A letter to the twin boys the 26th Man never got to meet By Zack Meisel 11 The day your mom learned she was pregnant last July, she swore your dad to secrecy. By the time he left the ballpark that day, an umpire, a player and, probably, a cotton candy vendor, ticket scalpers and a guy sweeping discarded peanut shells into his dustpan all were privy to the couple’s big news. Your dad tried to reason with your mom. “They don’t know you!” She laughed. Oh, Matt. Always befriending everyone. Always addressing casual acquaintances as if they had maintained a friendship since kindergarten. Your parents met about two hours north of here — at a baseball stadium, of course — when they worked for the Class A Lake County Captains nearly a decade ago. You know, the prototypical love story. He was the clubhouse manager, at every player’s beck and call. She was an intern selling tickets. He asked her out on occasion for more than a year before she finally caved. They went on some dates. He charmed her. They fell in love. “I was a bratty 21-year-old who was just out of college,” your mom says. “He stuck with it, though.” Your dad actually began working in baseball when he was in high school, serving as the Captains’ bat boy. He started with Class AAA Columbus in 2010. Your mom joined the Clippers’ ticket office a year later. Anytime a player needed anything, he knew to head to the office near the clubhouse. There was a nameplate to match the ones that reside above the players’ lockers. Matt Pruzinsky, clubhouse manager “That was our whole life,” your mom says. “It was a lot of baseball for a long time.” This was the life your dad had scripted in his mind: twin boys, healthy, happy and, of utmost importance, sleeping through the night; a job with atypical hours and loads of responsibility, the baseball clubhouse his kingdom; a wife who appreciated the quirks of his work and the quirks of his outgoing (she calls it “embarrassing”) personality. Your dad ditched spring quarters at Ohio State so he could assist the Indians with their spring training operations in Arizona. Your mom teased him because they both graduated college in 2008, even though she was two years younger. Really, she could tease all she wanted. His plan unfolded just as he had envisioned. See, there will come a day, Matthew and Brayden, when you two will toss the baseball back and forth in the backyard and your mom will smile. Maybe a tear will tumble down her cheek. Your dad lived for baseball, lived to smell the fresh-cut grass and the steaming hot dogs, lived to hear the smacking of the ball against a glove and the snapping of the aluminum tab on a chilled beer can. He didn’t mind his peculiar hours or his seemingly ceaseless task list. He dealt with bitter veterans and eager prospects, two groups that wanted nothing to do with the level below the big leagues. And yet, your mom never heard him complain. “Until his last day,” she says, “that’s all he ever wanted to do.” Those late nights at the ballpark fueled a disjointed schedule. Long after the players departed, your dad did their laundry, hung jerseys and sorted equipment. When he finally returned home, he watched TV or played Xbox online with his friends, headset and all, in those cushy theater chairs in the basement. Your mom knew not to bother him when the sun rose. No rooster could spring him awake. Only an Ohio State football game or a Browns tailgate could do the trick. He would wake up on a brisk Sunday morning and start prepping for a Browns game before dawn. He and a friend refurbished an RV, painting it brown and orange, with a sketch of the Cleveland skyline. On Sundays, they parked it in the Muni Lot, on the shores of Lake Erie. (Your mom spent the early hours of those tailgates asleep in the RV.) When the Cavaliers won the NBA title in 2016, breaking Cleveland’s 52-year championship hex, your dad called your great-grandfather, Moe, and the two exchanged their emotions, built up from instance after instance of athletic heartbreak. Moe was desperate to witness a Cleveland triumph. Your dad couldn’t have been more thrilled that he was granted his wish. He couldn’t pop champagne in the living room, though. He had to run off to Huntington Park to move players’ cars from the secure lot to the stadium plaza, where the team would soon arrive after a road swing through Rochester and Syracuse. At Browns games or Cavs contests or USA soccer matches, your dad would chant and cheer, boo and jeer, join in on any heckling or shouting. It often approached a point of humiliation for your mom, the innocent bystander cringing beside the howling goof. Your mom would shoot him those icy looks, the ones that say: “Must you be so embarrassing?” But as your mom notes: “It was all through passion, so you, at least, have to appreciate that.” Deep down, your dad wanted to work for the Indians. He dreamed of roaming the clubhouse, scooting from locker to locker to tend to each big leaguer’s needs, be it retrieving food or ordering batting gloves or locating a missing helmet. Incredibly, your dad was disorganized at home, which clashed with your mom’s neat-freak manner. But when it came to his job, he was as orderly as could be — a critical attribute for governing a clubhouse full of athletes. He might have forgotten something your mom reminded him 100 times, but he never lost track of a ballpark task. Players, coaches and colleagues would bug him at all hours of the day and night, but he never ignored his phone, never skirted a request. He treasured his time in the clubhouse and at the field, whether his workday lasted three hours or 15. “He was just like a friend back home,” Josh Tomlin says. Your dad sorely wanted to return to Cleveland one day, near your grandparents and aunts and uncles. Your mom is certain he would’ve worked his way to Progressive Field. She’s confident his call to the majors was on the horizon. After all, he made things happen. Your mom loves the zoo. Your Grandpa Ed loves the zoo. The entire family gathered for what your dad presented as a behind-the-scenes tour at the Columbus Zoo shortly before Christmas in 2015. Your mom was growing restless as they all waited in the cold for the tour guides. Your dad pleaded patience. At last, zoo employees brought out a baby kangaroo wearing a miniature backpack. They asked your mom to hold it. As she fawned over the little marsupial, your mom noticed a Christmas tag dangling from its neck. “Oh, it’s cute,” she said. “Read it!” everyone shouted. “It’s a Christmas tag. Get over it,” she replied, confused by their adamancy. “Read it!” they implored. She finally obliged. Will you marry me? Ten months later, they were married, on the night the Indians secured a 3-1 lead against the Cubs in the World Series. They ensured there was a TV at the reception. Matt spent nearly 15 years working in the Indians organization. He and Shannon were married in 2016. (Courtesy of Shannon Pruzinsky) Your dad was eager to start a family. He counted down the days until he would become a father. Your parents never selected baby names; they thought they had ample time to sift through the options. But after your dad suffered cardiac arrest on that hellish December day, it just felt right to carry on his name. And your dad loved the name Brayden. “You just knew, once he found out that he was having babies,” Tomlin says, “that, with how he took care of everybody, he was going to be an unbelievable dad.” You boys were born on Feb. 26, which might seem trivial until you understand your dad’s role at work. The Clippers considered him to be the 26th Man, an irreplaceable cog who kept the team functioning properly. That explains the gray T-shirts with the “MP 26th Man” display on the chest that players and coaches throughout the Indians’ organization have sported since spring training. That also explains the number choice for the Pruzinsky uniforms in your bedroom, sent by Fletcher Wilkes, the clubhouse manager at the team’s Arizona facility. Your dad couldn’t wait to meet you guys. An umpire wrote your mom a card to express how excited he was for your parents. By the end of last season, every Columbus player knew. They would slip him a gift or a check to say, “Here, buy something for the twins.” Your dad was best friends with everyone he encountered. He was ready to be a father, ready to bid farewell to the nights out on the town, the early tailgates, the impromptu trips to Jacksonville to visit friends. He built your cribs. He sketched out a plan to construct your changing table. (Your grandfather was able to examine the blueprint and take the reins.) Your dad was pretty handy. He would watch a YouTube video to learn the process and then he’d tackle a project. The TV stand in the living room? That used to be a dresser before your dad pieced together the shelves and the sliding doors.