his return after a long time away from
the game and national spotlight. The return Grant made was the stuff of Hollywood
legend.

The 88-year-old Minnesota icon was the honorary captain for the Vikings, showing up
for the third coldest game in NFL history. At -6 degrees and with a wind-chill factor
of -25, the sell-out crowd showed up in five layers and Parkas. There may have been
a flask or two of Jack Daniels buried underneath all the clothing, as well.

Yet, there was Bud Grant in a polo shirt. Yep, just a thin shirt to protect him from the
bone-chilling temperatures.  How tough is he? How great is that?

Grant has always been tough as nails and expected his players to be the same. When he coached
the Vikings and Old Man Winter took up residence in the Land of 10,000 lakes, Grant
didn't allow heaters on the sidelines for his team. Man up, he told his players, those who
are mentally tough don't let the weather affect them.

Grant knew how to deal with the antartic-like conditions, that's for sure. He coached
the Winnipeg Bombers of the Canadian Football League for 10 years, winning the title
four times before landing a job with the Vikings.

Sunday was a return of sorts for Grant, who went to the University of Minnesota where he
played three sports. After college, Grant played in the NBA for the Minnesota Lakers
and in the NFL with Philadelphia Eagles. He is the only person to  play in the NFL
and NBA. When the Winnipeg Bombers opened a new stadium in 2014, they unveiled
a statue of him. Bud Grant is a god.

Leonardo DiCaprio stars in 'The Revenant", which means a return from a long absence.
During filming, DiCaprio and the crew were in Calgary with sub-zero temperatures, going
take-after-take in some brutally tough scenes.

When I saw Grant come out in a -25 wind chill factor in a polo shirt, I thought for sure
he could've played DiCaprio's character in "The Revenant" because Bud Grant is just
that kind of tough.

They certainly don't make them like Bud Grant anymore.

GOOD-BYE, MAUREEN SLOAN

Maureen Sloan.

She was one of the first girls I met when I walked into Deerpath Junior High School
in the fall of 1977. Our family had moved to Lake Forest, Illinois and as a 13-year-old kid,
I was starting over in a new town, a new school, and challenged to make new friends.

Maureen was one of my first friends in my new school. She was one of  the prettiest girls
in Lake Forest who seemed wise beyond her years. She was smart, sweet, and seemed to
have the beginning of real life figured out well before the rest of us.

I had a mad crush on Maureen Sloan, too. She didn't return the crush. As I mentioned,
she was wise beyond her years. :)

Maureen was one of the truly incredible people I met during my short stay in Lake
Forest. Our family moved back East after just two years. It was an amazing place
where I forged friendships that still remain strong today.

Thanks to Facebook, I reconnected with Maureen nearly 38 years after first meeting
her. Man, when I write "38 years" it doesn't seem real. Has life gone by this quickly?
Despite the time that accumulated between our last conversation, Maureen and I had
an easy time picking up right where we left off.

She seemed happy in her first year of life after 50. There had been demons that many
of  us face through this journey of life, but it seemed as though she had overcome
them and enjoying herself. That was evident in a text she wrote to former
classmate and good friend, Lisa Pharris.

As I was browsing through Facebook a few days ago, a short blurb caught my eye:
Maureen Sloan R.I.P.

I was hoping against hope it wasn't the Maureen Sloan I knew from Lake Forest in 8th
grade. I went to her Facebook and I read posts confirming that it was.

Maureen Sloan, 51, was hit by a car on New Year's Eve while crossing a busy
street in Sarasota, Florida. Gone tragically and way too early. She was loved and
had an impact on many of her friends, as many posts on her Facebook page indicated.

"I LOVED Maureen Sloan...I am so incredibly sad to hear of this horrible news...
My First friend at LFHS...A TRULY dear and gorgeous soul...You will be missed.
CANNOT believe this....! "  --Maria Salidas.

"RIP Maureen Sloan you truly impacted my life, many serious chats we shared
and how often you comforted me.... I will never forgot you or that beautiful smile....
Such a genuine, strong woman. Say hello to my brother up there!" ---Julie Hilliker

Maureen Sloan, you were truly loved. Anyone who met you, admired and respected
you. Good-bye, Maureen, you will be missed.