By Scott Lambert
Ok, so now write about it. I tell that to my students all the time. Something great happens — write about it. Something horrible happens — write about it.
Writing helps you get to the bottom of what you feel. Writing is cathartic.
But it’s been over a week and my mind is still jumbled. How do I put it together?
Maybe just by letting my thoughts run wild.
— Dean Lockas died yesterday. Actually, he’s been dead for a week but it became official yesterday. His death was pointless, he shouldn’t have died. It was a brain tumor, scary yes, but routine. Only it wasn’t. He said the night after his surgery that he had a hangover headache. We both knew what it was like. Only his headache was followed by cardiac arrest, seizures, a pair of strokes and, eventually, brain death.
My heart breaks for Dean’s family, his wife Shannon who had to handle the world’s worst week and keep everyone informed, her kids Drew and Payton, Dean’s dad Don and mom Virgene. Parents shouldn’t have to outlive their kids. Dean loved his family. He loved being a family man. He should still be one.
— I’m angry. Not just that Dean died but that I couldn’t go see him before he passed, that I couldn’t have done more. But like millions of people this year, I can’t grieve right. I can’t sit with all of our friends and tell Dean stories. There are a million of them. I can remember them all. The chance to turn the pain into the good, to make the memories the important thing, that’s why funerals are so important.
And that’s why I’m so angry. We can’t do that because of Covid. We can’t do this because restaurants are more important, because live church is more important than live church members, because we had a president who told people it wasn’t real.
I’m pissed. My friend since I was six years old, who raced my mother when he was in grade school, whose wedding I attended and who attended mine, he’s dead and I can’t do anything about it.
— Some numbers. Dean and I played our first organized game of baseball together when I was nine and he was 10. We played approximately 210 baseball games together, 65 games of basketball and 36 football games by the time we were out of high school. A conservative estimate would be that I played 500 fastpitch softball games with Dean. That doesn’t take into account the thousands of hours of practice, the stories, the work, the fun, the laughs, the tears.
— I’m selfish. I’ve lost too many friends who knew me back when. Steve Lowe when I was 20, Scott Rowe just a couple of years ago and now Dean.
They knew me back in the day. They know how much high school affected me, how getting booed by your hometown affects you forever. They knew my trip from where I was then to where I am now. And there’s really no one else who knows. And that makes me so terribly sad.
My wife knows me. She’s known enough the last week to talk with me, to be my best friend. She’s been a big help, like always. She knew Dean. She really liked him. Her stories make me laugh, we did some of what is so important to healing. We remembered. That’s what gives me hope.
— Loyalty, that was Dean. There were so many things that described Dean, but the most important was loyalty. If he was your friend, he was your friend. That’s a rare quality. It always has been. But Dean was loyal.
And, he helped. Not always in the best way but Dean would always try to help. His last act helped. Dean was an organ donor. His body stayed alive, even if his brain didn’t. I don’t know what all was used but Dean’s death saved lives.
His last act was a hit. A solid line drive in the gap. Dean left by helping others. And I’m sure that right now, wherever he is, he’s standing on second and taunting me as I dig in:
“Beat that Lambo.”
Lambert's Look 