The next memory that resurfaced was about 3 weeks after I turned 12.

Me, Mom, and Mikey were sitting in the front row of the local funeral home. There was a large oak coffin in the front of the room. My best friend of 12 years was lying in it.

Dad died in his sleep a week ago. The medication had worked and given him another 5 months, instead of the 2 months the doctors originally gave him.

While those were some of the best 5 months of my life, they were also the worst. We all knew that Dad might leave at any moment. Each night he would give us all a giant hug and say that he loves us. He did that just in case he didn't wake up in the morning.

The funeral was tough. Hearing all these people that knew Dad sharing their favorite memories of him reminded me that I wasn't going to have any more memories with him.

Watching the casket being lowered into the ground was even harder. I was never going to see him again. He would never give me any more advice about how to be a good person. Mikey would never play baseball with him again.

"Gerard," Mikey whispered, coming up next to me, "since Dad isn't here anymore to play with me, would you play baseball with me instead?"

I looked over at him and saw his broken heart in his eyes. He looked so small and vulnerable. I suddenly remembered what Dad had told me at the game.

"When you grow up, I want you, Gerard, to be one of those leaders. Can you do that for me?"

I realized that Dad would have wanted me to start being a leader now. Mikey needed me to be there for him, and, although I didn't want to admit it, I needed Mikey, too.

"Of course, Mikey, I'll play baseball with you."