About Us
Playing Catch with Steve Galovich
On December 14, Professor of Mathematics Steven Galovich passed away at age 61. In the following essay, his friend and colleague, Professor of Mathematics and Computer Science Bob Holliday, recaps their final hours together.
When Steve came back to the mathematics department after his tenure in the Dean’s Office, he ended up on the second floor of Young Hall—just down the hall from me. He passed my office several times a day. About the second day of the fall semester, he showed up at my door with his baseball glove and wearing his Minnesota Twins cap. He asked me if I wanted to play catch. “Oh,” he added, “I don’t have a baseball.” I asked if he didn’t think it strange to assume I would have a baseball and a baseball glove in my office. No, he said. He thought it was strange that I didn’t have a ball and glove in my office.
So beginning the next day I did keep my glove in my office, and about twice a week after that we would go out onto the lawn in front of Young Hall to play catch. Playing catch is an activity that pretty much requires conversation. And we talked about lots of things—politics, life at Lake Forest College, but mostly about baseball. We discussed the current season. We posed baseball trivia questions to each other. Often our conversation would turn to daughters—we each had two and we both agreed that we must have done something right in raising them, because all of them were baseball fans. During one of our sessions, Steve even reenacted the toast he gave at the wedding of his daughter Alex, a Red Sox fan, during which he seemed to predict Boston’s appearance in the 2004 World Series.
When I arrived at the College on December 1, 2006, the morning after a 10-inch snowfall, Steve greeted me this way: “Looks like our season is over until Spring Training.” But amazingly enough, as final exam week was winding down, we got some unexpected warm weather. All the snow melted and our field was once again playable. So on Wednesday afternoon of that week, we tossed the ball around again. As we walked back into Young Hall, Steve, always a keeper of baseball statistics, was pleased to point out that we had managed to play catch in every month of the semester, from August through December.
Then came Thursday. It was about 4:15 p.m.—starting to get dark. I was in my office writing some letters of recommendation when Steve poked his head in. He asked if I wanted to toss the ball around one more time. I’m sure he meant just for the semester. Still, that phrase—one more time—I find a bit haunting. Anyway, I felt too busy and I meant to say no. But what came out of my mouth instead were the words: “Let me finish this letter—I’ll come to your office and get you.”
So out we went. This was the latest we had ever begun and dusk was already starting to settle. After we got warmed up, Steve threw me one of his forkballs. Now a forkball is a little like a knuckleball—it has very little spin and dances around quite a bit. This dancing is what makes the ball hard to hit. But this can also make a forkball hard to catch. Steve immediately apologized: “Maybe that’s not such a good pitch to throw in this visibility.” “That’s alright,” I replied. “It was going so slow that it wouldn’t have hurt anybody anyway.” He laughed—he knew I was right. Although “Boys of Summer” are by their very nature extremely optimistic creatures, we were both pretty sure that our days as prospective major leaguers were probably over.
As it got darker, instead of suggesting that we stop, Steve asked what my visual background was like. I was looking at North Hall behind him and he was looking at Reid Hall behind me. He decided that if we shifted our positions we might have a bit of open ground as a backdrop, making it easier to see. But he didn’t use words like 45 degrees or clockwise. He just suggested that we rotate –p/4 radians. We did just that and were able to prolong our game.
It kept getting darker and we kept throwing the ball. We were like two little boys, wringing as much baseball out of the day as we could before our mothers would call us in for supper. We even moved farther and farther away from each other and started tossing the ball higher and higher, so that we could see it in the sky before it headed for our gloves. Finally, we both admitted that we really couldn’t see, so we walked back into Young Hall, our last game of catch over.
A few moments later, from the second-floor hallway, we spoke the last words we would ever say to each other. I wish I could report that I said something profound as we parted. Or--what would have been more likely--that Steve did. “So, have a nice break.” That was the best that I could come up with. Steve’s response, while not profound, proved to be memorable. “You know,” he said, “we’ve got to be sure we get out there in January and keep our streak going.” Then he walked into his office, I walked into mine, and that was that.
About now, much like my students, you may be wondering if there is a point to all of this. And there is: I’m hoping that his friends, his family, and especially his daughters, can take some comfort in knowing that on the last day of his life, Steve was really quite happy. Indeed, very late on the last day of his life, for half an hour, Steve was a boy again ….growing up in the 50’s….outside …. playing catch .…until it got too dark to see.…and it was time to go inside.
Bob Holliday, raised a St. Louis Cardinals fan, is a professor of mathematics and computer science at Lake Forest College. He bats left, throws left. Sarah, his older daughter, lives in New York City and follows the Yankees. His younger daughter, Natalie (Class of 2000), lives in Chicago and, despite her father’s best efforts, is a Cubs fan.