(Rob Murphy & Gene McLean at Churchill Downs before the Breeders’ Cup / Photo by Holly M. Smith)

I have so many stories about my great friend, Rob Murphy. So, so many.

Some of them, I can share in public. And, I do quite often.

About how we met. Twice.

About the times when Rob played for the Cincinnati Reds, and I covered the team, at the time.

About the times when I would go to his Miami home in the winter time and we would play catch. I would try my best to corral his 99-mph fastball without a mask, or, more importantly, a cup. Whew. Talk about risk vs. reward.

About how the two of us would hang out and chat about horses with Rob’s teammate and manager, at the time, Pete Rose. God, I loved those conversations. Amazing, really.

About how we would often go on scavenger hunts just to find a copy of “The Daily Racing Form,” and would handicap from night till dawn.

About our trips to the Breeders’ Cup. And, how I would always leave the “Turf Classic” to study last. Always hated combing through those PPs.

About our yearly birthday party with Santa Anita’s very own Amy Zimmerman. It just so happened to coincide with the Breeders’ Cup, too. What was the name of that cab driver again?

About the times that Rob would donate his time to meet with kids and talk and teach baseball.

About the times that Rob would travel to Lexington and look at yearlings, mares, racehorses, and foals. His game was always baseball. His love was always the horses.

Some of the stories, I simply can’t share in public. But, the two of us still laugh when we remember them in private. Laugh each time like we told and heard them for the first time.

About the time that Dr. Robert Palmer…

Oh yeah…I can’t talk about those. Or even write about them, either.

(Rob’s baseball cards from when he played with the Boston Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds and our trip to watch the “Home Run Hitting Contest” at the All-Star Game)

And, some of the stories are so deeply personal that it would not be fair to fully share all the details. Pull too many heart strings. His. Mine. Ours.

Like the time when Rob was sent back to the minors after a glorious career of pitching in the Major Leagues for 10 years. I drove to Columbus to meet him there. Just to chat.

We spent less than 24 hours before Rob got “The Call,” again, and he headed back up to where he belonged all along — facing the likes of Darryl Strawberry, Barry Bonds, and Don Mattingly, and so many others. I drove him to the ballpark to grab his gear and then on to the airport.

It was a good talk.

Like the time when I called Rob and told him that my Pops was dying and that it would be a miracle for him if he could talk with Pete. Pete Rose. My dad’s favorite player of all time.

Rob put in the call to Pete. Rob made the request. A couple of days later, I got a call from an unknown number. It showed “Los Angeles” on my cell. I answered it. It was Pete.

After a few minutes, Pete asked to talk to my Pops, who was lying in his hospital bed in the front “living room.” For the next 15 minutes, the two of them talked. My Pops. Pete Rose. It was the first time I saw my Pops smile in days. It was the last time I saw my Pops smile. That, my friends, is the Pete Rose that people don’t know or write about. That, my friends, is what friends do for friends.

It was a good talk.

So many stories. So, so many stories.

All of them, make up 40 years of friendship. The “stories” tell our story. They make up us. They make best friends truly best friends. Forever. And, ever.

(Rob, Michele and Billy Drury on a visit to Adena Springs, and then checking on their mare)

Just a couple of months ago, Rob’s fiance, Michele Mendez Blanco — the same fabulous lady that used to run the press box at the old Calder Racetrack in Miami — sent me a note and a request.

Seems as if Rob was approaching his 60th birthday about as fast as one of his fastballs that he darted at me some 40 years ago. Seems as if Michele wanted to do something special, even in these days of social distancing and quarantine.

(Rob this morning when he got his book)

(Rob Murphy’s 60th Birthday “book” — a special present from his fiancé Michele)

So, Michele asked if I would write a note and a memory that she could include in a special “birthday book.” She was going to collect notes from a group of Rob’s friends. And, she was going to give it to him on the morning of his birthday.

Today, Michele gave Rob his book. I want to read it someday. I truly do.

And, it wasn’t long before I got a text from my great friend thanking me for my collaboration and participation. Per usual, we exchanged hugs. This time, though, virtually.

With Rob and Michele’s permission, here is what I wrote for his special “birthday book.” It meant something to me that Michele allowed me the opportunity to participate. It means so much to me to have Rob Murphy as a friend. A very special friend of 40 years.

Here it is. I hope you enjoy reading as I have enjoyed living it. Thanks Rob…and Happy 60th Birthday.

