Frank Ceresi Memorial Service

[ElCabron]

I realize that there are already two different "Frank Ceresi" threads here, but I wanted to post the details about his memorial and thought they might get lost as a post in a different thread. If any mods feel it should be in a different thread, please feel free to move it there.

Anyway, the memorial for Frank is tomorrow, Monday, January 20th at 1:30 pm. It is being held at River Farm, 7931 East Boulevard Drive, Alexandria, Virginia, 22308.

I am deeply disappointed that I will be unable to attend. I hope anyone in the area that knew Frank will be able to attend and help celebrate his life.



Now that I have time, I’d like to say a few more words about Frank and why he is so important to me, personally. I’ve been asked a few times recently how we met, and I can’t really say for sure. I think we were first in touch when I won some Negro League items from him on ebay around 2000 or 2001. We kept each other’s info and were in touch a few times about other Negro League items over the next couple of years. He’d offer me things he picked up that he knew were in my wheelhouse and we bought from each other that way for a few years. Then he registered for my auctions and became a regular buyer. In between, we’d discuss the Negro Leagues and Cuban players and he’d always be working on some project or article and it was always exciting to talk to him since there aren’t many people who really appreciate my area of interest and have some degree of knowledge about it. We were similar in a lot of ways, particularly our shared love for the history of the game and the joy we found in doing research.

Four baseball legends: Monte Irvin, Bob Feller, Frank Ceresi, Buck O'Neil:


Frank would frequently tip me off to items he thought I’d like when he saw them in an auction. I always appreciated that and very often won the items he’d pointed me to. He was actually working with Sotheby’s in 2007 when a panorama he knew I’d need was auctioned by SCP/Sotheby’s. He was excited to tell me about it, well before the auction opened, and he was right. I needed it. Some of you may remember that winning this item turned out to be a bit of....let’s just say....an ordeal. I really don’t feel like going into detail here about it (a net54 search for “How to get ripped of by SCP Auctions & Sotheby’s” will give you more info than you could ever need) but Frank felt horrible about it. Of course, he had absolutely nothing to with what had happened and talked me off the ledge several times. Dave Kohler has no idea how lucky he is that Frank was there for me as a voice of reason. I was more than a little upset. Frank was the anti-Kohler I needed in order to keep my head from exploding. And to keep from exploding anyone else’s. Anyway, from that point on we kept in much more regular contact and our friendship deepened as we would often talk when there was no specific reason to. Just checking in with each other on a regular basis to see what was new in each other’s lives. We continued to do business together, but the deals became larger, with Frank brokering them as a middle man and getting a percentage of each deal. It was great for everyone. He would still routinely contact me to ask about a certain player he was researching or asking for help identifying players in a photograph. Whatever it was, it was always interesting to me. He always had projects he was working on or planning on or thinking about. He was an idea man. He was always saying how he’d like to get me and this person or that person in a room together and watch us talk baseball about the obscure players we love. This did happen a few times and he seemed as fascinated by watching the discussion as we were while having it. He brought many people together that way and no doubt started many long-lasting friendships.

But the most important role he played in my life had nothing to do with baseball. A few years ago, I went through an awful divorce and custody battle. Frank used to be a Family Court Judge. His experience was invaluable to me throughout the entire process. I leaned on him a lot and he was always there for me, sharing his experience and giving examples of what he’d seen, but never once offering advice or telling me what I should do. It was exactly what I needed. A perfect sounding board. As a result, I now have a good custody arrangement and my kids lives are much better off for it. So not only was he a loyal friend during a difficult time, he also had an immeasurable impact on the lives of my children. My family is better off today because of Frank Ceresi.

I was lucky enough to have him visit me and stay at my house for a few days a couple of years ago. We spent hour after hour looking at my collection and talking about why this piece is interesting or about why that piece is important. Stuff that almost no one else would know about or care about. I’m sure everyone here can relate to how cool it is to talk about your collection with someone who has any kind of interest. I am so glad he was able to meet my kids in person and I’m glad that they were able to meet him. They will know all about Frank Ceresi as they grow up, and they will understand how important he was to them and to their dad.

