A story for Jeremy Deutsch, who still likes the high ones

BROOKINGS — I don’t know what this is, but I know what it’s not: This is not a goddamn obituary.

I know that one night I ran into my friend at a fundraiser. A couple days later I saw him at the gym. And a couple days after that, I got a text message that simply read:

“Boy, have I got a story for you.”

A story is something different. A story I can handle. Wisdom is something more, entirely. And the best definition of wisdom I ever read remains that it’s when we can learn our own lesson from the words of someone else.

So whatever this is, it wants desperately to be wisdom. Whatever faults it contains are mine, and mine alone. But it’s in front of you now because my friend asked for my help — and with his precious time, wanted to share some hard-won wisdom. And whatever else I have ever learned, I have learned this:

When a friend asks for help, you help him. Respect that.

***

So I’m not looking for any sympathy from you or your readers... seriously. I was just thinking of the brightest man I know with any reach that could get a simple, redundant but incredibly important message across to as many people as possible. And even if it changed one life, it would fully be worth it. I just learned today that I have an inoperable brain tumor.

I got this text from Jeremy Deutsch on Oct. 17, and it stopped me like a herd of buffalo in the middle of the road. I had just seen him at the gym a couple days earlier. Had a beer with him a couple days before that. How is that even possible?

I am not writing JD’s obituary. He’s fucking Superman. He’s not supposed to be in a bed. He’s supposed to be prowling centerfield like a pirate, cheating in and trusting his legs to bail him out on the ball over his head. He’s supposed to behind the stick at Cubby’s, joking with the regulars and making the first-time visitors feel right at home.

He’s supposed to be on the other side of the bar, after a game, one cleat up on the rail, eyeblack still dripping, sipping a beer and chatting up the prettiest girl in the place.

The biggest thing I would like to remind everyone as I move on to the next chapter in a short time is... Never take any day for granted. Don’t take your loved ones for granted. Everyone loves their kids (although mine are the best and I’ll take that to the grave). I’m going to miss my two boys more than I could have ever possibly imagined in my life. They are my best friends and I will die with two huge holes in my heart along with this stupid tumor in my head. Love your friends harder. Do your best to be a good person. Because one day you’re with them, and the next day you’re typing about them on the last bed you’ll lay on. Thanks to everyone for all the amazing, heartfelt messages me and my family have received over the past several days.

This is going to be a lot. But this is not a goddamned obituary.

***

Day One.
So my name is Jeremy. I just found out today that I have an inoperable brain tumor. I went into the Brookings ER hoping to get an MRI on my spine because my back was jacked again and my left arm and leg weren’t working right. Turns out I would’ve taken a bulged disc in a heartbeat... Hell, I’d have gladly taken a stroke if I had the choice I think, ha. I suppose it hasn’t really hit me yet. It will. And it will really suck. All I can think about is my two boys. They are the sweetest, most loving sons a person could’ve ever asked for.

Is this how it goes? Really? It’s how it happened for Jeremy. One day some back pain - not uncommon for a guy who lifts as often as he does. Then one day at work and your left hand doesn’t work. Your left leg starts to follow. You drive yourself to the ER. They send you off for an MRI. And then you see it. A huge mass, right in the middle of your brain. Right where they cannot cut it out. Impossibly big already. And growing.

Day two
Slept about an hour probably. Trying to eat and drink something so I’m not a complete pile when the boys arrive. Need to be strong for them. Cautiously optimistic after a CAT scan came back yesterday showing the brain mass hasn’t spread to other parts of the body... But I’m also trying to prepare for the worst... I can’t have that attitude around my family though. I worry about my parents, especially Dad after his heart issues... my mom is so caring and loving. Best momma ever

Then later, he texted again.

Can’t move my left arm much today. The end is approaching sooner than I thought I’m afraid. The worst part is seeing the sadness on the faces of the many friends and family constantly streaming in. I can’t stand to see the pain in my parents eyes. My dad is especially sad and his heart isn’t well. I have the best parents on the planet. My mom is so loving and caring. Anyone that knows her knows that. My dad has been so involved in Brookings, whether it be in athletics, mostly volunteering for everything. He’ll need a hug next time you see him.

