A Very Lucky Man

Paul Thomas’ life was a lesson in fortitude and the power of positive thinking. He had survived so many near-death challenges that I almost expected him to live forever.

And so it was a shock last Friday afternoon, as I was riding a train to New York, to see this heading of a text on my phone: “Paul’s passing.”

His wife Elsa wrote: “I wanted to reach out to you because you were a friend of my husband, Paul Thomas. On Tuesday this week he had a brain bleed which led to a stroke and he died as a result.”

The memories flowed immediately. Playing softball with Paul when both of us were young reporters for the Morning Record in Meriden, CT. Playing broomball with him and other friends on a lake in the mid-1970s when lakes still froze in Connecticut during the wintertime. Going with Paul to the New Orleans Jazz Festival in May 1990. It wasn’t just jazz we heard; we took in performances by Bo Diddley! John Prine! John Lee and the Heralds of Christ! Buckwheat Zydeco! Doctor John!

And we heard Percy Sledge sing his big hit from the ‘60s: “When A Man Loves A Woman.” Afterward, while Paul and I were leaving the outdoor fairgrounds, we saw Percy approaching us on a large motorized cart. Paul reached out to him, shook his hand and said, “Nice show.” Percy smiled and thanked him.

By then Paul had left journalism (he loved sportswriting but didn’t fancy covering high school sports) and chosen law for his career.

But both of us had moved to New Haven. I had done so in order to continue in newspapering for the New Haven Register. He had become a dedicated public defender in the local courthouses. I knew that every year when I ran through his neighborhood for the New Haven Road Race, Paul would be out on the sidewalk near his home, cheering for me.

Paul faced his biggest challenge about 25 years ago when he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma. This led to brain surgery to have a tumor removed, more blood cancer treatment, chemotherapy and two stem cell transplants.

Paul’s inspirational grace under pressure deserved the public’s attention and so I wrote a column about my old friend in May 2015. This was 25 years after our fun-filled weekend in New Orleans. But he was still, yes, having fun.

I noted in my column: “I have to admit there were times over the past 13 years when I encountered Thomas and he looked so diminished that I was worried my old friend would not survive. But whenever I saw him, either at Willoughby’s coffee shop or in a courtroom or on the street, he was smiling and upbeat. Last Wednesday morning I met him once again in his expansive office overlooking the New Haven Green, the spires of Yale and East Rock. He had told me he was going to retire, effective next Friday. He is feeling fine. He has concluded, at 63, that it’s time to move on.”

Paul told me: “I’m young in years for retirement. But some of those years were dog years.”

We always bantered and teased each other about the state of our ballclubs; Paul was a stalwart fan of the Red Sox and I had my Yankees. I had challenged him to wear a Yankee hat for the photo that would accompany my column. He had responded by bringing in a Red Sox hat — signed by the famed Sox pitcher Luis Tiant.

When I asked Paul how he had survived his years of death-defying health confrontations, he gathered his thoughts and then replied: “I suppose some of it is a basic philosophy of life. We have a mission: to live, to make the best of a situation. I try to bring a positive attitude toward the challenges of life.”

I asked him what he had learned from the experience and he said: “To savor life. And freedom. It reinforced my appreciation of the challenges so many people face.”

My news peg for the column was a dinner being held by New Haven’s law community to honor Paul for his retirement and years of good work for his needy clients. I attended that dinner and quoted U.S. District Judge Janet Bond Arterton saying Paul had given his defendants “a robust fulfillment of their right to counsel.”

She added, “When I heard he faced scary brain surgery, I thought: ‘It’s not possible this shining light will not continue to shine.’”

When Paul spoke that night, he said his clients daily illustrate “life’s fundamental unfairness and inequality. They demonstrate the power of endurance, of the human spirit. I thank them for reinforcing this lesson for me.”

In the years after Paul retired, my wife and I would see him around town, at a coffee shop or at our local food market. He was always smiling and upbeat. You couldn’t help but see the surgical scar on his face but it was a symbol of his brave resilience. My wife and I always remarked after each encounter that it was a miracle and an inspiration that he was still here.

The last time I saw Paul was about a month ago at Yale’s baseball field, where the Yale team was in a play-off game. I spotted him about 50 yards away and walked over to say hello. Of course he was affable, friendly and ready to tell me a good baseball story. At Opening Day of the Red Sox 1975 season, which Paul was covering for the Meriden newspaper, he was sitting in the press box when Hank Aaron (yes, Hank Aaron!), then of the Milwaukee Brewers, fouled off a pitch from Tiant.

“It floated right up to me in the press box,” Paul said. “And I just picked that apple off the tree!”

I asked Paul what he had done with the ball; I assumed he still had it, preserved as if in a trophy case. But instead he told me: “I gave it to my girlfriend. We broke up soon after that.” That ball was lost to history.

Paul didn’t seem angry about this; he was on to another interesting story from that Opening Day. “After the game I saw Carl Yastrzemski (Yaz!) sitting by himself at his locker. I got the courage to walk up and ask him a question. I was 23! I was a kid. And he exploded with commentary, smoking Marlboro after Marlboro while listening to loud J. Geils music.”

As I was leaving the Yale ballpark that afternoon I looked over to the area where Paul was sitting with his friends. I tried to catch his eye to nod (“See you next time”) but he was smiling and talking, as always, with those buddies. I figured: Oh well, I’ll see Paul some time soon, down the road.

And so now I’m left with those warm memories and what he told me during our interview in 2015. It’s how I ended that column: “I’m pretty lucky. Actually, I’m very lucky. I count my blessings.”