Seeing Shane through the sorrow

When I received an e-mail asking me to incorporate Sept. 11 into this week’s articles, I felt sick to my stomach. It didn’t sit well initially because the mere thought of Sept. 11 makes me raise questions about our future, our government, foreign policies, the firemen who sacrificed their lives and all the children who were left without parents.

Then, all of a sudden, I thought of my little cousin Shane, who was born on Sept. 11, 1989.

I remember when he was born. I was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, mad because my dad wouldn’t give me 50 cents for a Fanta Root Beer. I remember seeing friends and family together, enjoying each other’s company, anxiously waiting to meet the new member of our family. Then we heard the news – little Shane entered into this world. His father’s face glowed. I have never seen someone so happy, so thankful. His smile warmed the entire room as his eyes filled with tears of happiness. It was my first experience being at a birth, and it was surreal.

I remember when Shane was five and we spent the summer on Cape Cod. Shane had told me he wanted to be a baseball player when he grew up. Laughing, I asked him if he had a glove. We went to Oshman’s and bought him a Kirby Puckett glove. From that day forward, I would never see him without that glove. I would see him playing catch with his friends, playing a game of pickle or simply throwing a tennis ball against a garage. He was in his own world where he was always in game seven of the World Series, and it was up to him to win it.

I remember watching him play organized baseball and two games really come to mind. The first game was Shane’s first time pitching. He was nervous at the time and the other team hit him hard. After the loss, I remember him crying and saying that he never wanted to pitch again. Then, it couldn’t have been more than 10 days later, Shane’s coach wanted him to pitch again. Family and friends watched as Shane pitched like a young Nolan Ryan, striking out most kids he faced. It was moment of self-redemption that I will never forget, and I know he will not.

Unfortunately Shane was brought up to be a New York sports fan, so needless to say, we would playfully make fun of each other. The older he got, the more trash we talked. To this day we still have the same conversations and debates: The “Karl Malone Rogaine commercial vs. Patrick Ewing’s flat top” debate, The “Curse of the Bambino” debate and, of course, the recent “Nomar v. Jeter” debate.

I thought of the endless games of Monopoly we would have. I would always catch him adding hotels to his properties and taking $500 from the bank when he thought I wasn’t looking. I thought of the times I would baby-sit for him and I would let him stay up past bedtime. We would watch horror movies and eat obscene amounts of Pop Secret popcorn until his parents came home. I laugh thinking about how he would run like an Olympic track star into his room when he heard the garage door open and he knew his parents were home. He must have been good at pretending to sleep because I never got in trouble for letting him stay up past his curfew. I could go on forever talking about the experiences Shane and I shared.

The point of this column is not to downplay the tragedy that occurred a year ago. No matter what we say or do, those events will haunt us for the rest of our lives. Where there is death, there is life, and I choose to celebrate life today.

I urge you to do the same – cherish the fact that you have loved ones you can still touch, talk to and share life with.