The sudden, tragic death of Baltimore Orioles icon Mike Flanagan cuts deep for those who watched him mature from a young ballplayer into a distinguished middle-aged man. As his adulthood unfolded, Flanny’s chapters seemed to be the stuff of dreams: handsome and popular pitching ace, World Series hero, front office executive, and popular broadcaster.
Externally it seemed Mike had it all. Internally, as we so abruptly learned, he was hemorrhaging.
Flanny loved baseball and he loved the signature franchise that melded to his persona in proud and purposeful ways.
I did not know Mike. Those who did don’t know what motivated him to turn out the lights he turned on for so many others: teammates, friends, and fans. Flanny was a good pal to a very close friend of mine, a former Oriole teammate. Twenty years ago the two shared an unforgettable baseball thrill by combining with two others to pitch a four-man Major League no-hitter.
I heard the news about Flanagan’s passing minutes after returning from a Giants game in San Francisco. I had just watched Tim Lincecum’s rubbery Gumby windup and snaking delivery tightrope the defending champs to a narrow victory. Lincecum won with guile and determination on a night he had less than his best stuff.
Flanny had a much simpler, more efficient motion than Lincecum but pitched much the same way. Mike knew how winning starters in the Majors had to execute, even on the nights the strike zone seems the size of cafeteria tray.
I grew up an Orioles fan, sharing the pride and tradition of “the Oriole Way.” The franchise (at that time) forged community bonds that were far stronger than wins and losses. I had paid to see Flanagan pitch many times, including the World Series. He was a competitor, the kind of tenacious winner guys loved to play behind.
Off the field, in the clubhouse and with the fans, Flanny was a great storyteller who brightened the lives of thousands.
I immediately texted my pal a brief message, asking if Flanny had demons.
He immediately texted back.
“Don’t know,” he wrote. “Sad day.”
After thinking about things, I typed back a second message but paused and stared at it for thirty seconds before sending.
“Life is wonderful,” I wrote. “Don’t ever forget it.”
He didn’t respond and I left him alone to grieve.
Flanagan was 59. I am 56 and understand the curse that comes with aging’s arc. There are lessons to learn from Flanagan’s passing. The way we honor the memory of number 46 is by never forgetting how fragile a strong man’s life can become.
I have long since traded brown hair for gray, and benefit from having several quotes posted where I often see them. Their job is to remind me of things I should never forget.
The title of this story, “Even the Strong Are Broken in Places,” has been printed and taped to my writing station for over a year now. I read it somewhere at a time when I was struggling through a very down time.
Distraught with life’s frustrations, I internalized too much and was headed for a dark and unfamiliar place.
Two of my closest friends, one the buddy I texted, sensed it in my voice and gave me boost. I also reached out to my sister, a skilled family counselor, and she did the same.
A second quote displayed in my office reads, “A man who looks at life at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years.”
The speaker was three-time heavyweight champion Muhammad Ali, who went from being the most electrifying athlete on the planet to a happy old man living in the shaking shadows of a long ago past.
Ali lives a life fulfilled. Who he is matters more than who he was. He has inner peace, so much we should all aspire to find such contentment.
From what I gather, Flanny’s building discontent may have mushroomed from two things: the perception of others about his work in the Orioles front office, and money.
He was not alone fighting business and financial ghosts. Many smart, successful 59-year-old men struggle when the rollercoaster crests, its downward careening velocity of unexpected setbacks forcing fear and doubt into strange places. Heaped on Flanagan were the burdens of dismissive judgments from the unknowing, booing louder and louder from the stands.
I know dozens of good men in their fifties, proud men, who today wrestle mightily with career implosions, busted bank accounts, and a wounded self image. To a man they wonder how a life that seemed so good not long ago could suddenly seem empty and pointless.
In Flanagan’s case, a curse shadowed his baseball success. He lived a life that reached the apex of what Abraham Maslow called “self-actualization.” Mike excelled at what he loved on the greatest stage possible.
But self-actualization is a drug of sometimes-temporary exhilaration. Once you experience the adrenaline of the mountaintop, getting pushed off plummets a man into the pitch blackness of doubt and uncertainty.
Maslow’s five-level progression though life underscores why Flanny’s pressures probably built to the point he caved. First we chase survival. Then comfort. Third is the pursuit of love and being loved. Fourth is esteem, the craving to be recognized, admired, and respected. Once we’ve got that, we chase the ultimate pursuit: doing what we were born to do.
Flanny achieved all that. He ran the table.
And then it was gone. He got knocked down and backward. He no longer was doing what he was born to do, he was judged by others to be not successful as a front office man, and with it, it’s safe to guess, went a big chunk of his self-esteem.
Backsliding from a great life to the dark, twisting, and unfamiliar road of frustration and non-fulfillment is a dangerous trail for any proud man to navigate without headlights. In that regard, Flanny was a victim.
The route up Maslow’s mountain is a climb, a step-by-step pursuit. But once you’re there, like Flanagan was, you never want to leave. When shoved off, as Flanagan was, it is a long way down.
Experiencing less success as a GM than he did as a player should not have cut Mike Flanagan so deep. After all, each of us is human and none of us is Superman. Flanny did his best in an industry and ownership structure that was set up for failure.
Mike Flanagan was not a failure. He was a fall guy. Millions could see it. Everyone, it seems, but Mike.
I read reports that Mike may have been facing some financial pressures. Money is a box score of business but not a lot more. When you don’t have it, you think money solves everything. When you do have money, you realize it doesn’t.
Because of that, a third quote hangs in my office. It reads, “Until you’re happy with who you are, you’ll never be happy with what you have.”
This, of course, is the true tragedy of Mike Flanagan. He lost that most important thing—happiness—and did not reach out to his pals to get help finding it.
A life well-lived will have its ups and downs. We all take turns in the barrel and the number of hands that reach in to help pull us out will be equal to the number of times we have reached in to help others.
Flanny was famous for doing that, sunshine in shoes, as both a teammate and friend. But when his turn in the barrel came, he was too proud to signal the bullpen for help.
Had people known Mike was hurting, the Orioles could have held “Give Flanny A Hug Day.” The stadium would have been packed, standing room only, with throngs in the concourse and thousands more lined up all the way outside ballpark, around the corner, and down the street, all the way to the Inner Harbor.
No man should be an island; for the lesson of Mike Flanagan is that sometimes a proud man will try to be. Let us honor the memory of a good man down by embracing the importance of proactively reaching in to lend a hand when we sense a friend in need.
Let’s not let anyone hurt alone.
Reach in, grab an arm, and start pulling. Sometimes that’s all it takes.