If there was anyone in this entire world that I was “supposed” to meet, it would be Rob Murphy. Don’t know if you can call it fate. Don’t know if you can call it by accident. Don’t know what you would call it at all, really. But I can recall the “days” that we met. And, in my heart of hearts, I know they were supposed to be so; just meant to be.
You see, the first time I actually laid eyes on this guy that I would soon know as Rob, I was working in the old library at Keeneland. I was researching, of all God’s things, horse barn fires. It was for a story that I was asked to write and publish later that next Spring in an edition of “The Keeneland Magazine.” And, I was about as excited to research this topic as I would have been if I was actually caught up in one — barn fire, that is. Each story I looked up on the microfiche just brought me more horrid sights. I could only imagine the sounds. Each quote I read brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t image the pain to their hearts. Each cold fact that I wrote in my notebook burned as hot as an amber in my gut and in my mind.
Every now and again, I would wake from this stupor and look around the beautifully decorated and historic room — hoping for any sign of life that could jolt be back to reality and leave the scars behind.
The only “sign” was the one other person in the library that day. A young man sitting at a long table a few feet away. I noticed the tall stack of books in front of him. I noticed the intensity in his demeanor and his eyes. Looked just like a pitcher staring down Darryl Strawberry with the bases loaded and two outs. Or so it could have been.
I didn’t say anything to the young man. Just noticed that he was wearing a jacket that appeared to be better suited for a rain storm in Miami than a snowstorm in Lexington in January. And, we were in the midst of the latter.
I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t inquire about the nature of his search. I didn’t say anything. Libraries are quiet places, you know.
I wrapped up my research and headed out. It was not long before I had forgotten the day, although the thought of what I was going to write about dogged me for days. Never gave another thought about the snow flying against my face as I journeyed to my car. Never gave the young man still sitting at that long table another thought. After all, it was a long drive home and I had a short time to get there.
A couple of months later, and a whole lot of degrees warmer, I found myself in another kind of stupor. I was sitting in the Cincinnati Reds’ bullpen at Al Lopez Field in Tampa, Fla. Spring training. The greatest sporting event in the world to cover. No real deadlines. No real stories to tell. No pressure. Just a dash of sun at the end of a basketball tournament tunnel. The light at the end of the longest of days. A group of beat writers were scattered around. Sunning. Sitting. Chatting. Procrastinating. 
Every half-hour or so, one of us would lean up out of our chair. Catch a glimpse of a game. And mutter something to the effect that we needed to go find a story to write about and fulfill our professional obligation for the day. When I finally decided it was my time, I asked the other scribes if they knew any possible story angles. A buddy of mine from Dayton told me about a young pitcher that was in the clubhouse and that he really liked horses, and that I should probably go and check it out. My buddy suggested it could make for a good story for me and “The Lexington Herald-Leader.” After all, we were “horse country.”
I remember asking if this “young pitcher” had a chance to make the team. When he said that he didn’t think so, I slid back in my chair and waited another half-hour or so to move again. Sunshine was good.
Finally, I decided to make my way to the clubhouse. My buddy asked me what I was going to do. I said that I was going to go look for this “young pitcher.” The story idea seemed better after a cold beer or two.
When I walked into the cramped, smelly, humid quarters of the locker room, I started looking for the names about the sweaty lockers. “Murphy. Murphy. Where the hell is Murphy,” I remember saying to myself. 
Then, just before I found it, I looked up and saw this “kid” standing in the locker room.
Lo and behold, it was the same kid that I remembered seeing in the Keeneland Library several months before.
I recognized him. He recognized me. 
The rest, as they say, has been historic. 
Rob Murphy and I went to dinner that night at “Po Boys.” We ate enough to fill the entire team. I now know why “Po Boys” went out of business. It was due to customers like Rob and I. No doubt.
And, we have been talking — and, in my case, eating — nearly every day since.
I don’t know what life would have been like if I had not seen Rob Murphy in the Keeneland library.
I don’t know what life would be like if I had not met Rob Murphy at that Spring Training.
All I do know is that this introduction was supposed to happen. I know that this friendship was meant to be.
It may not have been fate. But it has certainly been great.
Friends may be easy to make. 
But friends are hard to keep.
Especially those that have lasted for now 40-some years.
It was supposed to happen. It was meant to be.
On this day, Happy Birthday to one of the best people that I have ever bumped into. Twice.