Under the Influence

I’m not much of a drinker.

Never really was.

Sure there were a couple of nights in high school.

And a few more in college.

Ok maybe a few more than a few more in college.

But somehow I made it to the other side.

Somehow.

Now I love an ice cold beer as much as the next guy.

At the right time.

Like at a football game.

Or on a hot day.

Or a random Wednesday afternoon.

But thankfully I’ve stayed away making it a daily ritual.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Drinking is usually not the issue.

It’s drinking in excess where trouble starts.

And once that trouble starts, it’s hard to make it stop.

As a parent of a 14, a 12 and an 8.

I’ve tried to be as up front with them as possible.

And that includes talking to them about alcohol.

And drugs.

And friends.

I’ve told them to surround themselves with people you can trust.

And the rest will work out.

Hopefully.

We’ll I didn’t tell them the hopefully part.

Right now my kids are at an age where drinking and drugs just don’t seem like a realistic possibility.

To them.

When I bring up the subject, they usually give me the... 

“Are you kidding dad, I will NEVER try those things” look.

The same look I probably gave my dad.

The same look my friend’s son probably gave him.

Gave him.

Past tense.

Monday night I was at a Halloween party when my iPhone started buzzing.

It was notifying me that a new email had arrived.

But what it didn’t prepare me for was what I was about to read.

The email was titled “truly sad”.

And when I opened it, I almost fell to the ground.

Literally.

The 18-year-old son of my friend was dead.

No other way to say it.

Dead.

The suspected cause of death was alcohol poisoning.

The boy spent Saturday night at a friend’s house.

And he never got up.

I don’t know any more than that.

And I really don't need to.

All that matters is that my friend will never see his son again.

Never.

My fingers are literally shaking as I type those words.

It’s been several days since I got the email.

And I still can’t believe it.

Having a daughter in high school now...

(Just saying that makes me cringe.)

Well having a daughter in high school now has forced me to think a lot more about reality than I used to.

And if I ever stop thinking about reality.

Stories like these kick me right in the gut.

Right next to the knot in my stomach.

Of course it’s hard to imagine that any of my three little angels will ever do anything that gets them in trouble.

But the statistics tell an entirely different story.

There are roughly 50,000 cases of alcohol poisoning reported in the United States each year.

And of those cases.

At least one person dies every week.

Every week.

Alcohol poisoning is caused by drinking large amounts of alcohol in a short period of time.

You may know it better by its cool name.

Binge drinking.

In a recent survey, 90% of the alcohol consumed by drinkers under 21 in the U.S. is in the form of binge drinks.

The proportion of current drinkers that binge is highest in the 18-to-20-year-old group (51%).

I could cut and paste all day.

Alcohol Poisoning.

Binge Drinking.

Episodic Excessive Drinking.

Call it whatever you want.

As a dad, I call it scary.

According to the 2010 National Survey on Drug Use and Health:

• 10 Million people, aged 12-20, reported drinking alcohol in the month leading up to the survey

• 6.5 Million of those aged 12-20 were binge drinkers

• 2 Million of those were heavy drinkers

I know 12-20 is a large group.

And there are a lot of groups within that large group.

But still.

And don’t forget you have to be 21 to purchase alcohol in the United States.

Yeah, right.

Of course, I am not so naive to think that it is hard for a minor to get a drink.

I did it.

In fact, I probably had my first beer before I had my first kiss.

But that’s not saying much.

Sadly the numbers show that underage drinking is on the rise.

But it’s not the numbers I’m thinking about at the moment.

It’s my friend.

I cannot possibly imagine how he feels.

And I pray that I never will.

Black Diamond

A few months ago my 12-year old son and I went to a Major League Baseball game.

We got there early.

For batting practice.

We both brought our gloves.

Just in case.

As soon as we walked into the stadium, my son sprinted directly into the right field pavilion.

He locked in on one of the visiting San Diego Padres and yelled.

“Hey Adams, throw me a ball.”

My son knew him as Adams.

Because that was the name on the back of his uniform.

I knew him as relief pitcher Mike Adams.

Because he’s on my fantasy baseball team.

But either way.

Adams picked up a loose ball and threw it our way.

The throw was a little short.

But my son short hopped the ball.

As it hit the ground.

Like he was playing first base.

And presto.

He had himself a souvenir.

The goal of every young boy.

To go home from the game with a souvenir.

That was the same goal for Cooper Stone.

A six-year old fan of the Texas Rangers.

Cooper and his dad Shannon went to a Rangers game a few weeks ago.

They sat in the front row.

Behind the left-field scoreboard.

One of the best seats in the house.

On their way to the game, they stopped at a sporting goods store.

To buy a glove.

Just in case.

Or perhaps they had a feeling that this would be the night.

The special night.

The night that Cooper would head home with a ball.

The night he would never forget.

The Rangers took a 1-0 lead in the top first inning.

Courtesy of a Josh Hamilton RBI.

Cooper’s favorite player.

At the end of the first inning, Hamilton headed out to his position in left field.

Right in front of Shannon and Cooper.

As their luck would have it, moments later a foul ball caromed off an empty seat.

And landed next to Hamilton.

So he picked up that loose ball.

And tossed it into the stands.

Like he had done.

Countless times before.

Hamilton said he had heard a fan scream earlier to throw a ball his way.

So he threw it that way.

The fan was Shannon Stone.

Cooper’s dad.

The throw was a little short.

So Shannon reached over the railing.

To catch the ball.

For his son.

But the throw was shorter than Shannon expected.

And when he reached out to catch it.

He leaned too far forward.

And lost his balance.

Falling over the railing.

20 feet down.

Head first.

Onto a concrete floor.

When the paramedics got to Shannon, he was conscious.

At least conscious enough.

Conscious enough to be heard saying:

“Please check on my son.  He is up there by himself.”

Even in his worst moment.

Before anything else.

Shannon was a dad.

The emergency personnel checked on Cooper.

And took him from the front row.

To the front seat.

Of the ambulance.

That drove his dad to the hospital.

But on the way there, things took a terrible turn.

A tragic turn.

The trauma from the fall sent the 39-year old father into “full arrest.”

He was pronounced dead an hour later.

The story shocked the world.

The baseball world.

The Texas world.

My world.

How could this happen?

Why did this happen?

The answer to these questions didn’t matter.

The only thing that did was that a father was gone.

And a son was scarred.

Forever.

I don’t know the Stone family.

But I’m a dad.

I’m a human.

And I can’t help feeling for what they must be going through.

Even though I can’t even come close.

To feeling what they are going through.

A father and a son head to the ballpark.

For a night of perfection.

And what transpired was anything but.

The best of times became the worst of times.

In a matter of seconds.

Recently I visited the Ballpark in Arlington.

For a game.

My friend and I bought the cheap seats.

But snuck into the good ones.

Right behind home plate.

To see a game.

But from the moment I got there.

I couldn’t stop staring.

Staring at left-field.

Right above the scoreboard.

Where the game didn’t matter.

Where a boy lost his dad.