He did not talk about his declining health. He did not talk about the cancer that was ravaging his body. People will say that is because Splitt was an intensely private man, and that is so. But I think there was something else too. Paul did not want any favors, and he did not want special treatment, and he did not want to live anywhere but in the moment. He kept studying the players, kept going on the air, kept trying to make baseball a little bit more enjoyable for people he would never meet.
Not too long ago, I spent a day with Splitt in Fort Myers, where he lived during the winter. The Minnesota Twins were playing, and he loved watching them play. We watched the game together and just talked about some things — fatherhood, baseball statistics, the Hall of Fame, the weather. His did slur a few of his words, though he spoke unabashedly. He told me then that he did not expect his voice to get to much better. But, he said, he could still make his voice a little better. And he was going to work on that.
He did not say anything more about his health, and I did not ask. It came out a short while ago that Paul Splittorff had oral cancer and melanoma. He died on Wednesday. He was 64.
There's something about an athlete dying that hits us in a slightly different way. I think it's because athletes, at their best, embody youth and energy and enthusiasm — those things that are the very opposite of death. The people who watched Splitt pitch will remember that today. The people who listened to Splitt call games all those years will remember the sports moments. Beyond that, maybe we will remember being younger ourselves. And though Splitt did not often look back, I think he would like that.