So I made a list of subjects for you to talk about.

All the heavy stuff.

Death, love, marriage, family.

Oh, all of the stuff that you're scared of.

Yeah.

Things I want to hear you talk about.

And you're scared of.

Why be ashamed?

Everybody's afraid of those things.

Add fear to the list.

You don't seem to be scared.

I told you, I have my early morning moments.

Did you ever know anybody who was dying?

Yeah, I had an uncle, Mike.

He was young.

He was more of a brother, really.

Testing, testing.

Mike taught me football, taught me music, taught me how to drive.

I used to drive around this empty lot for hours.

Yeah, he was 42 when he died.

Cancer.

And you never talked about it?

We did what people do, you know?

We pretended nothing was wrong.

That's actually when I gave up music, when Mike died.

Oh yeah, when you grew up, huh?

When I woke up, coach.

So I better get moving if I'm going to make anything out of my life.

You made a big success.

I always knew you would.

But you ran.

Did you ever stop to think about what you're running from?

Okay, what do you want to tackle first here?

Death?

Love?

What about marriage?

That's a good one.

Stickball.

Stickball?

Yeah, did you ever play stickball?

Uh, no, kids don't play stickball anymore, really.

I played little league.

They don't play anymore?

Oh, that's too bad.

Stickball was what all of the slum kids played, you know, where I grew up.

Manhattan, the Lower East Side.

A broom handle and a rubber ball was all you needed.

You could play anywhere.

The best place to play was right outside the candy store.

My mother ran for the landlord.

My mother was only 25.

She was sick as long as I could remember.

I felt if I ignored it, maybe the sickness would go away.

What happened to her?

She went to the hospital and she died there.

They sent us a telegram.

My father couldn't read English, so I had to read it.

That's how I learned that my mother had died.

I still got the telegram.

It's all that's left of my mother, except memories.

So you grew up with your father?

My father, he was an immigrant from Russia, a very silent man.

He never showed what he really felt.

After my mother died, he'd come home from work, when he could get work, and he'd never come in the house.

He'd stay outside, read the newspaper, until he knew I was asleep.

What was he feeling?

See, I never knew.

Was he in pain?

Was he suffering?

All I knew was that I needed his love.

I needed him to hold me so I wouldn't be so afraid.

Never got it though, did you?

No, not from him.

He remarried about a year later.

Of course, I resented her at first.

I pushed her away.

But she was a wonderful woman.

And from her, after I stopped being such a little smartass, I finally began to get the love that I'd been hard to forgive.

He said I had a new mother, and that I should forget.

He wouldn't even let me talk about my mother.

It was like she never existed.

I need help here.

I think we should stop.

No, I want you to hear this.

My father was afraid of love.

He couldn't give it, and he couldn't receive it either.

Maybe that's worse.

Maury, Maury, we should stop.

Not letting ourselves be loved, because we're too afraid of giving ourselves to someone we might lose.

Connie!

Connie!

Connie!

Connie!

Where the hell are you?

You're supposed to be in New York for the playoffs.

Yeah, I'll be there tonight, Walter.

Oh, hey, it's only the playoffs.

Hey, what is this number?

Have you seen it?

It's got nothing to do with work.

I thought that the column came first.

This is personal, okay?

I just need a little bit of time.

You know, you have time for everybody but me.

I got plenty of guys here dying to write a column.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

You think Detroit can't live without you?

Why don't you find out?

You know that comp time you've got built up?

I strongly suggest that you take it.

You do whatever the hell you want to.

Well, fine, I will.

Fine.

Here we go.

Okay, I'm just gonna get your feet clear.

Come on.

Go ahead and sit.

Connie, Connie, show me how to do that.

Okay.

Come on over here.

Okay, now bend down.

Slide your arms under his like you're lifting a log.

Okay.

Okay.

Like this?

Now, I can't help you at all, honey.

Yeah, it has to be all All right.

Now lift.

Okay.

Sorry, sorry.

I'll get it.

Okay.

Okay, good.

All right, I got you.

I got you.

Okay.

Okay.

Sorry.

You all right?

Oh, yeah.

Sorry.

I'll get better at it.

Don't look so sad because I'm gonna die, Mitch.

Everybody's gonna die, even you.

But most people don't believe it.

They should have a bird on their shoulder.

That's what the Buddhists do.

Just imagine a little bird on your shoulder, and every day you say, is this the day I'm gonna die, little bird?

Huh?

Am I ready?

Am I leading the life I want to lead?

Am I the person that I want to be?

If we accept the fact that we can die at any time, we'd lead our lives differently.

So every day you say, is this the day?

Huh?

One sec, one sec.

Okay, go ahead.

If you did have a bird on your shoulder, you wouldn't put off the things closest to your heart.

I didn't need the recorder to hear his voice anymore.

It was always in my mind now.

I thought of his helpless weight in my arms as I lifted him, that frail, failing body, and the voice, the spirit inside, at its ruthless mercy.

And time whooshing past, like the jet stream outside my window.

And not just for Mori, but for all of us.