A few years ago, Penguin Canada published a book of mine called “Public Triumph, Private Tragedy: The Double Life of John P. Robarts,” a biography of Ontario’s 17th premier.
One of the delightful surprises at the book launch was the sight of my friend David Steinhart, the National Post reporter, in line to buy a copy of the book.
“Steiny,” as everyone called him, loved sports and business. But Ontario politics from the 1960’s? Definitely not his cup of tea.
“You’re actually going to buy this?” I asked him, incredulously.
“Yeah,” he said. “One of the stupider purchases I’ll ever make, and you definitely don’t deserve my generosity, but what the hell.”
The next time I saw him, he was so excited to tell me about the book.
“I read it,” he said.
“You didn’t,” I responded.
“I did. And let me tell you something. The first 30 pages were really good. But after that,” and here’s where David held his hand out and thrust it towards the ground, “after that, it just fell off the table right into the dumper. Boring as hell. Couldn’t get through it.”
I started laughing my head off. That stabbing motion towards the ground would become our new “thing.” Every time we saw each other after that, we would make up some new story, which always ended with that motion.
“Heard you on The Fan 590 this morning,” I’d tell him. “Your report started out so interesting, but about 30 seconds in,” (cue the stabbing motion towards the ground) “it just got incredibly irrelevant and boring. Your report just fell off the table into the ground.”
And on it went.
David Steinhart died in his sleep last week from causes still unknown. After his death, it was discovered that he had a very enlarged heart, which presumably contributed to his death in some fashion.
His death comes at a particularly awful time. He was only 42, had only been married for a couple of years, and was expecting his first child --- a son --- in two months.
I saw his wife, Rachel Nir, yesterday and she is holding up remarkably well considering the hand life has dealt her.
She told me she felt lucky to have known David for as long as she had, and that he constantly made her laugh. I told her that was a wonderful attitude to take and that some day, I hope to feel that way too. But at the moment, I’m just too furious at this turn of events.
And she allowed that, well, yes, on her better days, that’s how she feels. But that sometimes, she just has to shake her head at the ridiculousness of a fitness buff, who never smoked or drank alcohol (or even soda pop, for goodness sakes) dropping dead at 42.
David once led a very unhealthy lifestyle. He was badly overweight, smoked, and never exercised. But he was funny as hell. He was always funny.
Then, a few years ago, he simply made a decision to turn things around. He began exercising, quit smoking, went on a diet, and with the zeal of a religious convert, became a poster child for a healthy lifestyle. He wrote about it in the National Post.
Whenever I’d see him, I’d say, “I remember you when there were two of you.”
David’s good friend, Garry Marr, wrote a lovely obituary in the National Post. It’s here if you want to read David’s career highlights.
Unlike all of his other friends, I never called him “Steiny.” I always called him “Shecky,” because his rat-a-tat style of humor reminded me so much of the borscht-belt comedian Shecky Greene.
“Shecky” and I laughed a lot. We also had a great competitive zeal to beat the other guy at sports trivia. We both considered ourselves major league aficionados at the
toughest stuff.
We’d email each other the toughest questions we could think of and admire each other’s abilities to come up with wonderfully obscure mind-benders.
(One of my favorites that stumped him: Yankees’ pitcher Ron Guidry went 25-3 in 1978 in one of the all-time great seasons for a pitcher. Name the three pitchers who defeated him. I loved that question because “Shecky,” the baseball expert, had to admit he couldn’t come up with the answer. I also loved it because the three pitchers all had the same first name, giving the question that extra bit of zip. And forget it if you think I’m going to tell you the names here. “Shecky” worked on it for half an hour and if you think I’m going to give it up for nothing, you’re crazy).
I met Rachel for the first time just a few weeks ago. She and David drove down from their home in Muskoka to visit my family and me. We talked about all their plans for their new son, how they hoped to move back to Toronto, how he couldn’t wait to toss a baseball with his son.
In the midst of much discussion and laughter and apropos of nothing, David interrupted our conversation and said, “Okay Paikin, every single retired number by the New York Yankees: Go!”
And off I’d go.
“#1 Alfred Manuel Martin. #3 George Herman Ruth. #4 Henry Louis Gehrig…” and off I went. No nicknames either. “Babe” Ruth wasn’t sufficient. It had to be George Herman Ruth. (Got ‘em all, incidentally).
There have been many nice things written about David on other blogs. You can read some of them here and here.
I’m going to miss “Shecky” a ton.
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