LAST EDITED ON 07-28-04 AT 07:23 PM (EST)My friend, Mike, died the other day. He was 47. I think. Maybe 48. It was very sudden, and I’m not sure how to react. It was at the racquet club, during the yearly club singles tournament. There were 30 or 40 of us there, milling about, playing tennis eating lunch, watching matches in progress. It was a beautiful day – sunny and about 88 degrees. We all agreed it was a perfect day for tennis – about 15 degrees cooler than the forecast had called for. Perfect day for tennis.
Mike was still playing his second-round match when I went inside to take a shower, as I knew my wife would be expecting me home shortly to start the yardwork that had been piling up for the last couple of weeks. Feeling refreshed and satisfied (even if I had lost both my matches that day), I exited the locker room and headed for the door. There seemed to be quite a commotion at the front desk – people running back and forth. The head tennis pro ran by, frantic, with a worried look on his face. I could hear the receptionist on the phone asking for an ambulance – there was a problem on the tennis courts. I almost left anyway, but instead headed back outside to see just what was going on.
When I walked onto the tennis deck, I asked someone close by if he or she knew what was happening. “Mike’s down.” I don’t even remember who I asked, but I didn’t really believe it was anything very serious at first. Not Mike! Mike was in the best shape of any of us regulars. He played 5 times a week. Didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, normal weight. Plus, he was only 47. Maybe 48. I stayed on the deck for a couple minutes, watching the commotion three courts away, thinking they didn’t need one more person over there to get in the way. He’d probably be up and about again pretty soon.
But wait, that’s Mike. He’s my friend. I need to go out there and see what’s happening. Maybe they need some help. If nothing else, maybe a short prayer will be more effective if I’m close by. Maybe I really didn’t believe it was Mike. I ran across the now vacant tennis courts to where he lay on court 7. He was there, lying on his back. A club employee and tennis pro were giving him mouth-to-mouth and CPR. A fellow player was on the phone with the 911 operator, describing the scene. Three or four others were shielding him from the sun with towels. Others were ready to help with the CPR if necessary. A few more were scattered about, just watching in disbelief. Mike was getting the best care someone could hope for in this situation, so I stood by out of the way.
Internally, I was in shock. I’ve taken CPR and first aid training classes, and I’ve watched ER on television, but I had never seen a real person actually receive CPR and mouth-to-mouth. It was surreal. I was shocked to see that his normally flat stomach was bloated, and it looked like he had stretch marks around his abdomen. He looked like he could have been 7 months pregnant. What was happening? His rescuers stopped momentarily. Was he breathing on his own? I thought I saw his chest rise and fall. But no, I guess I was wrong, and they started up again. C’mon Mike, snap out of it! GET UP! The paramedics are here now. Boy, that was fast – it’s only been a few minutes.
What am I supposed to feel? Should I be sobbing? Why am I not? All I really feel now is disbelief. This can’t be happening to Mike! I could name 10 other guys I would believe you if you told me their lives were in danger, but not Mike! He’s the backbone of our club. He’s everyone’s friend. He’s in great shape. He’s only 47 for God’s sake. Maybe 48! He’s going to be okay, right?
“Does anybody know this man?” , asked one of the paramedics. Well, yeah, we all know him. It’s Mike. Mike Ramirez. Tennis rating 3.227. I know because his rating is exactly the same as Frank’s and Eric’s. Quite a coincidence. “Does anyone know his medical history? Does he have any current medical conditions, medicine allergies?” Silence. We don’t really know Mike THAT well. Someone suggests we call his family. Good idea! Does he have family? Well, I know at least a little about his family. He has an adult son and a pre-teen daughter. Does anyone have his home phone number? I do. It’s stored here in my cell phone, so I make the call to his home, hoping his son is there. I can’t believe that of all these people there, I’m the one calling his son. I’ve never met his son before, though I know his daughter. How do you tell a young man you don’t know that his father’s life is in grave danger?
