Remembering Darryl Kile

From today's Chronicle:

Bagwell still misses Kile

Jeff Bagwell thinks about him almost every day even now.

Almost two years have passed since Darryl Kile died in that Chicago hotel room, and some days are worse than others. Yet the loss is still there, still gnawing and painful, still almost incomprehensible at times.

"I don't know if I can describe it," Bagwell said. "I just feel sad."

Sad there won't be another trip to Pebble Beach. Sad there won't be any more golf bets or long dinners or late-night telephone calls.

Sad there won't be any of a thousand other things close friends share.

Bagwell still occasionally peeks into the home dugout at Busch Stadium and expects to see his buddy sitting within earshot of first base. That's where Kile offered a running commentary of Bagwell's every problem.

"He'd be on me the whole game," Bagwell said. "I'd look over there, and he'd say, 'How could you have missed that pitch in the third inning? Are you OK?' "

Then later, they'd go out and swap lies and laugh and catch up.


A shocking death
Kile's death from heart disease on June 22, 2002, stunned the sports world. What amazes his friends even now is how he continued to pitch even while complaining of fatigue in his shoulder, even while knowing something wasn't right.

What he saw as just another ailment to push through was actually killing Kile.

All he knew was that he was paid to take the ball and keep going, so that's what he did.

Athletes suffer so many aches and pains they sometimes have trouble knowing when it's serious.

Kile's father died of heart disease, so even though he was only 33, Kile knew he was at risk.

"We should have forced him to go in and get checked," Bagwell said. "I still think about that part of it. It didn't have to happen.

"The thing is, Darryl wasn't going to die. He took care of himself. He was a horse. If one of us was going to die, it was going to be me."

Kile's memory has become a distant one for most people, including most of those who knew him as an opponent, a name or a guy in a uniform.


Beloved friend, teammate
For the Astros and Cardinals, it remains more personal because Kile left behind teammates and friends who loved him and who'd celebrated marriages and children and hundreds of highs and lows with him.

As the second anniversary of his death approaches, his absence is still felt. Whenever the Cardinals and Astros play, his life and accomplishments are more vivid.

"I think about his kids growing up without a father," said Cardinals center fielder Jim Edmonds, his voice fading.

Edmonds points to his right wrist and the tattoo that reads "DK57"— for Kile's initials and jersey number.

"I didn't know him as well as Jeff and some others," Edmonds said, "but I know what kind of person he was. I saw his kids around here. I saw how he loved them. I know what kind of teammate he was."

Cardinals manager Tony La Russa keeps one of Kile's jerseys in his office.

"He was the ideal man and teammate," La Russa said. "He was one of those guys who never made an excuse. On the days he wasn't pitching, he didn't disappear. He was interested in the game.

"If someone had a problem, he listened."

Still, almost no one felt his loss more than Bagwell.

He and Kile arrived in the big leagues together in 1991 as wide-eyed kids, strong and indestructible. They rode to the ballpark together in Kile's pickup truck and, over the years, golfed and vacationed together, shared good times and bad.

They remained close even after Kile signed with the Colorado Rockies following the 1997 season.

"You see young guys getting upset when one of their friends is traded," Bagwell said. "I tell them, 'Hey, your friendship will last forever.' That doesn't change when someone gets a different uniform."

That Bagwell and Kile would become close is no surprise to people who knew both men.

Both were constructed of a quiet decency that made them more admired inside their clubhouses than out.

In those early years, thrown onto a veteran team, they kept mainly to themselves and had the good sense to speak when spoken to.

Upon hearing that Kile drove to the Astrodome in a pickup truck, a Houston public-relations woman offered to get both men new cars if they'd sign some autographs for a local dealership.

Kile said he was fine with the truck but wondered if she knew anyone with golf clubs. On the day he and Bagwell signed autographs and picked out clubs at a local golf shop, they looked like the happiest guys on earth.

They were on the 1997 National League All-Star squad together and were teammates on that year's Astros club that won a division championship — the one Bagwell and Craig Biggio still remember as the sweetest of all.

Kile left after seven years in Houston, but the friendships endured.

So does the pain.

 

On the wall, above the Crawford boxes, but below the train track, is a round plaque with "DK 57" on it.