The average age of incoming freshmen to national medical schools is 24 years old. The average age of a woman at first childbirth in the US has risen to 25. The average age of a man at first marriage in the US is a little older than 28, while the average age of a woman at first marriage in the US is a little younger than 27. The average age of a first-time home-buyer is 31.

Greg Halman turned 24 years old on August 26th. A short time later, he finished the season in Tacoma with five hits in two games. A few weeks ago, he was one of several players representing Major League Baseball on a tour through Europe. Today he is dead.

***

A week ago, or maybe two weeks ago, I don't know, I was reading an editorial about the Penn State situation, the thesis of which was that the fans and media were completely unprepared to handle a story of such impossible gravity. That everybody just wanted to talk about the players and the games and the irrelevant scandals, and that a story such as the one that broke left everyone speechless and helpless.

Parallels. You and I and all of us are completely unprepared to deal with the news that we've learned. Yesterday we just wanted to talk stupid bullshit about Prince Fielder. The rest of the week, we just wanted to talk stupid bullshit about Prince Fielder. Now Greg Halman has passed away. No one is moving, because no one is sure what to do.

That editorial read as a criticism. When I think about it now, it's not much of one. Who would be prepared? Who could be prepared? There are things worth preparing for, and things beyond the unfathomable.

***

It's insulting the way lives end up getting summarized. It's understandable, of course - to truly capture a life lived would be to tell a story as long as the life itself - but Greg Halman was so much more than an outfield prospect for the Seattle Mariners. He was more than a guy with an age and a dad and statistics. We didn't know a lot of the story, and few people did, but pay attention to the words of everybody who's come out with a statement. To an individual, those who knew Greg, even just a little bit, were struck by his charm, his enthusiasm, his warmth, his infectious smile, which is one of those traits that many ascribe but few truly possess. One senses that Greg wasn't living his life in pursuit of happiness; one senses that Greg was living a life driven by it.

I don't even feel right referring to Greg as a baseball player. Obviously he was a baseball player, and that was how we knew him, but I don't feel right giving him that label, that identity. Still, while "baseball player" wasn't Greg Halman's full identity, it was a part of it, so it's worth noting how much Halman achieved, and what he came to represent. He wasn't just a Mariners prospect on the brink of a big league career. He was the first Dutch-born, Dutch-raised, and Dutch-developed player in Major League history, and from the bottom of Geoff Baker's piece:

[Coach] Chlup said Halman was surprised that so many fans in the Czech Republic seemed to know who he was. Other than Fielder, Chlup said, Halman got the loudest reception of any player introduced to the crowds.

"He knew that, for a lot of Dutch kids, he was the one who got it done.''

Halman was one of the faces of European baseball. In one sense, he was trying to make it. In another sense, he already had.

***

And maybe that's the silver lining here. The story whenever somebody so young passes away is that they were taken before they could live a full life. That should be the story, because we're put here with dreams, and we should all get a chance to achieve them. But while Greg didn't get to live the full life that he wanted, and that his parents wanted of him, the life he did lead was most certainly full in a way that few of us can match.

Greg Halman was born in Haarlem in 1987. He learned four languages. He graduated from college. He signed with the Seattle Mariners in 2004. He represented his country in 2009. He made the Major Leagues in 2010. He hit his first Major League home run in 2011. All the while he comported himself with an eagerness and a joie de vivre sufficient for envy. This is a paragraph summary of Greg Halman's life, and I hate it. I hate that it's insultingly brief, and I hate that it had to be written.

About that home run - Greg Halman hit two home runs, the first of them coming on June 15th, against the Angels. He hit it at home, leading off the bottom of the eighth. Sitting in the stands was Greg Halman's dad. It was Greg's first game as a professional his dad had ever seen.

