Yesterday Darren Daulton died. He was a catcher for the Phillies in the 80s and 90s. My husband gave me the news when he came to bed last night. We were both avid Phillies fans during Daulton’s playing years and although we never met the man we felt like we knew him. He was a big guy, handsome, charismatic and a leader of the team; what was not to love?
Once he retired we would see him as a broadcaster and at alumni events. Only a few years older than my husband and me, we watched him age right along with us. He battled brain cancer for four years and we all fell in love a little more, understanding that if this strong athlete could receive such a diagnosis and fight with grace, dignity and that trademark smile, so could we.
When Don Rickles died earlier this year, he was in his nineties. I always enjoyed him and he was insulting people my whole life. When I heard the news of his passing in April, I recognized the loss but he was forty years older than me. Darren was three.
My friend was always a big admirer of Chris Cornell and over the years we would joke about her running off with him. When I learned of his death I immediately texted her. During our conversation, she wrote that “our fantasies shouldn’t die”. Might I add to that “especially in their fifties”.
For years we counted on Dutch, as he was known, behind the plate. He is not my family nor a friend but for the fan I was when he was playing, home will never be the same again.