MitchMash: Dealing with and honoring loss

Dear members of the St. Joseph Notre Dame (Alameda, Calif.) Pilots boys basketball team: 

It's Good Friday, a week since your most disheartening and painful loss in the state championship. I'm hopeful and confident today is much better.

I've been covering the state championships for almost 30 years and never seen a more brutal way to lose a title game. Any game really. And, for that, I am truly sorry.

You were in command for all but the final few seconds. Horizon (San Diego) led only twice, 2-0 and 32-31, before the last dagger, a long-range buzzer-beater to win 47-46.

As the final moments unraveled, I remember tweeting, "what a horrible way it would be to lose a game like this," one you had so thoroughly controlled and masterfully executed.

Your effort was supreme, you out-rebounded your opponent (39-34), you took care of the ball (just 13 turnovers) and you constantly worked the ball inside where it seemed like one contested chip shot after another rolled around the rim and out. There seemed like a dozen of them just somehow trickled off as if some magnetic force pushed the ball away.

Despite that, you just kept battling and fighting and staying four, five and six points ahead. You even opened it to seven, 46-39 with 25.1 seconds left. The game appeared in your hip pocket but you didn't let up, celebrate early or rejoice your school's fifth state title.

You got the ball to the right players and they were fouled. They simply missed four free throws in the final 11.3 seconds — it happens — and Horizon hit a layup and two highly-contested and improbable 3-pointers, the last one at the buzzer, a 30-footer by sophomore Ethan Underwood to send you to your knees in defeat.

The confluence of events defied all odds and while the Horizon players rejoiced and dog-piled, you crumbled and cried in despair. How could something so close, so earned, so seemingly yours — the state's ultimate prize — be snatched and swished away?

As stunning as the sequence was with the improbable shot, what those along press row will remember most was your emotional response. The tears, the wailing, the guttural sounds of pain and anguish seemed to last forever, though it was only for three or four minutes.

I know it's what I identified with most, largely because those same sounds were coming out of my home the night before when I found out I lost my best friend in life to cancer.

FURY AND GRACE

Johnny Cardinale is as good a man as you'll find on this planet and two years previous he was diagnosed with Stage 4 stomach cancer, a death sentence of sorts. He was given 3-6 months to live but, like every chance he took, Johnny fought like hell with a remarkable combination of fury and grace, and earnestly seemed on a miracle track.

But cancer, a dastardly and devilish beast, found its way into his liver and despite the greatest attempts from the greatest doctors and the love and support of thousands — tabbed "John's Army" — who delivered prayers into the millions, he died peacefully on March 20 with his adoring family nearby.

He was only 47, ancient to you guys surely, but vital in every way. "Strong like bull," is how we described him. Direct, charming, funny, giving, and warm — you look up all of man's best traits in a dictionary — and Johnny's beaming face and twinkling eyes would accompany. If you think I'm just being sentimental or partial — I wouldn't blame you — but Google his name and notice the rich descriptions, the deep sorrow from his passing, and the emphasis on his humanity, his courage, and his selflessness.

By definition, he was a motor sports public relations and marketing man at Sonoma Raceway, but he was so much more. He was described as the best in the business at what he did and a better person, father and friend than that. I can attest to all.

The Associated Press ran his obituary, a place normally reserved only for celebrities, dignitaries and rock stars, not "P.R. men."

But far more than NASCAR or NHRA, Johnny promoted decency and kindness at every level. He looked you directly in the eye and when he asked you how you were doing, it wasn't obligatory. He wanted to know everyone and he made everyone feel important, like they had a purpose — not in a schmaltzy way, but true, genuine, sincere.

That is what made him so widely beloved.

"Keep it real baby," he use to always say in a lighthearted tone that somehow conveyed truth and humor, depth and lightness, sincerity and mirth.

But that was the magic of Johnny and what so attracted me to him 17 years ago, the day I met him at Encinal (Alameda) Easter Tournament game, right there blocks from you, in Alameda.

We laughed at the same silly stuff, went up, down and sideways with conversation and observation. It was unforced, unfiltered and easy. I knew he heard every word I spoke, got every subtle joke and vice-versa.

I told my wife Trine that night, "I think I just met my new best friend," and I was correct. Over the two decades we shared in work, vacations, fantasy drafts, sporting events, restaurants and most of all, family and fatherhood.

I cherished every moment with him — long before he was ill — and worship his beautiful wife, Andrea, and two angels Emma, 11, and Lauren, 7 left behind.

"Why do we have to lose our dad?" Lauren asked her mom last week. "We're such nice girls!"

Nice and pure as the driven snow. Even a 7-year-old knows an injustice when she sees and feels it.

Why indeed.

FULL THROTTLE

Losing a basketball game and a loved one are unquestionably two different things and I hope you haven't had to make such a comparison yet.

But pain is pain and grief is grief, and how we deal with it is one of our greatest challenges in life. I frankly attempted to escape my pain last Friday by attending the state championships. Instead, I witnessed and felt yours. Not a coincidence I think. We tend to be faced with what we most resist.

Unlike me, you dealt immediately. You were and are blessed with coaching legend Don Lippi, a jewel of a man who deals from the inside out. You blamed yourselves for the defeat, pointing out each missed shot, mistake, free throw, but he was there to turn around the wayward thoughts.

He glowed about your love for the game and each other. He gushed about your practice habits, that you left it all on the court – leaving no room for regret or "I could have done more."

In the midst of despair, it was impossible to hear. A week later, hopefully it has all sunk in, and this is indeed is a Good Friday.

For me, I've struggled with my grief or to find anything good. I've searched for meaning, a silver lining of some sort. I've received hearty mentoring myself, from loving friends and family.

My wife pointed out we had Johnny 18 months longer than expected, indeed a blessing. But selfishly, I wanted more.

My pal, Joe Davidson, told me sternly, "He is forever with you as long as you remember him." But I want him right here.

It wasn't until this morning, when I turned to Johnny himself and asked a question I plan to ask for the rest of my life: "What would Johnny do?"

That led me to write this letter to you, which in turn reminded me of something Lippi told me on Monday.

"Everything we do on this earth should be for love," he said.

And that reminded me of this.

Johnny Cardinale left this earth knowing — from head to toe he was loved. His wife and children filled his gigantic heart and more than a trillion cells with every form imaginable.

But it wasn't until he opened his life full throttle, sharing his battle with cancer the last two years on a Caring Bridge website, that the love spilled over, like caramel and chocolate on an ice cream sundae (his favorite), smothering him with more than 20,000 sweet and earnest expressions of love and adoration.

In that regard, Johnny reaped what he sowed. He loved life and all those in his loved him right back. With a cherry on top.

And that's keeping it real, baby.

A memorial fund has been set up on behalf of the Cardinale family. Donations may be sent to the John Cardinale Memorial Fund, care of Sonoma Raceway, 29355 Arnold Drive, Sonoma, CA 95476. Also please donate to No Stomach for Cancer, 9202 Waterside Street, No. 203, Middleton WI, 53562 or visit nostomachforcancer.org. Read more on his life here.