Everlasting Ink

On Easter weekend a couple years ago, we received awful news of a friend afflicted with ALS. Below is the tribute I wrote at the time. Last night, we were saddened to learn he'd succumbed. RIP.

Atlanta, GA

April 17, 2022

Last week was Masters’ week, which in north Georgia is usually delightful. Until yesterday, when rain rolled in, this year was no exception: clear, sunny afternoons book-ended by chilly mornings and cool nights. 

The birds are chirping, the azaleas flower, and Atlanta’s arboreal canopy is in seasonal blossom. Bees are abuzz among the blooms, bringing on their wings the annual allergies of our seasonal Pollenesia.

Spring brings several rites of renewal, including cleaning, gardening, and repair. Another is baseball. The season returned last week. With it, our Atlanta Braves took the field.

By winning the World Series several months ago, they’ve given themselves a tough act to follow. But while we bask in the team’s second title since they’ve played in Atlanta, we have an unfortunate reason to remember their first.

In the 1995 World Series, the Braves beat the Cleveland Indians. In the deciding game, Tom Glavine pitched a one-hit shut-out. David Justice provided the only offense, hitting a solo homer to win the series. But it’s the opposing pitcher…the Indians reliever who gave up that run and took the loss…who comes to mind.

Jim Poole was a couple years ahead of us at Georgia Tech, where he pitched for four years before being drafted by the Dodgers. The woman who’d be his wife was a sorority sister of the one who’d one day marry me. Jim and Kim married after graduation, and began the tedious drudgery of Minor League life.

Both earned engineering degrees from Tech. Jim deferred his electrical engineering aspirations to pursue his dreams on the diamond. Like this writer, Kim held a civil engineering degree. She put it to work, using her income to compensate for Jim’s Minor League salary. While she did, her hopeful husband bounced along backroads between thin crowds in small towns, and she rarely saw him.

After a couple years, the monotony of lonely separation, long bus rides, dingy motels, and poor pay were amply rewarded. In 1990, Jim Poole made the Majors. On June 15, he faced his first batter, and struck out Tony Gwynn.

He played for eleven years and eight teams, including three stints with the Indians. He was a good player who is unfairly remembered for one misplaced pitch. Jim once joked that he wished the Braves would win a second series, if only to make people forget the rôle he played when they won their first. 

Last fall, the Braves finally granted his wish. Unfortunately, by the time they did, a dreadful diagnosis had already ensured that Jim Poole would always be known for something else.

One of the nicest guys we’ve ever known is suffering one of the worst afflictions a person can endure. Last June, on the anniversary date of his first Major League game, Jim learned that he shared the eponymous ailment of another big leaguer of comparable character. 

As Kim put it in a poignant letter, nothing can prepare you for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS). Known as “Lou Gehrig’s Disease” since the “Iron Horse” contracted it in 1939, it is an incurable neurodegenerative disorder that destroys the motor neurons that enable muscle movement. It erodes ability to speak, eat, move, think, and…ultimately…to breathe. Paralysis usually precedes the respiratory failure that causes death.

The optimistic, outgoing man who made good money throwing a ball is now unable to pick one up. He can no longer wield a pen either. But his wonderful wife is writing for him…with grace, dignity, and love.

Kim wrote to us last week. Drawing on a deep reservoir of noble strength, she updated us on Jim’s deteriorating condition, and left us wishing we could somehow reverse his dreadful disease.

As Jim’s arm weakened, his legs did too. He apparently can’t stand and is unable to walk. He’s confined to a wheel chair, yet his spirit can’t be contained. He seems more reconciled than resigned. This is typical of one whose attitude is so good that were he to come across a Trojan Horse, he’d appreciate the gifts while others fear the Greeks.

From my wife’s recollections, the articles I’ve read, and my limited interactions, Jim has always seemed to be smiling. I’m sure he still is, whether his mouth moves or not. But it’s hard for the corners of ours not to turn down.

When we heard the news of his incurable affliction, Rita was devastated. She’d not seen much of the Pooles since college, but always thought the world of them both. That something like this could happen to someone like Jim was unimaginable.

We last saw them a few years ago, when Jim threw a party to celebrate Kim’s birthday. That was where I first met him. As he did with so many strangers that night, he made me feel like he’d known me his entire life. That’s a rare gift, and one he eagerly gave. We ended the evening by promising to get together again. As so often happens when people make such a pledge, we never did.  

We try not to portray anyone as being too good. After all, we should all have some redeeming faults. I assume Jim has his. But aside from a single pitch in a long-ago Series, I don’t know what they could be.

It’s apparent that anyone who’s crossed paths with Jim Poole feels the same way. Many have responded accordingly. In Jim’s honor, business, baseball, and Georgia Tech associates known collectively as “The Friends of Jim Poole” endowed the Jim Poole Scholarship for Georgia Tech Baseball.

Few men are more worthy of the honor, nor less deserving of the impetus for it. As our hearts sink, our prayers rise, and beseech God’s blessing for the family, faith, and fortitude of Jim and Kim Poole.

But it’s Easter morning, and we slowly shed our Good Friday mood. Outside, like heavenly tears soothing earthly laments, a gentle rain falls. As dawn breaks, we receive the Light, and remember that we live a story whose moral becomes clear only at the end. We don’t know when that will be, so we must turn the page, savor the book, and write new chapters till our pens run dry.

But knowing the moment will come when our manuscript is due, we rejoice that a Publisher is risen, with an everlasting flow of indelible ink.

JD