Fred L. Lazarus.
Freddie was the kind of friend that people describe in books and children stories as mythological.
Never knew if his real name was Lazarus and his stage name was Lewis or the other way around or if Lewis was his middle name or what. Asked a couple times but never got a straight answer.
He was a comic for a brief year or two in the late 80s. Also worked the door at the Holy City Zoo. Eventually rising to assistant manager.
Freddie was the early warning system for the club.
The man who always knew everything going on.
But would only relay any information as long as it could never be construed as snitching.
Such as: which of the comics was feeling a bit down and had been next door at the Last Day Saloon for quite a period of time and might be needing a ride home.
Or how the back of the club behind the bathrooms could use a brief walk-by.
When the actual number of how many customers showed up on a Wednesday didn't mesh with the count on the books.
What two comics were going through a minor kerfuffle over material that seemed overly similar and which other comics were on whose side.
He taught me how to hit a home run. We comics used to play, and it was pretty ragged, mostly just for some pleasant weekend afternoon company. Played other comics, once we played the road company of the "Buddy Holly Musical." But not Freddie.
Don't think the scales ever topped more than 135 pounds on his 5' 7" frame but he wouldn't back down from a professional linebacker or a rampaging hippo. Certainly not some out of town middle act.
He told me how to hold my arms during my swing. Left arm straight, parallel to the ground with the bat at a right angle to the pitcher.
With my new stance on my next at- bat, I hit one over the fence at Julius Kahn Park.
When he got sick, the worst part was, he couldn't play on his Over-Fifty teams, yes, teams, anymore. Not being able to play, that's what killed him. Was beauty killed the beast.
He added to my collection of Zippo lighters one time. A very valuable one. Me and Deb often gave him little tchotchkes but never anything equal to what he gave us.
That was our relationship in a nutshell. He always gave more than he got.
He would be there for you. Kept his word. Didn't just offer to help; actually did. Would lend you money if he had to borrow it from someone else to give to you.
Never wanted to be a bother. Always tried to be respectful and protect your space.
Not just loyal. Fiercely loyal. Pit bull loyal.
You know that old adage about how a friend will help you move. But a good friend will help you move a body.
Well, he was the kind of friend that would help you move a body under crime scene tape in a swamp at night with alligators in a hurricane.
Got nicknamed Freddie Heart Attack on the ball field because that's how he approached every play. Same thing in real life. And you can hear that intensity in his series of Derfcasts on Soundcloud.
With that indefatigable smile. Jaunty. Can we use the word "jaunty" anymore? Made you grin just to see him walk in a room.
His lust for life was contagious. For softball, for wrestling, for his cars, his cats or for the Giants. And his friends. Even the ones he called Aunt Bessie.
Everybody in the neighborhood knew and looked out for him.
When he got the gig at AT&T Park, never saw him happier. Sort of glowed in his uniform. One year he came in 2nd for Employee of the Year and said "but I'm not bitter. The other guy deserved it." But you had a feeling, that no, he didn't.
My fierce friend. And now gone.
Oh Freddie. Hey bud. You will be missed. Thanks for being part of our lives. For much too short a time.
---- Lisa Spinali