***

Dear Mr. Niehaus,

I am unsure how to write this. I do not presume to speak on behalf of others, so many others, which feel a desire to say goodbye. You were such a personal part of so many of our lives and as the hours have gone by, the radio has been filled with dozens of stories of your grace, your humility and your kindness. You touched the lives of so many people. Some were lucky enough to meet you. Others like myself, just felt like we had.

Jeff has remarked on occasion that writing is far easier when you have an emotion than when you do not. When the news came to me of your death, I feel a little ashamed to say that I did not have an immediate reaction. Tears did not come to me right away and no pang of grief yet settled on my chest. Those feeling will come in time. Some tears did not wait long, but more will come. I know that when next season begins and the first games are broadcast, those feelings will come and be overpowering. Of that, I have no doubt. For now, when the news broke I only felt a gaping emptiness, like an important part of me was gone.

Perhaps it was because I did not find the news terribly surprising. It was sudden, yes, but not surprising. We all knew that your health wasn't the greatest; that you had difficulties in the past. More than once when I happened to come across an old broadcast of yours, I frequently remarked that one of the strangest things was how youthful your voice sounded. I didn't like hearing the difference because it reminded me how long you had been here and that eternity doesn't actually exist for us. But then something exciting would happen and wouldn't you know it, but you'd go get riled up and damned if it wasn't the same old Niehaus. Still there. I wish I could keep saying that.

I don't find your death tragic either. As easy of a joke it is to make, I don't think the Mariners killed you. This was your passion and if anything I believe that it helped keep you with us just that little bit longer. I m thankful for each and every little bit.

In times like these, there is an urge for remorse. I'm sure many people out there are lamenting that they didn't listen to more games during this season. "If only I'd have known," some may have thought over the last day. It's a natural reaction. But truthfully, if we caught you off the air, I think you'd smile and wouldn't hold it against anyone. You weren't a booster and I think you knew, probably better than any of us, how frustrating this 2010 team was. When you first came to Seattle, you were asked about the dearth of fan support here and responded, "[the] fans don't owe us anything, we owe [them] a team." You understood. You didn't begrudge us.

Still, I found it a responsibility of mine to continue following this team so I forced myself to keep attuned to the games each day. There was only one way I could manage that though and that was by switching off the television after the third inning and letting the radio carry it the rest of the way.

Baseball is a pastoral sport seemingly bred for the radio. I maintain that no other sport on earth is so well suited to the medium. Beyond its fittingness for the radio waves, I always enjoyed partaking in baseball games via the radio because it helped me feel connected to the past. I could turn a game on the radio and consume it in exactly the same fashion as anyone from the 20^th century might have. It won't be the same without your voice coming across.

No matter that the team was boring enough to keep paint wet; you had a story to tell. Scratch that - you had twelve stories to tell. Your love of baseball was genuine. "I look at every game as 1/162 of a season. Each game has a different story," you said. "It's the reason why people fall in love with baseball. I look forward to coming to the ballpark and telling different stories every day." I don't know what baseball would have been like without your stories, Dave.

Part of it was the voice. I'm not sure what exactly it is that makes a voice special, but you had it. I'm not the first person to say it, but you could read me the fine print of a car loan and I'd sit and listen.

Some didn't share the same feelings. Some who could not get past the growing number of misjudgments about fly ball distance or pitch type. I understand. I don't resent them and I don't blame you. My natural eyes were downright useless and I haven't even gotten to 35 yet, much less 75. Some loss of visual acuity is to be expected.

That never bothered me however. Because I didn't need you to be eagle-eyed. I did not need you to spot things that I couldn't. I have my surgically corrected super eyes to do that for me. Even if I didn't, on TV, there is very little about baseball that the cameras don't adequately capture visually. But TV cameras aren't poetic and they don't have memories. That's what I needed you for, Dave.

