Ross Porter died.
"He fell into my arms," says Lin, his wife of 51 years, "and said, 'I am leaving.'"
Anyone who knows Lin won't be surprised with what happens next. She orders her husband not to leave. Doctors and nurses call a code blue at UCLA's Ronald Reagan Medical Center and Dr. Ramin Salehi-Rad sprints from the hospital basement to Porter's upstairs room.
It's late July, a little more than three months ago, and Ross is not with us. He does not have a pulse for 48 seconds before a UCLA medical team goes to work on that great big heart.
In time, Ross opts for extra innings. And now it's a glorious Monday in November with the former Dodgers broadcaster greeting golfers who are donating time and money to his son's mission of helping families in crises.
But before Ross takes the microphone to unleash that familiar voice, first a hug for his son, Ross Jr., founder of Stillpoint Family Resources.
"I grew up in a home where it was understood, to whom much is given, much is expected," Ross Jr. tells everyone later, Mom and Dad obviously doing good.
Then the big, booming voice takes over, only Ross noticing as he introduces Eddie Money and Eddie Murray, "folks, that's two Eddies in a row."
And there are tears in Lin's eyes.
"I'm now flooded with thanksgiving thoughts every day," she says. "We have extended life."
Tell me that doesn't make you feel good, the day a little brighter because of it, and that's why I'm here.
I see Ross and I smile. Some people just do that to you.
And right now I could use a little pick-me-up. With so much ugliness in sports these days, I find myself agreeing with Kobe Bryant and wondering what is it with some of the idiots out there.
I come close as well to agreeing with UCLA Coach Jim Mora, who calls a phony Twitter poster "a coward." I stop short when Mora goes too far, and he often does, guessing the guy's a coward, "or a girl."
I have a lot of women in my family, none of them cowards, or the kind to not stand behind what they have to say.
But that's where we are today, ugliness everywhere in sports, and whether it's social media or allowing folks to vent anonymously, it's no longer fun and games.
Who sends email, as I get from the same guy or woman every week, saying, "I hope you know your mother is being gang-raped in hell right now" because they didn't like the way I once wrote about USC?
What kind of human being writes, "You're lower than pig vomit," because there's a column about an injured Marine on Page 2 Sunday rather than a tribute to UCLA for scoring 66 points?
It's reassuring to hear from more than 30 others wanting the address of Marine Octavio Sanchez so they might send along a gift for his contributions to our country.