Frank in Colorado with my youngest daughter and her mother:


Frank is one of those people (and I think most of us that have been in the hobby for awhile have this) that I don’t have to add “in the hobby” after saying “Frank is one of the best friends I have.” Some friendships begin with the common interest of vintage baseball cards and eventually transcend those origins to the point where it wouldn’t matter if that subject never even came up again. The friendship would remain, probably for life. For me, it’s your Frank Ceresis and Al Crisafullis and Mark Tylickis and Andy Barans of the world, among others. It’s probably the best thing about Net54 and other collection communities. It’s also why the National is so great, even if the show itself sucks that particular year. It’s a chance to spend time with friends. Real friends. Like Frank.

It’s funny, I was Frank’s first Facebook friend. And his only Facebook friend for well over a year. He had wanted me to do a video showing some of the items in my collection and telling the stories behind them. The file was too big to send by email (I couldn’t do a zip file) so I told him to sign up for Facebook and I’d upload it there, which he did. At the time of his passing he had nearly 400 friends, a number that could have multiplied many times over if he wanted it to.

When he first got diagnosed back in early July, it was quite a blow to me. I lost a lot of sleep and really wanted to know his prognosis. I would ask him about it, but he would never really say. He had surgery a few weeks later and I was hopeful that a full recovery was on the horizon. But he wound up getting an infection from the surgery and spent several weeks after that in the hospital dealing with the infection. Healing from the surgery, on top of fighting off the infection, left him very weak, sick, and exhausted. From that point on, he sounded awful every time I spoke with him. I knew it was bad, I mean it’s pancreatic cancer, and he sounded so weak and sick, but he was still talking about doing things several years down the road. So I was hopeful. I thought there was still some time. So did he. Around this time I started telling him I needed to come see him and asked if that would be okay. I felt a strong need to tell him in person how important he was to me and how thankful I was for everything, especially for how he affected the lives of my kids. When I would ask, he would blow it off and say not to worry about it and that we could talk about it later. I don’t think he was prepared to accept how dire his situation was. Still, I kept asking and he kept telling me there’d be plenty of time for that. By the time he gained enough strength to be able to undergo chemo, it was mid-November.

A few years earlier, one of the items that he owned that he thought I might be interested in was a WWII propaganda poster featuring Gabby Hartnett in full catcher’s gear. He knew I like oddball stuff, anything interesting and non-mainstream, and he also knew I loved propaganda in general and have quite a few interesting non-sports items along those lines. We never wound up doing anything on the poster because it’s large and framed and I simply had no place to put it, even though I was interested. I figured if I ever moved into a bigger house and had wall space, I’d approach him again about it, because it’s a pretty cool piece. In the November Hunt Auction, I noticed the poster and called Frank to tell him another example was up for auction. He told me that he’d consigned a few things to Hunt, including the poster. I decided right then that I had to win it, no matter how much it sold for. I would hang it on my wall and think of Frank every time I looked at it. I wound up winning it and when I told him, he said that he was happy that it now rests “in the family.”



I’d been talking to him somewhat regularly in the months since his diagnosis, and we started to discuss me helping him to liquidate some items from his collection. A process that he was just beginning, but in a way that made it seem like there was still another year or two left. There wasn’t any urgency as if something was imminent. In fact, in the middle of December, as chemo was sucking the life out of him, he still wanted to talk business to get his mind off of things. I really had no interest in talking about buying or selling anything, but I went along and sent him some photocopies of some items he was trying to buy from me. He sounded awful, but he was still talking about hopefully being able to make it long enough to see grandchildren, even though no grandchildren were going to be arriving any time soon. Neither of his kids were expecting. So I was figuring we’d have at least another year, maybe longer. I spoke with him on December 17th and he was still discussing things like going to Opening Day and brainstorming projects we could partner on down the road. He still sounded awful and was getting noticeably weaker the longer we talked, so I told him he should go rest and I’d talk to him again soon. He was nearing the end of 6 weeks of chemo, and I knew he must have been exhausted, regardless of how successful or unsuccessful the treatments were. I called him on Christmas to say happy holidays, but he didn’t answer, so I left my salutations on his voice mail, closing with something like “I know there are brighter days ahead. 2014 will be better for both of us.” He didn’t return my call, which was unusual for him, but I just figured he needed to rest and recover from the chemo treatments he’d just finished. I had no idea that he had already began an irreversible and rapid decline that would be over in a matter of weeks.