Your timbre rising and falling, that slight Midwestern accent appearing and retreating, you had the talent to use your voice like the instrument it was to aid the narrative. I listened to countless Mariner games on the radio with you at the microphone and not once did I ever feel remiss about not watching on television. I didn't need the TV because you filled in for it yourself. An artist with your descriptions, you even received an award from the Washington State Society for the Blind. They told you that you allowed the blind to see the games. I know you cherished Cooperstown so much because of your love for the game, but for my money, being honored by the blind? That's your finest honor.

So many have already equated losing you to losing a relative. I do not find that overdramatic. You weren't some far off person - you were right here with us. For three-odd hours a day, 162 days a year over 34 years you were a presence. A soundtrack to so many of us here in Seattle that it is impossible to imagine the Mariners without you or you without the Mariners.

Over that immense time, an intimacy develops. It shows itself in the little ways as well as the big. When I talked about you, I never referenced you as Mr. Niehaus or Dave Niehaus or any of that. You were just "Dave", and not just to me. I could say Dave to most any Mariner fan and they'd know whom I was talking about. The same way that "Junior" is and will forever be reserved for Griffey, Dave was all that was required for you.

It seems unfair that you were taken from us at this time, but 34 years is a long time and right now I am filled not just with sorrow over the loss, but also an immeasurable thankfulness to have been gifted the privilege of your service. What kind of fan would I be without your calls? How many moments forever altered for the worse without your presence?

Like so many others, you came to Seattle from someplace else. Some Californian place even more typically. Some place less wonderful I like to think. And like so many others, you made here home. "People knocked us as a baseball town ... I've had offers to leave, but why be miserable in New York or Chicago? I want to be here when we turn around," you once said. You didn't get to see the ultimate prize with Seattle, but despite the horribleness of this most recent season, I bet you would consider this team turned around.

That may seem hard to swallow after the team's 2^nd 101-loss season in its last three, but there's more to it than just the very recent team performance. This city has transformed and grown. Perhaps not necessarily into a baseball-only city, but into a city that embraced the Mariners and always appreciated the man who was their voice.

You saw an ownership group hell bent on moving the team replaced. You saw GM after GM come and go. You saw Randy Johnson, Edgar Martinez, Ken Griffey Jr, Ichiro Suzuki and Felix Hernandez. Through the numerous players that passed through the Mariners roster, you still managed to maintain an enthusiasm for each newcomer. You saw Griffey run around the Kingdome during his prime and however many other wonderful defensive outfielders but listening to you broadcast a Franklin Gutierrez catch, or a Felix strikeout, you made him shine like there's never been anyone else.

And God bless your defiant optimism that always shone through even the bleakest of times. Talking about some forgotten poor season, you said, "It's never been a downer for me because I always think maybe this day is a beginning of a winning streak." You sustained us all through the tough times and celebrated with us during the good times. And the lows were less low because you were there. Like an old familiar blanket always ready to provide warmth and a feeling of security, we could wrap ourselves up with your voice and remember that no matter how poorly the past season had gone, you would be there next Spring and we were looking forward to hearing from you again.

The next Spring will come. Right now the days are darkening, the clouds ever more present and gloominess settling in that needed no help in shackling us to a blue mood. They will pass however, and the annual ritual will begin anew. The players will assemble in Arizona. There will be the all too familiar Spring Training stories to wade past. The grass at Safeco will be cut and the field readied. Everyone will be anxious to put 2010 behind and start anew.

Despite any efforts to avoid it, to honor it or to commemorate it, there will be a gargantuan hole in that broadcast booth. You called 5,284 of the Mariners' 5,385 games. I don't envy the next person in the booth and I don't envy us. We miss you, Dave. We miss you and thank you for all the times. All the memories. We are all lesser off now than we were two days ago.

And the 2-0 pitch to Ichiro on the way - swung on and a fly ball hit to left field. This will end the season. Right there drifting back is Carter to make the catch, and the ballgame is over. So here in the ninth inning of play, no runs, one hit, and one man left, and the season is over, and for the first time ever, the A's come in and sweep a four-game series in Seattle. The final: the A's four, and the Mariners three. Be right back.

