He may have laid your carpeting.
He may have placed a bet with you at the OTB.
He may have told you to keep your head on the ball. He may have told you that there was no way that pitch was a strike.
He may have made you a large chocolate shake or strawberry sundae.
He may have held your hand or patted you on the back.
He may have loved you.
He was a father, a husband, a son, a coach, a carpenter, a gambler and a friend to many people. But to me he was my Uncle Jack.
It's been more than four years since Jack Deininger lost his long battle with diabetes and cancer on April 19, 1998. I wasn't there when he gave his last breath, but I can bet it wasn't without a fight. If you knew Uncle Jack, you can bet, as I'm sure he'd want you to, that it was a fight.
Not a day goes by that I don't think about Uncle Jack. I'm 27 now and still miss his ways.
And they surely were his ways.
I guess there was a way about Uncle Jack, his German blood always running on high whether he was fixing the batting cages at Coach's Corner in Joliet or second-guessing an umpire's call from the third-base coach's box.
He had a way with words and the various expressions that followed. He wasn't afraid to speak his mind in any arena. He was a Vietnam veteran and an outspoken, hard-nosed ball player. He'd make you want to hate him one day and then you'd want to be his friend the next. I think he may have even fired me a few times from Coach's Corner only to find me better jobs elsewhere.
Uncle Jack lived, drank and ate baseball. If his knees hadn't gotten so bad, he may have seen a career in the professional ranks. He bought me my first Rawling's baseball glove autographed by two-time National League MVP Dale Murphy, who automatically became my favorite player.
With his love for baseball came his love for the Chicago Cubs. My brother Brian and I would be with Uncle Jack and his sons and always talk Cubs' baseball. No matter what the score was, the game would be on in the house or in the car. Uncle Jack even piled up his family in the car and made cross-country road trips to see the Cubs play.
Uncle Jack had been a diabetic as long as I could remember. He watched what he ate and took his shots regularly. Even that is never enough sometimes.
In the fall of '95 he went to have his pancreas and a kidney replaced. There was a 98 percent chance that the surgery would be a success. His wife's brother had the same surgery and was healthy afterwards, aside from poor vision.
I was there with Uncle Jack the day of his surgery. He smiled as he went in and said he'd see us later. That was the last time I saw the Uncle Jack I knew so well.
Upon receiving the new organs, his body rejected them. There was a 2 percent chance this would happen. Moreover, cancer had formed in his body. It had gone from a somewhat routine procedure to a battle for his life. He was never the same after this. His body was never again strong enough to accept new organs.
For more than 2 1/2 years, Uncle Jack fought the ultimate fight with cancer. He battled and struggled, undergoing dialysis (a procedure where the blood is cleaned using machines since his body was unable do it on its own) three times a week. He was weak and unable to walk without the help of others. His condition would improve and then worsen within hours. Doctors didn't have all the answers and his family was left to sit and pray.
I remembered Uncle Jack as the coach of little league teams at St. Joe's Park in Joliet. He and my Aunt Nelda bought the ice cream shop next to the park and built batting cages there. His love of baseball had turned him into a mentor and provider of opportunities for hundred of kids. Even while he was fixing the fast-pitch machine, he took the time to tell the young boy in the medium cage to swing level and step into the pitch.
I also remembered him as an active father, boss and uncle. Cancer had taken all of that away. He remained strong inside, though, whether it was in mind or heart.
I moved away to Phoenix, Ariz., in January of '97. Uncle Jack was still very ill. The weekend before I left I stopped over to say goodbye. Aunt Nelda said to Uncle Jack that when he gets better, they'd come to Arizona to visit me.
"That would be great," I exclaimed. "The Cubs' spring training is 10 minutes from where I'll be living."
"OK," was all Uncle Jack responded with and even that seemed to take a lot out of him.
I came home in December of '97 for Christmas. Aunt Nelda was working two jobs and nobody was available to stay with Uncle Jack while she worked. I came over to stay with him.
Just before she began to get ready for work, Aunt Nelda rubbed Uncle Jack's right hand. He had had so many tubes in that hand and arm that it began to hurt quite often. Rubbing his hand made the pain go away for a while.
