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As we all go through the motions of our day-to-day grinds, we rarely think of our own mortality. If we did we would make ourselves crazy dwelling about things that are beyond our control. I do my fair share of obsessing, ask anyone in my family for validation on that, but it’s rarely about whether or not I will wake up in the morning.
We take it for granted that we will die at a ripe old age or see it coming due to illness or disease. That is how life and death works right? Sudden death is something that happens to someone on the news, not to us.
Then something happens to jolt us back to reality, something that when its first told to you it doesn’t quite register. You know the type of thing that makes you almost involuntarily say, “I’m sorry what did you say?” and even once it has been repeated you have to think about it more because in your mind it still doesn’t make sense.
Well that scenario reared its ugly head last week and I am still trying to grapple with it because to me, regardless of the medical reasons, I will still never understand it. I guess there are some things we are never meant to understand, at least while we’re still on this mortal plain.
Last week Yanto Hughes, at the age of 42, passed away in his sleep during the middle of the night. I got to know him the way so many of us make acquaintances, through our kids. His son Vinnie and my son Alex played soccer and baseball together and his daughters, Nicole and Adriana, played soccer and softball with my daughter Rachel. So we saw each other often around the playing fields and while we didn’t know each other’s names in the beginning, we always exchanged hellos and friendly acknowledgements.
He was very involved with both sports, helping to coach and referee at soccer games. Anybody who has ever attended a soccer game knows the amount of running the referees do during the course of a game. If that’s any indication as to Yanto’s physical fitness nothing is.
We never got to know each other very well, but well enough to have occasional conversations concerning sports. But he always struck me as a “white hat,” one of the good guys and in youth sports that can be a rarity. I never heard him bitch or complain, with the exception of disagreeing occasionally with a bad call by an umpire. Even a saint couldn’t refrain from doing that when the call is obviously bad. I never heard him, or have anybody tell me, of him bad mouthing anyone. Again a rarity in youth sports.
I can only base what I know about Yanto from my limited dealings with him. But it is obvious that this man was loved by many, as the overwhelming number of people who attended his Rosary and funeral attest to. He touched so many lives in his brief time here that both young and old will remember him for the rest of their lives.
I remember the last time I talked to him was an evening not long ago at Ralph’s grocery store. He and Vinnie were in front of me in line. He was wearing his yellow and black soccer referee uniform. Yanto had just picked up Vinnie from baseball practice and he had just refereed his last soccer game for the season and was relived that it was finally over so he could dedicate his time to helping coach Vinnie’s major baseball team.
After they had finished we said our goodbyes and he and Vinnie headed for home, both of us knowing that we would see each other soon at mighty Millham Field where our boys played ball. We did for a moment, not to talk, only to wave to each other after the Dodger/Pirates game, and three days later he was gone. Who could have imagined, I certainly couldn’t.
In my house and within my family Yanto will always have a special place, a place that he never knew existed, well not completely. There is a story that I have only told to my immediate family and a couple of close friends, the reason being is that I was embarrassed about it and still am. But if anything can point out what a good guy Yanto was this would be it.
As I mentioned earlier in this article there was a time a few years ago, when I didn’t know Yanto’s name. I asked my wife if she knew it. She said she wasn’t sure but she knew it was something different, maybe Gunther. This part of the story my wife disputes to this very day, but that is how I remember it.
From that day forward, for over a year, every time I saw him I called him Gunther, thinking in my mind that was his name. Until one day my wife heard me and said, “What did you call him?” I said “Gunther.” She said “Why, his name is Yanto?” “Since when?” I asked. “Since always” she replied.
That is what a nice guy Yanto was. That for over a year I called him by the wrong name and he never corrected me, while probably thinking “What is wrong with this guy?” And once I did start calling him by the right name he never called me on it, which makes him a better man than I am. Only the good die young indeed.
So goodbye Gunther, I wish I had the time to know you better, your kind don’t come around very often and I’m sorry I didn’t seize the opportunity while you were here.
The Shrub Speaks: “All of us need to step back and try to figure out how to make the U.N. work better as we head into the 21st century. Perhaps one way will be, if we use military force, in the post-Saddam Iraq the U.N. will definitely need to have a role. And that way it can begin to get its legs, legs of responsibility back.” Lajes, Azores, March 16, 2003.
Hey Dubya: If I’m not mistaken, we are already three years into the 21st century, and tell me, what the hell are “legs of responsibility?”
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