“Hi, this is Mark, a friend of Mike’s from tennis. Is this his son?” Yes came the reply. “Well, I don’t know exactly how to say this, but your Dad collapsed on the court a short time ago. He’s not breathing , and we’ve been giving him CPR and mouth-to-mouth. An ambulance just arrived, and they’re getting ready to take him to the hospital. It’s very serious. Do you have a way to get down here quickly?” I knew where Mike lived. It wasn’t far away. “The paramedics want to know if he has any existing medical conditions,” I continued. “He has high blood pressure,” his son told me. “I’ll let them know. Get down here as quickly as you can….What’s your name?” I didn’t even know his son’s name. “It’s Joe.” I relayed Joe’s message to the paramedics, hoping the information would help Mike. Why were they taking so long? How come he’s not on a guerney and in the ambulance yet? They’ve been here at least five minutes! Why don’t they have a defibrillator? Wouldn’t that be the thing to do right about now?
Minutes later they cart Mike off in an ambulance to the nearest hospital, which is about five miles away. Thinking back on it, I don’t recall hearing a siren. I wonder if they had already given up on him at that point. We met his son at the racquet club entrance. A friend had driven him there. He looked confused and concerned, but remarkably together. I looked down the street and wondered what it must have been like for him driving past the two fire trucks and the ambulance that stretched the lengh of a city block. Would that have brought a stark reality to a surreal situation?
I made my way back to the tennis deck and took up some small talk with other tennis players. We were all in a daze. It occurred to me how little I actually knew about Mike. We had played tennis regularly for about four years. We were teammates on the club’s traveling team – always second place; we could never win the championship. Mike and I had a common opponent on our rival team that neither of us could beat. He was an old guy, almost 70 for God’s sake, and he dismantled us every time. I was hoping that I – not Mike - would get the next chance to beat him.
We played each other at every opportunity and I always enjoyed it. Our matches were always close. He won more than I did, but it was never a sure bet. During changeovers, we would talk – sometimes about work, since we bothed worked in state government for “Arnold”; sometimes about pool care since that was a side business he had going. Mostly, he was a quiet, private person and although I considered it a personal challenge to get him to reveal snipets of himself, many facets of his life remained hidden. I decided he didn’t have a wife – he wouldn’t be playing tennis five nights a week if he did. But I never knew whether he was divorced or widowed, and I never asked. My gut feeling told me he was widowed because I couldn’t imagine a wife leaving him.
Most of what I knew about Mike was revealed on the tennis court. Tennis can reveal a lot about a person’s character. Mike ALWAYS had a smile on his face when he was playing tennis. I never once heard him make a negative comment about someone else’s game or even his own game. If he was ever upset with the way he was playing, no one else on the court could possibly know. Most importantly, he was a role model for tennis honor. Every line call in doubt went in favor of his opponent. Although tennis’ honor code requires this, it’s seldom fully practiced because at some point you get tired of calling every one of your opponent’s close shots “good”. Just by the way Mike conducted himself on the tennis court, I knew I liked him and I knew he was a remarkable man.
What will life be like on the tennis courts in the months to come? How many people, unaware of Saturday’s events, will ask “where has Mike been lately?” What will the fall interclub tennis season be like without him? His name is already on the roster. How long will the flowers memorializing his exit be kept on court 7? Over the years club members have come and gone. New players take the place of ones who’ve moved away or quit the club.
“I haven’t seen Dwight in a while, where’s he been?” “He moved to Folsom about a year ago.”
“Remember Jim? Tall, with glasses, and a kid named Cory?” “Yeah, I remember he lost a bunch of weight, then hurt his eye, and I haven’t seen him since. It’s been a couple of years.” “It’s been that long?!”
I don’t think it will be the same with Mike. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him. Everyone will miss him. I don’t think his memory will fade quickly. Those of us who were there when it happened on Saturday will surely relive the experience a little bit every time we use court 7. In my mind’s eye, I’ll see his face and his trademark white headband and wonder how could this happen? To Mike? My God, he was only 47! I think.
(Edited to correct spelling errors)
Handcrafted by RollDdice!
Email this topic to a friend
Printer-friendly version of this topic
Bookmark this topic (Registered users only)
