Saying goodbye to Oge
The death of beloved Trentonian sports writer George O’Gorman delivered one final gift, a selfrealization that offerings of time, recognition, even a prayer for someone suffering illness, a life challenge and even death holds remarkable human value.
All the recent wonderful remembrances of O’Gorman, 73, portrayed a man who loved his work, family and friends. Personally, knew him for 30 years and worked with him at The Trentonian for his final 20. Oge delivered a relentless variety of interests and insights as a career writer with a wealth of energy.
Watching Oge served as a blueprint for any aspiring writer. Track, girls basketball, high school football, NFL, whatever, Mr. O’Gorman covered every story with determination. Then he suffered illness followed by a disappearance from his desk in the newsroom.
So, when the text message arrived last week regarding Oge’s death, a whispered heart confession inflicted recrimination regarding a personal inability to reach out to Oge or his family. No card. No phone call. No prayer. Shame and embarrassment overwhelmed to the point that I drowned in dread.
A visit to The Trentonian newsroom found Joe O’Gorman, a cousin, along with Oge’s daughter, Emily, and her husband Nicholas Alfonse,
sifting through his desk, a collection of record books, awards, photos, newspapers and other items. Here’s your chance, an internal voice whispered.
The three heard my apology about not being more of a friend, not reaching out to a man who had earned my respect and admiration while being both “complex
and simplistic”, as Oge’s best friend, Frank Ragazzo, described yesterday during a memorial service for O’Gorman at St. Anthony’s Church in Hamilton.
Joe O’Gorman stood up and rested his hand on my forearm. “No worries, L.A.,” he said. The incident proved cathartic although concerns arrive when I fail to cross over the bar of humanity, in much the same way that a high jumper, hurdler or pole vaulter laments not clearing his intended goal.
Ragazzo recalled his lifetime with Oge and their many exploits as kids and into manhood. The chronological nature of his memories moved us toward illness, hospital stays and the deterioration of health.
“I remember Oge’s last visit to Robert Wood Johnson,” Ragazzo said. Near the end or some may say the beginning of this new journey, a nurse informed family and friends that departure neared. Words of comfort and undying love were offered.
My heart ached and soul groaned that O’Gorman had reached this passage without one word from me. Ragazzo finished his eulogy with “Time to say goodbye. Goodbye Oge. It’s been an incredible run. And thanks.”
This sin of omission strays from regret as anything that occurs in life that improves personal quality, expands our circle of compassion for every one, expresses another gift from the heavens.
George O’Gorman in his passing has taught a valuable lesson about being present in celebrations of both joy, struggle and sorrow. Ragazzo eased personal torment with his appreciation of attendance.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. Not sure that a personal presence tethered atonement but Ragazzo speaking as an O’Gorman proxy delivered personal forgiveness.