Mike, you were 13 years old and I was 10. Everyone knows that 13 year olds don't mess with 10 year olds -- everyone except you, my friend. You were already a star baseball pitcher and I was a lonely kid trying to be accepted into the group as a baseball player. You were the kindest kid I ever met in my life. You took me under your wing, showed me the ropes, and made me feel a part of the group. In a pickup game, you were pitching and I came to the plate. You were so good that most kids could not get a hit off you, least of all me -- a beginner. You could have struck me out with three pitches. Instead, you intentionally laid one right down the middle. I, scared to death, swung and hit a line drive over the right fielder's head (who had moved in on me). From that day forward, I was accepted as a baseball player within that group and many more to come. If you had struck me out, who knows, I may have walked home in defeat and given up the game. Mike, I was never able to tell you that your simple act of kindness changed my life forever. I have told this story over and over to anyone who would listen. I also tried to mimick your kindness by helping others struggling for acceptance in athletics and elsewhere. My friend, I can only imagine the other lives you touched in your short 23 years and my best guess is that your death in Vietnam helped other soldiers live out their lives. I look forward to playing ball with you again in the next life. This time I will pitch. Jerry Huber

 

A memorial initiated by a boyhood friend, Jerry Huber Winkgink@AOL.com  26 May 2002

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