Our friend Dave flew into town, and I picked him up at the airport. We rushed over to the Sioux Falls hospital to make visiting hours. JD looks alright, all things considered.

We laugh at some old stories while the 49ers game plays and Koyer builds an X-Wing Fighter Lego set.

We help him walk a short lap around the nurse’s station. He’s got a biopsy scheduled for the next day. They’re gonna drill a hole in his head and cut a tiny piece of the growth in his brain out to define its pathology. They know what it’s not — a healthy brain. Now they need to know exactly what it is.

Dave and I stay away for biopsy day. We go back the next day. He’s setting a record for visitors. He looks exhaused. I hold it together for my friend. Then we run into Ron and Kendra at the elevators. We talk, but what is there to say? I give Ron a hug. We both cry. Everyone cries.

***
The human brain abhors randomness. So much so that “random” simulators generally are not random. We just cannot understand it. A simple example. Flip a coin 37 times, and have it come up heads 37 times in a row. What are the odds it comes up tails on the next toss? Even money. I know this is true, but still, does it make sense? It does not.

The human brain abhors randomness. It’s why we see shapes in the clouds and believe dumb conspiracy theories and hear weirdo lyrics if we play Led Zeppelin records backwards. We evolved this way, the theory goes, because those who saw patterns ran away and lived, and those who didn’t, didn’t.

We need to find meaning so much we’ll make it up if we have to. That’s why we tell stories.

***

I spent a lot of time with Ron Deutsch watching Jeremy play baseball. I was a sportswriter and Ron usually announced the Cubs games. We’d share the press box. On tournament weekends he’d grill off brats and feed everyone who came through. And I would listen to him grind out every one of JD’s at-bats along with him, both in their own box.

“Zone something up here, Jeremy.”

“Do a job here.”

“Lay off the high ones!”

Jeremy was a throwback ballplayer in all the best ways. His trademark look was high socks, no stirrups - think Jackie Robinson - with extra eyeblack and a cheek full of seeds. Make no mistake, he was talented as hell. A guy had to be to play on those dynasty Cubs teams of the late ‘90s and early 2000s - with Chris Brown and Billy McMacken and all three Krogmans, among others — Brookings was a full-on wagon, winning five straight state championships and six in seven years. Deutsch hammered a grand slam in a playoff game up in Aberdeen that vaulted the Cubs to one of the many.

Remembering him on the diamond now, though, I remember how hard-nosed he was. How he ground out at-bats and stole bases and hustled in the outfield. “Nobody outworks a Deutsch,” he texts me from his hospital bed one night, in a list of things he wants to remind his sons. I can hear Ron saying it to him in my head. Zone something up, JD. Don’t let anyone outwork you.

I worked with him at Cubby’s when I was in grad school and was an above average customer even after I left town. He was great behind the bar. We made up a lot of dumb cocktails. I still remember what’s in a Bad Decision (double Sapphire and tonic in a short glass, shot of Hypnotiq).
And it never mattered how long I had been gone, I could stroll into the room and bellow out, “Deutsch! Lay off the high ones.” And from wherever he was he would answer, in a perfect Lori-Petty-from-A-League-of-Their-Own voice, “But I like the high ones!”

A lot of people think being a good bartender is about charisma. And, sure, it is. And sure, he has that in spades. But bartending’s an art and one of the last true noble professions. And what made Deutsch great behind the bar —beyond that work ethic — was more subtle. It was a fundamental decency.

He was just kind. Not in a showy way. Not in a “nice” way. The man just cares about people and what happens to them. He took care of his people, and more when they needed it most.

I remember one night when I still worked there, JD and I were two of the last three people in the bar. The other was Glenn the Can Man, of some local renown. Glenn had shown up overserved, and Deutsch had poured him a short beer and then offered him a water. Now it was closing time, and Glenn wanted to stay. Deutsch called him a cab, but when it came he still didn’t want to go. It took both of us to put him in the car — Glenn was strong as a moose. But the whole time, Deutsch was gentle. He never lost patience — and trust me, I did. He just reminded him that he had to go home now, but he could come back tomorrow, and that no one was upset with him. He told him it was important that he got home safely. And he meant it.