---

I'm sitting here, thinking about all the people I know, and all the people I'm close to. I'm trying to imagine what they sound like. Obviously, I have some idea. I would recognize them if I heard them. But, just using my imagination, I can't nail them down. I can't imagine exactly what my girlfriend sounds like. I can't imagine exactly what my mother sounds like, or what my brother sounds like, or what my friends sound like. I can get close, but there's still something off. It's like my mind is spitting out some blend of 75% them and 25% generic gender-specific voice, just to be safe.

I can imagine exactly what Dave Niehaus sounded like. I wouldn't call him the narrator of my memories, but he's the narrator of a lot of them, and I've listened to him describe Edgar's double so many times that I've got the whole thing down to a science. Right now, the Mariners looking for the tie. Hold the -w a little bit. Insert a little pause between the 'for' and the 'the'. In the event of an impression, speak the whole thing from the back of the tongue, with a bit of a drawl.

To say that Dave was the voice of the Mariners is to say it all, really. If the Mariners were a thing - a big, awkward, stumbly thing, moving around without any real sense of direction - and if that thing were to open its mouth, it would sound like Dave Niehaus. He felt how all of us felt, and he expressed what all of us wished to express. Through all of the good and all of the bad, one needed nothing more than to listen to Dave Niehaus for a few minutes to figure out where the Mariners stood. There was no hiding his delight when things were going well, and there was no hiding his disappointment when they weren't.

Lately, things haven't been going well very often - certainly not in 2010, when the Mariners saw a legend up and retire and went on to perhaps their worst year in franchise history. It's easy to imagine the toll this must have taken on Dave after all of the positive feelings before the season began. He didn't take it well, and more and more, fans expressed the sentiment that the M's had better get it done while Dave was still around. Something about the awfulness of it all, and the step back it represented, put things in perspective and caused people to realize that Dave wouldn't be with us forever.

And, no doubt, it's a great shame that Dave never got to see the M's in the World Series. Having been with the organization from the very beginning, he deserved it more than anyone else, and it hurts to just imagine how excited he would've been. Dave would've had the time of his life.

But rather than get mad at the Mariners for failing to deliver for Dave over 34 years, I think what people need to understand is that, even without a deep trip in October, Dave had the time of his life anyway. Earlier today, we were talking a little about Joe Buck, and it's evident that Buck doesn't approach the game of baseball with a childlike enthusiasm. I do not think that's a barrier from being a good announcer. But in order to be a great one - you gotta love the game, and Dave loved the game like few others do. Announcing was his job, and from time to time it would most certainly feel like a job, but it says something that, on his infrequent days off, Dave would relax and listen to a game. Some people use their offdays to clear their heads. Dave's was never cluttered.

Don't be mad at the Mariners, and don't feel bad for Dave. There could've been more highs, but the man lived his passion every day. He was a lucky one.

It's weird when these things happen. When Ernie Harwell died, it didn't mean much to me. When Harry Kalas died, it didn't mean much to me. Harry Caray, Jack Buck, Chick Hearn, and so on - their deaths didn't stop me in my place. News of Dave's passing did. I lost my grandfather a few weeks ago and Dave's passing doesn't affect me in the same way, but it does still feel like a death in the family, just because it resonates so strongly within a tight group of people. People from Los Angeles or Denver or Kansas City won't feel about this the way that we do, and we shouldn't expect them to, but many of them understand. Most fans understand that, while another team's long-time announcer may not mean much to them, they mean the world to the listeners at home. There's a bond that forms, and it stirs this strong, fierce devotion.

It's a devotion that, in many ways, may be even stronger than one's devotion to a team. When a team is good, you're all about it, and you're brimming with enthusiasm. When a team is lousy, though, one becomes objective, and critical. That objectivity and criticism isn't there with announcers like Dave. Not nearly to the same degree. I think we were all aware of some of Dave's flaws in his later years, but none of us thought worse of him because of them, the way we think worse of the M's for some of their drawbacks. I know, myself, while there's no statistical measure of narrator quality, I'd argue until I was blue in the face that Dave was the best there ever was.