On Tuesday, January 7th, there was a roundtable discussion on the MLB Network about the HOF voting that was to take place the following day. It was hosted by Bob Costas and featured a few writers and a few former players debating who should or shouldn’t get in. They were sitting around a big round table and had scattered some baseball books on it, presumably so there wouldn’t be so much empty table on camera the whole time. One of the books was Frank’s “Baseball Americana: Treasures From The Library Of Congress” that he was so proud of. I couldn’t wait to call him the next day and tell him his book was just on TV sitting right next to Bob Costas. Before I had a chance to call, I received an email from his ex-wife (an amazingly kind and warmhearted person, just like Frank) saying that Frank had taken a horrible downward turn shortly before Christmas and had just been put into Hospice two days earlier, with only a matter of days left to live. My heart dropped. I was shocked.

I didn’t want to interfere with family members trying to spend time with Frank so I asked if it would be okay to visit. I was given the green light and was on my way to the airport a few hours later at 4:30 am. I arrived in Washington D.C. shortly after noon, rented a car, and drove straight to the nursing home near Falls Church where his room was. I kept having this awful vision of arriving there too late and never having a chance to say what I needed to say. This affected my driving and I arrived much quicker than I probably should have. I had mentally prepared myself for whatever I would find in the room. I gingerly walked in and it was just Frank and the Hospice nurse. Frank was awake and somewhat alert, then asleep for several minutes. Then awake for a minute, and clearly in pain, then he’d drift off again. I was able to smile at him when he first saw me, and he smiled back. It was difficult not to break down. I held his hand and said “I love you, Frank.” It was almost impossible for him to talk, and it was obvious that it took all the strength he could muster for him to say a single word, but he softly mumbled “Love you.” I was able to thank him for his friendship and everything he’s done for me. I thanked him for everything he did for my kids. I said the things I needed to say. Things that, for the rest of my life, I would have regretted not saying.

I was able to spend another 4 or 5 hours there, most of it with him in excruciating pain, visible suffering. I wanted so badly for his suffering to end. Many people were in and out, telling him they loved him, some just standing in the back, observing, unable to find any words. When someone new would come in, I would usually leave the room so they could have some time alone. As his wife and I were leaving, she said that to visit after hours you had to go to this other door, because the main entrance was closed. He was heavily sedated and finally resting peacefully when I left. Later at the hotel, I was lying awake in my hotel room at 1:45 am and started thinking about Frank passing away without anyone he knows by his side. That’s an awful thought, so I went back to the nursing home. They let me in, but they were not happy and were not expecting me. I spent about 30 minutes with him, most of it with him awake, and then they kicked me out.

I went back the next morning, thinking he might still be unconscious, but he was actually more alert than the day before. When I got there, the Hospice nurse said “Ryan’s here, Frank” and he slowly and softly said “My buddy.” Then I was able to tell him all the messages from Net54 members and others who emailed or called me. I was able to spend about 8 hours in the room and was able to watch how gently and perfectly Frank was cared for by his son, his sister, and his ex-wife. It really helped to see how much warmth there was for this remarkable man. He was in so much pain, days away from dying, but when someone would ask “Do you want some ice chips, Frank?” He would say “No, thank you” or “Yes, please” like the true gentleman that he was.

On Saturday, I was only able to be there 4 or 5 hours before leaving for the airport, but it was amazing to be by his side. Most of that time was spent with me holding one hand and his ex-wife on the other side of the bed holding his other, comforting him and talking to him. He was mostly unconscious. Before I left, I told him again that I loved him and thanked him for everything. Both the Hospice nurse and his ex-wife pulled me aside separately before I left and told me that the night before when they were both there, he’d been saying “Christoff, Christoff, Christoff, Christoff.” I was glad to know he knew I’d been there, but also felt guilty for not being there at that moment. It was hard to leave, mostly because I knew I would never see this amazing man again.

He was my peer. Like a brother. We were alike in a lot of the best ways. But he was also a role model. Someone I aspire to be like. Like a father. Frank was born on March 30th, 1949. My biological father was born less than 100 days later.

In a hobby full of scumbags, liars and thieves, Frank was the antidote. All of us are worse off for him being gone. Personally, I am deeply wounded and will never fully heal from this loss.

Thanks for allowing me to share a little bit (okay, a lot) about Frank. I hope some of you can attend his memorial. Seeing the truly diverse group of people whose lives he’s touched will be the best tribute to who he was and what he was all about.

-Ryan