Maybe it’s because the holidays are approaching. Maybe it’s because I recently wrapped up a series on Warsaw Tiger basketball that filled me with a general feeling of nostalgia.
My great uncle Jack would have loved it. He passed in April at 88 years old.
The man simply known as “Uncle” in my family was a diehard sports fan. I’d like to tell you a little about him.
John Henry “Jack” McKrell was born in the little town of Curtisville, Pa., two days before the stock market crashed on Oct. 29, 1929.
He jokingly said he “brought on the Great Depression.”
He graduated from Wheaton College in Illinois in the 1950s before spending time in the U.S. Army.
You name a place, my uncle was there. He toured Europe during his service, and years later made sure to travel all across the states.
He enjoyed a decades-long career in human resources at Magee Women’s Hospital in Pittsburgh.
Back when “Mad Men”-style sexism was the prevailing practice in the business world, Uncle was ahead of his time in utilizing his female employees in key roles in business meetings.
There would be no inequality or unfairness on his watch.
My uncle was a Christian, and his faith was important to him. He taught Sunday School for 60 years.
Through it all, he kept a love for sports. Everybody remembers Pittburgh’s sports glory days in the 1970s, but my uncle spent years as a loyalist to the hapless Steelers and Pirates of the ‘40s, ‘50s and ‘60s.
Call Terry Bradshaw and Willie Stargell his payoffs.
Much of my love for sports stems from my dad’s side of the family, and Uncle played no small part in that.
He rattled off names and dates like a human encyclopedia. His personal favorite was Ted Williams, whom my uncle loved for his service in World War II and in Korea.
Uncle always said if Teddy Ball Game hadn’t lost years on the field to wartime, he’d have most of the hitting records.
Before his death, my uncle was probably one of the last people alive to have seen Homestead Grays great Josh Gibson, of the Negro National League, hit a home run.
Before Jackie Robinson broke Major League Baseball’s racial barrier, Uncle and my granddad saw Gibson go yard – either once or twice, they couldn’t recall – during a game in New Castle, Pa.
He also loved the Boston Celtics. Back before the NBA was a national TV phenomenon, my uncle was ahead of the game in following the Bill Russell-led Celtics.
I enjoyed all of these stories when I’d go visit my uncle at a retirement home.
We’d talk about the Steelers and the Pirates. He always referred to the latter as a “Triple A ball club.”
I was with him when Pitt upset the “mighty” Penn State 42-39 two years ago.
As his health failed, his interest in sports waned a little bit. But, he still enjoyed the games, and was glad to see his Celtics on the rise again.
That’s why, no matter how many times they beat my Philadelphia 76ers, I can’t hate the Celtics.
The last time I saw my uncle was a few days before he died. My mom called and told me I should go see him, so I made my way to the retirement center to say my farewell.
He wasn’t doing too well. I asked him if he knew who I was, and he said “yeah,” in a cheerful way, as to say “Of course I do, ol’ buddy.”
He always called me “ol’ buddy.” That, or, endearingly, “the boy.”
I sat there watching him, his eyes closed.
“Uncle, the Pirates started off strong,” I said. “Not bad for a Triple A ball club, huh?”
We shared a laugh together.
I will really miss seeing Uncle this Christmas. I’ll be headed back to Pennsylvania for a few days, where I’ll cherish my time with my grandparents.
Sports are metaphors for life. Whether you win or lose, it’s always who you share the experience with that matters most.
I shared a lot with Uncle, both in sports and in life, and I’m much richer for those experiences.
As you play in holiday tournaments, as you watch ball games on TV with your friends and family, remember that life and sports are meant to be shared with loved ones.