My aunt had to get ready for work so the rubbing stopped. I said I would rub his hand. Within minutes, he told me to stop, saying I wasn't doing a good job. Then their dog, Bo, a golden retriever, came over and Uncle Jack rested his hand on Bo's head.
About 10 minutes had passed.
"Ah Nelda, rub my hand would ya," asked Uncle Jack.
"I can't Jack. I have to get ready for work," Nelda replied.
"Scott, can you come rub my hand," Uncle Jack asked of me.
"I thought you said I was no good."
"Yeah, but you're the best thing I got."
Even in his weakest moments, Uncle Jack maintained a sense of humor. Aunt Nelda and I laughed. I think of that time quite often.
Perhaps Uncle Jack's best angel that was sent to watch over him was my brother Brian. He was a year older than Chad and had been coached by Uncle Jack at St. Joe's. Brian hung around with Chad and Todd more than I did because he was closer to them in age. They went to many ballgames with Uncle Jack and he spent many nights at their house.
Brian had finished high school and wasn't sure about college. He had a job at night that freed him up to watch Uncle Jack during the day while Aunt Nelda was at work and the boys were in school. Brian had many conversations with Uncle Jack and took on the responsibility of watching him as more of an honor.
Uncle Jack was in and out of hospitals and doctors offices on a weekly basis at some stretches. In the meantime, his two sons, whom he taught all about baseball and even introduced to the likes of Pete Rose, were both blossoming into excellent players. The eldest, Chad was hitting tape-measure home runs for Joliet Township and racking up All-State, All-Conference and All-Area honors as a senior in '96.
The younger son, Todd, was growing like a weed and throwing a fastball in the high 80s. He won the same honors as his brother his senior year in addition to being awarded Gatorade's Illinois High School Player of the Year.
Chad was offered scholarships for athletics and academics but opted to stay near his father, attending Joliet Junior College. He was also able to see Todd dominate the opposition as professional scouts gathered around to watch his each and every game.
It was April of '98 and I was working odd jobs in Arizona. Aunt Nelda had kept me posted on Uncle Jack's health and Chad and Todd's baseball doings through phone calls and monthly postcards.
April 19 I checked my messages on the answering machine. One was from my mom and she didn't sound good. I called her back and she told me. Uncle Jack had died. The pain, the suffering, the struggles, the battles, the tubes through his body and the tests were no more. My cousins, my aunt, and my brother were all there to see Uncle Jack pass on.
Although I wasn't there to say goodbye in his final moments, I had done so when I was home for Christmas. And we laughed that time.
Todd finished his high school career a year after his father's death. He was indecisive about turning pro or going to college.
The amateur draft was held in early June of '99. The call came. Todd was selected in the fifth round by none other than the Chicago Cubs, the very team he had grown up watching and cheering on.
They offered him a six-figure signing bonus. Experts aided in Todd's decision and he turned down the money and attended Texas A&M University in College Station, Texas.
During his junior year at A&M, Todd pitched just more than 12 innings. Disgusted by this, he was looking forward again to the draft in June of '02. When he signed with A&M out of high school in 1999, they told Todd that he would improve his chances of getting drafted higher in 2002.
The 12 plus innings didn't improve his stock though. He was drafted in the ninth round by the family-hated Chicago White Sox. Those three words were rarely uttered in our houses as kids.
Todd signed with the Sox. I went with Chad and another friend to drop Todd off at the airport just the other day. He is now in Arizona getting ready to head to Tennessee for the team's Single A affiliate.
The man who had taught them all about America's favorite pastime was gone. Chad and Todd had both flourished into excellent baseball players. But their father never really saw any of their success. Years of practice on the field and in the very batting cages he built had made both sons into Major League prospects. However, the dreaded disease cancer made the accolades and awards seem like nothing.
For 2 1/2 years, Uncle Jack, the coach, the father, the husband, the son, the uncle, and the friend of many fought the battle with cancer that no Vietnam War nor 14-inning, one-run ballgame could have prepared him for.
His legacy lives on in his sons. Even though Todd wears the enemy's colors, I'm sure Uncle Jack is looking down on his son with a smile. I would expect Todd to say nothing more than "Thanks dad. Now maybe I'll get traded to the Cubs."
Why not? It worked for Sammy Sosa.
Scott is a standup comic and can be reached via his Web site at [WEB SITE]
06/16/02
