So much has been written about David Bachner in the past few weeks, so many tears have been shed at the sudden and shocking death of the 18-year-old baseball star from Plainsboro — and yet, I would feel remiss if I did not add my own thoughts about this young man and what his passing has forced so many of us to feel about the meaning of such things as friendship, community, and a life well-lived.##M:[more]##
To talk about David I first have to talk about his parents, Rhonda and Steve, who have been our neighbors in this development since the day we moved in ten and a half years ago. In this brand new subdivision built on a former potato farm, they were among the first people to arrive, and Rhonda’s sunny, gregarious nature made her a welcoming committee of her very own. In fact, my first memory of David’s mother comes from one of the first days in our house. The doorbell rang, and as I held two-month-old Will in my arms, the faces of then eight-year-old Katie and five-year-old Molly took on looks of alarm. Who the heck could that be, their expressions said, we don’t know anybody here! And there stood Rhonda, along with another new neighbor, Michele. They had been walking their dogs and seeing activity at the house on the corner, had decided to check in and introduce themselves. Michele’s son, Adam, who became friends with David as second-graders that long ago year, was one of David’s pallbearers.
David’s happy, outgoing personality truly made him his mother’s son. It was as natural for him to make friends as it was for him to play baseball and set new records at High School North. There were hundreds of people at David’s funeral and more than a thousand at his wake the day before, so many that the line curled outside the doors of Queenship of Mary Church and later in the day, some mourners waited as long as two hours to pay their respects. Among them were Bill and our next-door-neighbor, John, who had connected on the train coming home from New York.
It was in this same way that Bill would sometimes connect with Steve, bumping into him on the train commuting home from the city, two fathers shooting the breeze and catching up in neighborly fashion. Other times he would run into him early in the morning as Steve walked first Tess, their beloved Bernese Mountain dog, and more recently, after her passing, Holly. Bill found kinship with Steve, the tall, gentle, quiet foil to Rhonda’s laughing, more bubbly ways. In this, David combined the best of both his parents. He was their golden-haired, later-in-life baby, another chance for joy, and in this, he fulfilled his promise.
It must be the nature of our busy lives that people who live only a couple of blocks away seem to live on another planet. The years rolled by all too quickly, the kids grew up, the parties slowed down, and we would catch up with the Bachners with a wave and a smile as we drove by, neighbors passing by in the fast lane of life.
And then it was through the Christmas cards, usually with David and either Tess or Holly at his side that we truly saw the evolution of the small grinning boy with missing teeth into a lanky, handsome athlete — teeth no longer missing, but still grinning that million dollar smile. It was stunning to me the day I first saw him behind the wheel of a car, so much so that I actually stopped, rolled down my window, and called out, David, is that really you? And of course, he stopped to chat for a while, always so friendly, with that giant smile so aptly described by his brother as “Slightly goofy at times, but it was really just his mouth falling victim to his overwhelming happiness.”
This past spring Will and I stopped by High School North one blustery afternoon to watch David play baseball. David was the kind of kid who was modest about his accomplishments, despite the number of records he racked up and the respect he commanded. He was a sports hero to the younger kids. Though cute, popular, and part of the “in” crowd, he still knew what it meant to be kind to his peers and respectful to adults. In a day and age when so many teenagers shuffle along and don’t make eye contact, I could always count him to call out and wave a cheerful hello.
I worry about his parents, and as Steve noted himself, especially when everyone goes home — “when this is all done and the people leave, we have to deal with our grief.” The grief does come in waves at the most unexpected times. This is what our friends, the Bakers, who also lost a son this summer, are going through now, three months after his death — two families in the same community, the same schools, the boys almost the same age, both lost too heartbreakingly early in life. And in one of those strange life coincidences, David and Kenny’s pictures are side by side in the High School North yearbook, Kenny’s empty chair at graduation next to David’s.
I don’t go to church regularly, but I do believe in a higher power. However, these days I find myself bewildered and even angry sometimes about these wrenching losses — why God, why now? There has been good to come out in the overwhelming flow of love and support from the community, the kindness of friends and even strangers in these times of loss and grief. Sorrow brings out the best nurturing instincts in all of us. It forces us to stop running, pause, and take stock of all that is good in our lives. When all the noise and the fury has passed, it is the memories of happiness and kindness that will endure and sustain us.
