Commentary: An open letter to Andrew Cotner

EDITOR’S NOTE: Staff writer Fred Kroner acknowledges that, in the past, he has been guilty of saying, “I wish I had done this sooner” or “I wish I’d said that before it was too late.”

Today, he shares an open letter to his friend Andrew Cotner, whom he has known for more than three decades.

Hey Andrew:

I’ve been trying to think about the first time we met, but my mind is a little fuzzy these days. I’m thinking it was your sophomore year at Centennial, probably during the baseball season.

I always enjoyed the spring time, especially when the weather was warm enough to sit at the ball park in shirt sleeves.

So many of the high school athletes I dealt with in the 1980s fell into one of two categories. They were either begging me to interview them after a game where they hardly made an impact or else rather than sharing any great insight to the game that was just played, what emerged from their mouths was the full extent of their ego.

I never asked if you recognized that you were different. You knew there was a time to be serious, but you also showed that playful side and managed to keep things light-hearted. That made you a reporter’s delight.

I always enjoyed the chances I had to talk with you, but you know what I remember most after all these years? It’s your mom. And your grandma.

To this day, I can tell you where your mom, Trudi Klein, always sat in her lawn chair at the games. It was directly behind the home plate backstop, just to the right of where the umpire stood, so she had a clear view of your pitches as they were coming in.

Was it hard for you to concentrate on the catcher and the batter with her positioned back there so prominently in your view?

I remember how gracious she was, always offering a kind word about something I had written, even if it was a story where you weren’t mentioned.

When I’d ask how she was doing, she didn’t like to dwell on her battles, the chemotherapy that caused her to lose her hair and resulted in her wearing the colorful scarves that she displayed. It seemed like she had a different one for each game that I covered.

And your grandma, Ada Murphy. Talk about a character. She could brag with the best of them, but is it really bragging if everything she said was true? It made her day to see you play.

They were always wanting to talk, even asking me to sit with them, but I had to be careful. I usually took a place by myself on the bleachers.

Parents are a funny group. They like it when you associate with them individually, but when it’s someone else – and especially if you happen to feature that person’s child in an article – reporters are suddenly opening themselves up to criticism and comments of showing favoritism.

That’s why I appreciated coaches who would “direct” me to a certain player or group of players after a game. I could truthfully tell the jealous parents it was out of my hands.

I’ve gotten off topic though.

I don’t have an accurate list of how many thousands of athletes I interviewed during my decades on the sportswriting scene, but I can tell you there’s only a handful whom I’ve been able to keep in touch with years after their playing careers were over.

It’s not anything I did. I never said, “this person I will keep in touch with; this person I will not keep in touch with; this person…”

I think it must be a reflection of how deeply those special few individuals affected me personally. How can a person not cheer for someone who has so much to look forward to – as you did with a baseball scholarship to Illinois – and then barely after your teen-aged years, have to deal with the incomprehensible death of your mother.

With you coming from a single-parent home, I can only imagine how devastating it was as you tried to navigate entering adulthood with most of your support system gone. To try and keep your mind focused on school and sports is a challenge even without the upheaval that existed in your personal life.

You kept at it, trying to get things together at Parkland, then Richland and finally in Florida at Brevard Community College.

Did I ever tell you that you were the only person I ever scheduled vacation time around to see play? Going to Florida in the spring is a special joy in itself, of course, but then finding a day without rain to watch you pitch for a nationally-ranked team was an absolute treat.

Obviously, I wasn’t the only person who felt that way. How many professional scouts were in attendance that afternoon? I had never seen so many radar guns in the same place before.

It was no surprise when I learned you’d be back at the Division I level the following year, at Illinois State University. And, of course, you made an immediate impact with the Redbirds.

I don’t have to rehash the accolades. I’m sure you remember them much better than I do.

The defining point, for me, is what took place after ISU. No, it’s not getting drafted and spending a few years in the New York Mets farm system.

Nor is it the injury that shelved your dreams of making it to the major leagues.

It’s what came next after all of that. How many young people in that situation become statistics … another talented athlete without a degree, without a true purpose in life, just floundering around?

You not only returned to school and earned your bachelor’s degree, but also kept going and got your master’s degree. I can tell you that was more dedication than I was ever willing to make to my academic pursuits.

I was so proud to attend your master’s graduation party, in the second-floor loft along Walnut Street, in downtown Champaign. What a great bachelor pad you had.

How fitting was it that you were still able to build a career in baseball and eventually wound up as an administrative assistant with the Houston Astros?

I’m sure you join me now as you look back and think about a decision or a choice now and then that you’d like to have a re-do for. No one is immune from the ability to use hindsight to imagine how they could have improved their lives.

After leaving behind your major league aspirations for a second time, to concentrate on your health, you still made an impact on so many by coaching at Parkland College and working with aspiring baseball players at your Rantoul facility.

How ironic that as you battled throat cancer, you get the uplifting news about your selection to the Centennial High School Hall of Fame, Class of 2020, and almost simultaneously getting hired as assistant baseball coach at Ventura (Cal.) College?

I learned about that career move the night we celebrated your 50th birthday at Fat City last fall.

By some cruel twist of fate, the induction ceremony was to take place on the exact weekend that your new school was playing its season-opener on the West Coast.

How does a person decide what part of the country to be in during late January? I think you made the perfect call, getting the induction set aside for a year in order to show your commitment to a collegiate team which you had just joined earlier in the month.

And now, the college baseball season is over, for most due to the coronavirus pandemic, but for you it ended even sooner as that nasty cancer flared up again and you returned from California to Wisconsin at the end of February for an 8-hour operation – a complete tracheostomy – which took place on Monday this week.

I’m sorry I’m not there, but there’s not much I could do while you’re in the ICU. I love the attitude you have, and how you remain so incredibly positive in light of all the hardships.

I think the social media post you made following the surgery totally explains why you have so many supporters in your overflowing corner.

When you wrote, “There is a good life for me to lead when this is over,” I can’t think of many of us who would be in as good of spirits.

That’s why I’m confident that we will get together sooner than later, hopefully at a Buckley Dutchmasters’ game this summer.

Keep battling and we’ll keep praying.

Fred