https://www.constancelyhoping.com/post/san-man
all the hope that he was the one in a million who was going to beat this. His competitive spirit would not allow him to come to any other conclusion and it buoyed his whole "team".
At Bon Secours, he had charmed the entire staff with his wit and kindness. He introduced me as one of only two "adults" in his fraternity with John Metzger, my roommate, the other brother deserving of the title. "Had we not had Constance and Metzger, no telling what would have happened to us." I climbed into his hospital bed with him that day and we clowned for his loving family and the camera.
In the late summer of 2016, when Sanford was still well-enough to travel, Metzger and I took him to see a Washington Nationals home baseball game. I picked Sanford up in Richmond, drove him to DC, and we spent game night at Hampton Inn and Suites a block from the park.
One memory of that night I will never forget because it was so "Sanford".
With my father's admonition that we only come this way once, so, "let's not sit in the cheap seats", I had gotten us 3 lower reserve seats on the first base side. We were in foul ball territory, surrounded by kids with baseball gloves.
In the first inning there was a towering popup that Metzger and I just knew was coming down on top of us, so we expectantly rose from our seats in preparation. Sanford remained seated and the ball landed ten rows behind us.
In the third inning, again a pop fly towered into the evening sky and John Metzger and I stood up for the attempted catch. Sanford looked up but again didn't move. The ball came down into the glove of Washington first baseman Ryan Zimmerman who was not even close to the railing.
As John and I were sitting down, with his usual perfect timing, Sanford said, "Look, I may have a brain tumor, but I can still judge a popup. When I stand up, you stand up. OK?"
Neither love nor modern medicine could keep Sanford with us, but he died with the same grace that he lived, coaching us to the end. I am confident that somewhere in the Cosmos, he still has his fungo bat, his smile, and his encouraging comments, training those who, like him, left us too soon.
all the hope that he was the one in a million who was going to beat this. His competitive spirit would not allow him to come to any other conclusion and it buoyed his whole "team".
At Bon Secours, he had charmed the entire staff with his wit and kindness. He introduced me as one of only two "adults" in his fraternity with John Metzger, my roommate, the other brother deserving of the title. "Had we not had Constance and Metzger, no telling what would have happened to us." I climbed into his hospital bed with him that day and we clowned for his loving family and the camera.
In the late summer of 2016, when Sanford was still well-enough to travel, Metzger and I took him to see a Washington Nationals home baseball game. I picked Sanford up in Richmond, drove him to DC, and we spent game night at Hampton Inn and Suites a block from the park.
One memory of that night I will never forget because it was so "Sanford".
With my father's admonition that we only come this way once, so, "let's not sit in the cheap seats", I had gotten us 3 lower reserve seats on the first base side. We were in foul ball territory, surrounded by kids with baseball gloves.
In the first inning there was a towering popup that Metzger and I just knew was coming down on top of us, so we expectantly rose from our seats in preparation. Sanford remained seated and the ball landed ten rows behind us.
In the third inning, again a pop fly towered into the evening sky and John Metzger and I stood up for the attempted catch. Sanford looked up but again didn't move. The ball came down into the glove of Washington first baseman Ryan Zimmerman who was not even close to the railing.
As John and I were sitting down, with his usual perfect timing, Sanford said, "Look, I may have a brain tumor, but I can still judge a popup. When I stand up, you stand up. OK?"
Neither love nor modern medicine could keep Sanford with us, but he died with the same grace that he lived, coaching us to the end. I am confident that somewhere in the Cosmos, he still has his fungo bat, his smile, and his encouraging comments, training those who, like him, left us too soon.
https://www.constancelyhoping.com/post/san-man
all the hope that he was the one in a million who was going to beat this. His competitive spirit would not allow him to come to any other conclusion and it buoyed his whole "team".
At Bon Secours, he had charmed the entire staff with his wit and kindness. He introduced me as one of only two "adults" in his fraternity with John Metzger, my roommate, the other brother deserving of the title. "Had we not had Constance and Metzger, no telling what would have happened to us." I climbed into his hospital bed with him that day and we clowned for his loving family and the camera.
In the late summer of 2016, when Sanford was still well-enough to travel, Metzger and I took him to see a Washington Nationals home baseball game. I picked Sanford up in Richmond, drove him to DC, and we spent game night at Hampton Inn and Suites a block from the park.
One memory of that night I will never forget because it was so "Sanford".
With my father's admonition that we only come this way once, so, "let's not sit in the cheap seats", I had gotten us 3 lower reserve seats on the first base side. We were in foul ball territory, surrounded by kids with baseball gloves.
In the first inning there was a towering popup that Metzger and I just knew was coming down on top of us, so we expectantly rose from our seats in preparation. Sanford remained seated and the ball landed ten rows behind us.
In the third inning, again a pop fly towered into the evening sky and John Metzger and I stood up for the attempted catch. Sanford looked up but again didn't move. The ball came down into the glove of Washington first baseman Ryan Zimmerman who was not even close to the railing.
As John and I were sitting down, with his usual perfect timing, Sanford said, "Look, I may have a brain tumor, but I can still judge a popup. When I stand up, you stand up. OK?"
Neither love nor modern medicine could keep Sanford with us, but he died with the same grace that he lived, coaching us to the end. I am confident that somewhere in the Cosmos, he still has his fungo bat, his smile, and his encouraging comments, training those who, like him, left us too soon.
all the hope that he was the one in a million who was going to beat this. His competitive spirit would not allow him to come to any other conclusion and it buoyed his whole "team".
At Bon Secours, he had charmed the entire staff with his wit and kindness. He introduced me as one of only two "adults" in his fraternity with John Metzger, my roommate, the other brother deserving of the title. "Had we not had Constance and Metzger, no telling what would have happened to us." I climbed into his hospital bed with him that day and we clowned for his loving family and the camera.
In the late summer of 2016, when Sanford was still well-enough to travel, Metzger and I took him to see a Washington Nationals home baseball game. I picked Sanford up in Richmond, drove him to DC, and we spent game night at Hampton Inn and Suites a block from the park.
One memory of that night I will never forget because it was so "Sanford".
With my father's admonition that we only come this way once, so, "let's not sit in the cheap seats", I had gotten us 3 lower reserve seats on the first base side. We were in foul ball territory, surrounded by kids with baseball gloves.
In the first inning there was a towering popup that Metzger and I just knew was coming down on top of us, so we expectantly rose from our seats in preparation. Sanford remained seated and the ball landed ten rows behind us.
In the third inning, again a pop fly towered into the evening sky and John Metzger and I stood up for the attempted catch. Sanford looked up but again didn't move. The ball came down into the glove of Washington first baseman Ryan Zimmerman who was not even close to the railing.
As John and I were sitting down, with his usual perfect timing, Sanford said, "Look, I may have a brain tumor, but I can still judge a popup. When I stand up, you stand up. OK?"
Neither love nor modern medicine could keep Sanford with us, but he died with the same grace that he lived, coaching us to the end. I am confident that somewhere in the Cosmos, he still has his fungo bat, his smile, and his encouraging comments, training those who, like him, left us too soon.
