Major League Tragedy in the Minors

Tulsa suffered a tragedy Sunday night.

Mike Coolbaugh, a hitting coach for the Tulsa Drillers AA baseball team, died after being struck by a foul ball by one of his players at a game in North Little Rock, Ark. He was 35.

Deaths in sports happen. When I met Michael Wilbon at Northwestern, he told me that he's probably written about death more often than most Metro or News editors. The untimely deaths of Michael Jordan's dad and Tiger Woods' pop. Stars burning out in their prime, like Derrick Thomas, Lou Gehrig or NU's own Coach Randy Walker. And the deaths of legends like Babe Ruth that signify the end of an era and take away a part of our nation's soul.

It's part of the game. It's part of life.

But that doesn't prepare you for something like this. A coach being struck down during a routine at-bat in the top of the ninth in a game that was a few outs away from being over. As my editor pointed out yesterday, Mike had no idea what was going to happen, no idea anything was going to hit him. He was probably thinking about what he was going to do after the game: Dinner in the clubhouse, phone call home to the wife and a full day at the ballpark tomorrow.

Sadly, tomorrow will never come for Mike.

At the risk of sounding cliche, these are the times that remind us of how little sports matter in the grand scheme of things. A chunk of wood hitting a hunk of yarn and cement into a leather glove. A few numbers on a box score. A few hundred words on a piece of newspaper. That's all.

Nine innings of work a few months a year can't compare to the life Mike built with his wife, Mandy, and their two songs, Joseph and Jacob? Or to the family they were hoping to add to with the birth of their third child, expected in October.

But times like these also remind us of how much sport matters.

As the Drillers family copes with the loss of one of its own and Tino Sanchez, the poor soul on the other end of the fatal foul ball, copes with the guilt of the freak accident, they will find collective therapy through baseball. The clubhouse will become a place to reflect on Mike's life and struggle - together - through the tough times. The diamond will become a way to honor Mike and bury their emotions. The day-to-day routine of long bus trips and long innings, cheap hotels and quick postgame meals, routine fly balls and battles in the batter's box will become a sanctuary to express - or repress - grief.

The games will no longer be just games, mere lines in a boxscore and columns on a newspage. They'll be living, breathing, nine-inning memorials to one of their own. To one who devoted his life to a children's game. To one who taught his players about getting ahead in the count and his children about getting ahead in life. To one who died doing what he loved - right up until the very end.

What better therapy can a grieving family ask for than to play the game they love together?

And what better memorial could Mike ask for than to have his extended family all together - playing for him?