***

10/29/25
9 a.m. They bumped me up for first treatment from 5 p.m. I’m glad. Time to start cooking Timmy (the tumor).

I’m officially radioactive. Still have my appetite. Been trying to eat good. But I’m kinda getting skinny fat (love you, Risch). My left arm is definitely getting smaller. Tough to watch.

Night Two at Eisenberg Asylum... JK. Feeling better. Starting cancer drugs tonight... temozolomide. Getting better meds to sleep better tonight hopefully... Got momma here tonight. We are watching the World Series. Life is good at this moment.

Just saw the pathology. It isn’t good. Nothing but bad news from Avera. High grade glioblastoma. Another punch in the nuts.

I did find a doctor that’s working on this right here at Mayo.

The human brain abhors randomness. Cancer is the definition of random — your own cells go haywire and rebel against their own body. And glioblastoma is the most random of all. The most common — and most aggressive — form of brain cancer. No known causes. A terrible prognosis. It’s literally as bad of news as anyone can get. The percentages are awful.

Jeremy’s brain abhors Timmy. And so do I. So does everyone in town, apparently. Turns out 25 years of taking care of people really leaves an impression. Brookings shows up for one of their own in ways that take the breath away. After word gets out, a GoFundMe to defer the expenses of 30 radiation treatments hits six figures in a matter of days.

***

BOYS:
The single (or double) most important things out of all of this, by far for me, is the well being and future of you two... My best buddies in this world. Words cannot describe how much you mean to me. You are my everything. I will always be with you. You are a part of me and I am a part of you. Every time you swing that bat or stick... Every time you pull your gun up to a rooster or buck... Every time you look up at the sky, I’ll be there watching you, with you. Koy, the instant life changer for me in the best way possible... my sweet, chill, hunting, fishing and camping buddy. I’ll never forget after school sometimes, “Dad, can we just chill for awhile?” When it was the exact thing I also wanted to do with you. But, we’d get after it when we needed to also... you on the mower, me on the trimmer and poop duty... all the acreage work we did together... with so much left to do... it never felt like work with you though, not at all. Like I’ve told people, you can keep it if you want and it makes sense. But by all means don’t have to... please don’t keep it for sentimental reasons where it becomes a burden. River, my tenacious, bright little star... 1, 2, 3 No Rules! (He would call out 1, 2, 3 Rules! before our many wrestling matches.) Just those funny little things between parents and their kids that others don’t understand but mean everything... I loved every round of baseball, football, catch and I’ll be watching you... so aim small, miss small... I just signed up to Coach your butt again in baseball tonight so I gotta beat this thing.

***

From his correspondence, JD’s days stay busy - occupational therapy, physical therapy, radiation, medication. They wrap his left leg, trying to prevent blood clots. His left side still isn’t working right. They can’t give him the strongest blood thinners because of all the radiation. He has so many visitors, he’s overwhelmed.

Back home, the whole town hangs on the updates to his Caring Bridge. Nearly everyone I bump into asks after him. The fundraisers continue to grow. Friends look after his yard, unbidden, some real deep South Dakota stuff. We all fill the days. Nights are different, JD texts. Nights are worse.

Late one night I can’t sleep, either, and I end up digging out my copy of A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, searching for its most famous passage. In it, the protagonist has finally escaped the war with his love, Catherine, all the way to Switzerland. Hemingway writes:

“I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.

“But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to the world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

***

I cannot truly fathom what JD’s life is like in a bed in Rochester — so how can I truly tell you? I can’t even presume — my brain loathes it. I cannot help the random bits in this one. I wish I could. I know all the words are there, but where do they all belong? But this is not a goddamn obituary. I don’t know if any wisdom that isn’t JD’s is in here. I know it’s a story. About my friend. And it’s true. The nights are different than the days.

He knows the percentages are not good. But he’s grinding. There comes a point when you just have to deal with the pitches you’re thrown. Sometimes you just gotta swing with everything you’ve got. On a whiteboard in his room a nurse has recorded his personal goal: “Get one percent better every day.”

He sends Bible quotes. YouTube videos. Things to tell his boys. Lists of movies to watch. We talk about Into The Wild and how we both loved it when we first saw it, but how it means something so much different now. Now that we’re older. Now that he’s on Day 15 at Mayo, Radiation No. 9.