He was the best there ever was, to me, to you, and to so many others. In Detroit, of course, the same doesn't hold true. Harwell was the best there ever was. In St. Louis, Buck was the best there ever was. And the beauty of it all is that none of us are wrong. There is no right answer with something like this. Only a man you grew up with, and a man connected to so many memories.

As hard as this is, I don't know that it's really going to sink in until next March. Or maybe not even until next April or May. Until the Mariners get going in their first season ever without Dave Niehaus in the booth. That's going to be rough. That's when it's really going to feel like something's missing, and that's when we'll understand that nobody - not then, not ever - will replace Dave Niehaus. Someone will take his title, and someone will take his chair, but no one will take his place in our hearts, and I pity the poor son of a bitch who has to try to follow Dave's act with his own.

I miss you, Dave. Wherever you are now, I hope you've got a limeade and a ballgame.

(via)

Dave Niehaus, the voice of the Seattle Mariners since the team's inception in 1977, passed away Wednesday at his home in Bellevue, Wash. Niehaus, 75, suffered a heart attack, according to his family.

"This is truly devastating news," said Seattle Mariners chairman Howard Lincoln.

Chuck Armstrong, Seattle Mariners president and COO, added, "Speaking for ourselves, our ownership and the entire Mariners family, our thoughts and prayers are with Marilyn, their children, Andy, Matt and Greta, and the grandchildren.

"Dave has truly been the heart and soul of this franchise since its inception in 1977. Since calling Diego Segui's first-pitch strike on Opening Night in the Kingdome some 34 years ago, Dave's voice has been the constant with the franchise. He truly was the fans connection to every game; to wins and losses; to great plays and heartbreaking defeats; to Hall of Famers and journeymen. With the exception of his love for his wife, Marilyn, his children and grandchildren, there was nothing Dave liked more than the game of baseball and to be at the ballpark. He was the voice of spring and summer in the Northwest.

"He was the fans' choice to throw out the first pitch in Safeco Field history, and no one has had a greater impact on our team's connection to fans throughout the Northwest. One of the best days we've ever spent was in Cooperstown in 2008, as Dave took his place in the Baseball Hall of Fame."

The Niehaus family has requested privacy at this very difficult time.

He was 75 years old.

Before the season began I ran this poll. Congratulations to the 12 of you out there that selected 0 innings because with today's news that is the reality. Erik Bedard will undergo another surgical procedure on his shoulder this Friday.

Is there much to add at this point? We saw this coming even before the set backs. What is heartbreaking about this to me is just how close he came. It would have been one thing if it never rehabbed well and he languished in Arizona until needing another surgery or being shut down. But to make it all the way to a rehab start in Tacoma and an expected start date in Seattle? That's brutal not just for those of us still fans of his but I am sure for Erik as well.

I didn't have much faith in him pitching for the Mariners this season after that particular setback, but I was hoping that he would not need another surgery. For our sakes, the words "Erik Bedard" and "time line" should never again appears within the same sentence.

Godspeed, Erik.

Goodbye, Cliff.

I'll miss you.

This is a thread for and about Cliff Lee. Please respect that.

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Per Larry Stone, Mark Lowe is undergoing back surgery called microdiscectomy on June 15th. Do not expect to see him this season.

Jeff's note: You shouldn't be too surprised. Lowe's injury was downplayed for some reason at the beginning, but Mark Lowe had a herniated disc, and herniated discs are kind of a big deal. Russell Branyan had a herniated disc. Brian Roberts has a herniated disc. Though no two injuries are alike, herniated discs generally don't get better very fast. They suck, and sometimes - as is the case here - they end up needing surgery.

Needless to say, the bullpen is another one of those things that we thought would be fine, but that hasn't been fine.