I never wrote the story of Bob Abrams.
It’s not that I never had the opportunity. It’s not that I was never asked or encouraged to.
If I had to point fingers at a reason, I guess it would be fear.
Fear of not knowing how to personify Bob’s life the way he did.
Fear of not capturing the elements that made Bob who he was.
Fear of just coming off as another story, in a world that is often swamped by negative news.
Knowing Bob since the tender age of six, I saw him in a way many people never had the privilege to experience. Being best friends with Mike, his eldest son, since before Bob married Mike’s mother and took him under his wing, I knew things I couldn’t repeat.
There were elements to Bob’s death I could never print. Things that could get in the way of the legal issues. Things that could disrupt ongoing court cases, and potential lawsuits to come. Standing in Bob’s basement the morning after his death, I’ll never forget, nor will I be able to repeat, the ensuing conversation—a culmination of the anger, hatred and misunderstanding of the atrocities that took an innocent life.
It was these things that had clouded my memory of Bob with the hatred for the tragedy encountered July 1, 2005. These things kept me away from the subject, for fear of veering off topic, saying what I couldn’t say, instead of simply remembering the man that left all too early, with all too many ways to appreciate him.
It took three years to write a story exempt from the truths, the hatred for what happened to Bob. Even now, rehashing the events through my head creates an emotional struggle. It is too tempting to replace the despair of loss in a situation like Bob’s with that of hatred for such a senseless, thoughtless act.
Still I find myself looking back, three years later, remembering Bob for who he was.
Some people were privileged enough to see Bob at his finest—the man who cared so much for his baseball team that he and wife, Amy, would not only provide meals and snacks for his players nearly every game, but at times had bought shoes and mitts for kids that couldn’t afford them. The man who took dozens of young athletes under his wing, guiding them to learn the game of baseball, and to build character to grow to men. The man who stepped into the lives of many kids who grew up without a father figure, and tried his hardest to be just that.
Many of those young men walked across the stage of the John S. Knight Center only a few weeks ago, earning their diplomas from Springfield High School. Among them was Bob’s son, Patrick.
Bob wasn’t there to see it.
Instead, hundreds of people were there to see Bob. They saw them in Patrick, who continued to play baseball after questioning whether a game that his father gave his life to, figuratively and literally, was worth continuing. Pat finished his senior season being named to the Portage Trail Conference/Metro second team in baseball, and graduated with honors with a 3.8 GPA, while attending post-secondary classes at the University of Akron his senior year.
They saw him in the legacy he built, in the example he set, and in the young men he helped mold into something greater than they ever imagined possible. Bob left a legacy that should never be forgotten at Springfield—not because of the pointless tragedy that became him, or the ensuing news coverage following the incident, but because of the people he touched while he was here.
It seems cliché to summarize Bob’s life by reminding people to step back from their busy schedules and recognize just how fragile life is. But if any story should drive home that point, it’s Bob’s.
Today, three years to the week after Bob’s death, there are many young adults that still appreciate everything Bob Abrams taught them, and the example that he set. His generation will continue to grow, leaving his footprints in the sand that they walk on. And the world will see, though maybe not recognize, the exact impact Bob Abrams left in it.
