Bless you Robbie

Not many worse ways to start your day than to learn via FB that an old friend has died. That happened to me today. Regardless of the medium, the message remains full of anguish.

Robbie and I grew up together in the Southern California burp of Westchester, two or three miles from the beach. Rather than spend all our free time surfing, we chose to play baseball. In the streets on Collegio, at the park, at school, anywhere we could find. We broke more windows with errant flies than all LA BB guns combined.

We started Little League together in 1961 and it quickly became apparent that Robbie had a natural gift for the game. Shown here is our All-Star team from 1965. Down in front, far right is Robbie. I am next to him. We lost that day 6-3 in 9 innings says Mom's writing on the back of the glossy.

We attended different High Schools, he to Westchester while I played at St. Bernards. I played Pony and a year of Colt League and he across town at Loyola in Babe Ruth League. He continued to impress fans, scouts, and especially opposing players. He was a gentleman, a quiet competitor and genuinely an outstanding person. I was always proud to be his friend.

After HS, where he starred in basketball as well, we both ended up in the same JC League, playing again for different schools, he at Santa Monica and me out in the Valley at Los Angeles Pierce. One particular dramatic game, he ended it with a grand slam.

It was 1972 when he continued on to Pepperdine and I opted out of baseball to travel.

He played well enough at Pepperdine to be offered by the Oakland A's and as I settled into a live of adventure he began a pro career that would span almost a decade as a player and another as a coach. In 1983 he played in the World Series with Milwaukee. He was with the Angel's in the mid 80's when we would get together every time they would visit Seattle. I have a fond story of him introducing me to Reggie Jackson.

We last spoke on my birthday while he was busy orchestrating the wedding of his youngest son, He promised to get back with me to get caught up as soon as things returned to normal.

They never did and today I learned of his fatal heart attack as mentioned above.

He was 64. My oldest friend, confidant, teammate, pal. I have a few other pictures that maybe I will post when this melancholy passes.

I remember watching Brian's Song on TV one year and sobbing when James Caan delivers the line, "I love Brian Piccolo.' The emotions, the memories, the sadness I feel today, wrapped in the poetic of surname similarity, allow me honestly say today, "I love Rob Picciolo.'

God bless you my friend.