“Happiness is only real when shared.” By the time Chris McCandless scrawled that into a paperback margin in a bus in the Alaskan wilderness, it was too late. That was the tragedy. He learned his lesson - but he never left that bus.

I read that book in college in the late 1990s, after someone told me the kid spent time in South Dakota. I empathized with him, then. With his earnest but immature rejection of so much of the society he saw around him. But the older I get, the angrier he makes me. My empathy switched to sympathy, and then maybe even edged into pity, tinged with disdain. He didn’t need to die to learn that lesson. He just needed to live.

So many gurneys. Such an ominous word for a portable mini bed.

Deutsch isn’t sure where the line between pity and compassion is, he texts, but he knows it when he feels it. And the pity, he loathes it. The sympathy, he almost cannot process, because he feels it so deeply. But, mostly, even in a time when he would be allowed to be self-focused, he frets on those around him. There are people at Mayo who have no visitors, he says. He cannot imagine. People make the difference between night and day, and he aches for those whose whole time seems dark.

PT and OT happened. Very frustrating. Trying to stay positive. Just don’t want to go backwards.

When we went on our walk in Sioux Falls I told Deutsch I wanted him to be the first guy to wear eyeblack to radiation. We all got a needed laugh. But I also know what I was doing. I didn’t want to see him in that bed. I want to see him on a diamond, hair flying out the back of his hat. There’s snow on the ground, but I want to put him in amber and think of him in summer, sometime in the early 2000s, doing what he loved, not these terrible things he has to do.

But I also know this. The guy in the bed? He’s stronger than I could ever be. He’s stronger than I can truly imagine. But he didn’t need to prove it. He just did not.

PT and OT suck. Never been more frustrated doing the simplest of things. It’s so much more mental than physical. I’m gonna fucken plow through it though. Hopefully get to the rehabilitation facility at Mayo soon. They say 3 hours of therapy every day. Bring that shit on. Let’s get better. I have pitches to throw and fields to walk.

***

The nights are the hardest, when he’s alone, and that’s when JD collects his thoughts from the day and sends them to me. So I can write this. I don’t want to write this. Don’t get me wrong. I want to write the hell out of this. My whole life I have been a writer, and my North Star has always stayed so simple: Make it be true. But I don’t want this to be true. I WANT to be sitting at the bar at Cubby’s. I want to be in the press box at Bob Shelden. I want to be floating down Apple River or listening to The Doors, or anywhere else but in front of this keyboard.

But I gotta grind this out for my friend. He wants people to learn this lesson without having to lay on a gurney. He’s looking out for them, still.

And with 1000 percent honesty, I don’t want the attention or pity or any of that crap out of this whole thing. Zero of that. I just think your readers and my family’s Brookings army would love to dig in to these excerpts a bit. And, I want everyone to do the impossible... take a step back and try to take in all the beauty of life. Cuz it really is short. And we only get one. So ridiculously cliche, but so incredibly true when you’re in my shoes some day. And you will be. Hopefully later than sooner.

Here’s the wisdom your dad wants to pass on, Koyer and River:

Don’t ever get beat for lack of trying. Nobody outworks a Deutsch. Have fun, but be a good man. Take care of the people around you - especially the ones who have a hard time. Be kind. Love hard. When a friend asks for help, you help him.

You don’t know how many pitches you’re gonna see in this life. So you grind out every one. Try to work the count so you get something to hit. Zone something up. And, mostly, lay off the high ones. Mostly. Not always.

You can take a walk that way, but you can’t hit any tomahawks into the afternoon sunshine, either — and who ever wrote a great story about a walk? So every once in a while. Just every so often. Turn on that ball and try to launch it into orbit. Swing as hard as you can and hit that damn thing so far they’ll need an airplane to find it.

Watch it sail into the South Dakota sky and know that’s exactly where it belonged.
***
Jeremy James Deutsch
1979-2026

“Never take any day for granted. Don’t take your loved ones for granted... Love your friends
harder. Do your best to be a good person... Every time you look up at the sky, I’ll be there
watching you, with you.”
***