Herman Lottenslaughter died today, but you don’t know him. No one knew him because that was not his real name, but he was a real person, and so was Herman.

This week, I was going to write about the Triple-A National Championship in Vegas on September 28, which, by chance, was Herman’s 70th birthday. However, Herman died, so my plans have changed.

He had just gone into the hospital a couple of days before the game, but none of us knew what was to come. He was released the day I returned from Vegas.

I guess I should tell you that the Sugar Land Space Cowboys, the Triple-A affiliate of the Houston Astros, won by a score of 13-6 over the Omaha Storm Chasers, the Triple-A affiliate of the Kansas City Royals. You would probably be interested in hearing that the Storm Chasers played horribly, as if their hearts were not in the game, and they looked as though they did not want to be there. Errors both in the field and on the base paths left them easily overmatched by the powerhouse that were the Space Cowboys, despite Brian O’Keefe’s two-homer night for Omaha.

Back home, I imagined Herman cracking jokes about the Space Cowboys and the Storm Chasers. “Bacon can play better defense than that!” he would say about his dog with an incredulous laugh. But there were no jokes today, his love for the game had given way to a quiet, yet clearly visible suffering that even the doctors were confounded by.

Ever since he was a child, Herman loved baseball. After his family immigrated from Canada, he grew up in Southern California watching the Los Angeles Dodgers teams from the 1960s and telling me tales about Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax. While playing Little League, Herman’s 1968 Ventura Babe Ruth Jr All-Star team made it to the district championship game, and he loved to tell me all about it.

Herman was on deck with the bases loaded and a chance to win the game, but the young man in front of him singled and drove in the winning run. Herman would joke for the rest of his life that if only the batter had struck out and he had the chance to be the hero, his life would have been different. That batter was a 13-year-old, future Academy Award winner, Kevin Costner.

I spoke to Herman today for one last time. It was a video call, and while I was 2,300 miles away in Ferndale, MI, with the sun shining brightly, I felt as though I was sitting right there in the hospital room. I could only see his face on the screen, but I remembered his frail figure from when I last saw him days before. I told him I was coming home and that I would see him tomorrow. In those moments, I remembered the tales of Don Drysdale and how the people of Los Angeles loved him and his movie-star looks, despite that, he was a fierce competitor on the mound. Then there were the stories of Herman’s teenage years, being a lifeguard on the beaches of Southern California with sun bleached blonde hair just waiting to catch his next wave or waking up early for water polo practice.

That’s the Herman I remember, but today he lay still with an oxygen tube, still smiling and giving me two thumbs up while I was so far away. We spent so many afternoons watching games, with him telling me stories mixed with wisdom and humor. While Herman could not really communicate more than the joy in his eyes, I smiled and nodded, pretending things were okay, hoping for one more day. In those last moments on the video call, I called him “Dad” for the first time, and I felt the warmth of his smile as I said “thank you” for everything before saying goodbye. Now it all feels like a dream.

Later that day, when the call finally came, I immediately felt the pain for his daughter, and being so far away from them all, I shuddered and began to cry.

When I got back home, I picked up the baseball that Herman had given me years ago, signed by all the players from that 1968 championship team. Its surface was worn, but the stitches held strong. An artifact of Herman’s love for the game, I held it in my hand, feeling the weight of the moment, but it was just silence now. Then I thought about how he would always ask me the same question: “Lindor or Correa?” I laugh now, sticking to my guns, as I always chose Correa, and his eyes always glimmered with mischief in response.

That was Herman, a bridge between the past and present, who cherished the game and his family. A man who would bring the joy of the Sunday paper’s comics to my kids and treated them like grandchildren of his own. He had a curiosity about him that drew my children to him from their pre-teen years to adulthood, showing them what it was like to have a grandpa.

Herman died today, but I knew he would never truly leave us. The stories we shared, the laughter we exchanged, and the lessons he left us will remain in every game I watch, every political pundit I hear, and every dad joke I tell.

Rest easy, Herman, and give Tank a pat on the head for us. We love you both, and you will forever be in our hearts.

With love, 

Dr. Turtle, Fish, The Kid, & Bull Moose