HE appeared in a dream the other night, which was quite appropriate for this time of the year. Mighty Casey brought joy
to our MudvilleEven in the subliminal scattershots, Casey Kane was the catcher and I was the pitcher -- back in the days when our lives were baseball.
"Casey Kane, the man with no brain!" we would yell. His reply: "I'll drive you insane!"
Kevin Charles Kane was sure good at that.
His father died when he was very young, so my dad -- who managed our Little League team back on the South Side of Chicago -- unofficially adopted my grade school pal.
My mom also fell in love with the big kid with the huge heart and countless times added an extra plate at our dinner table -- even when there was a good chance that the rolls would be used for an impromptu juggling demonstration by the guest of honor.
On the ballfield, Casey was a natural catcher. He could block home plate like a big-leaguer and had a rifle arm to match.
His booming voice carried to all corners of the field and his bushy red hair made him stand out that much more.
At the plate, he swung a 36-ounce bat and could crush the ball, sending many home runs soaring over the rickety wooden snow fence beyond left field.
Casey could also make you laugh until you cried. His reddish face would light up like a giant flare and pretty soon everyone around him was cracking up.
One time he held his beat-up catchers's mitt to give me a target -- but it was stretched behind the right-handed batter.
The umpire had a few words with Casey, and then put his mask on in a hurry to hide a grin of his own.
Another time, Casey brought a new "mascot" into the back seat of our team bus, which was the family station wagon. At least the snake wasn't poisonous.
We had a great friendship that lasted through our grammar school and high school days -- and beyond.
Like many good friends, I went off to college, but Casey stayed in the city. Still, we played on the same softball team each summer -- and once again the home-plate ump could barely keep a straight face when Big Red was the catcher.
"Let me see that bat!" Casey would suddenly shout at the hitter, just as the 16-inch softball was being lobbed over the center of the plate.
WE partied long and hard after the games and I often shook my head as he hopped onto his Harley or into his souped-up Chevy to roar off into the muggy night air.
Go fast and have fun was our motto. Then have some more fun. We're not here for a long time, we're here for a good time.
Fortunately, as my old Blues singer friend said, the Lord took care of fools and babies back in those days when we didn't think twice about flirting with girls -- or disaster.
I can't believe it has been more than three years since the horrible news arrived in Hawaii.
The yellowed newspaper clip that my parents sent me still reads: "Officials are investigating the cause of the fire that killed a man Monday night. Kevin Kane, age 39, was found collapsed in a hallway near a back bedroom and pronounced dead on arrival at La Grange Memorial Hospital. The cause of death was smoke inhalation."
Casey Kane is buried on the South Side of Chicago and it still saddens me that I never got a chance to say goodbye.
But the wonderful memories of my friend, the catcher -- who could swat a long home run that would soar forever and make you laugh so hard, all in the same inning -- remain.
As an extra-inning treat, Casey appeared in a dream a few nights ago, ironically on the verge of another baseball season.
I woke up laughing, which helped offset the tears that followed.