At that moment, I felt like I had to do something so I sent an email to spread the word to those who knew Larry. Within minutes I got two responses which echoed the same feelings. "Larry was often misunderstood. Many (people) mistook his weight loss as something entirely opposite." Another wrote "Larry was an odd guy, but good hearted." I understood what they were saying and had heard it all before. Rumors and gossip had followed Larry, which kept many away from getting to know the person that he was. Therefore, this writer felt a responsibility to let the others know who this misunderstood guy was and what he was all about.

So I begin with my first glimpse of "The Rifleman," as he was often called in the local softball community. It was 1980 and I was a thirteen-year-old South Boston athlete who had caught word that there was a pitcher who was dominating games in the local softball league. So one night I took a seat in the front row of the jammed packed stands at M Street Park. The Apple Dumpling truck was parked on M Street serving hot dogs, snacks, and beverages. The scene was festive as if the softball folks knew they were about to witness greatness on the diamond below.

I got to the field that night expecting to immediately spot this young sensation. However, as I looked around and didn't see any players that looked any better than the others; I asked a neighboring fan "Which one is the good one?" After raising his eyebrows at me the fan says, "he's number eight on the Triple O's team - Larry Lucas. Right there!" I then watched him carefully; keeping an eye on his every move. Lucas dominated the game from start to finish - striking out batter after batter. Some of the hitters would swing and miss so badly that they would fall over their own feet. His performance was as if he were a Red Sox player taking the field against a team of Little Leaguers. I came away from the game that night very impressed.

Later that year, Larry would win the first of four championships coupled with four MVP awards in the M Street Softball League. In 1985, he joined the Red Hat, a traveling softball team, competed and won at the highest levels of competition. In one heated tournament game, Larry pitched seven scoreless innings, struck out 16 batters, and won 1-0. The dominating performance got him "banned in Boston" - as organizers decided he was too good to compete in their tournaments.

By 1992, Larry's battle with diabetes escalated and the demands of pitching were taking their toll on his body so he decided it was time to take a step back from softball. A few years later, he was unanimously voted into the South Boston Sports Hall of Fame. Over the next few years he would keep a low profile but would pitch an occasional game or tournament here or there to prove that he still had it.

It wasn't until 1997 that I would finally get the chance to speak about pitching with him. By this time I was involved in organizing the M Street League and was trying to learn the craft of pitching myself. Larry had stopped by the field to check on the league and was standing behind the backstop when I approached him. I told him that I was throwing two pitches and not fooling anybody. "You need to learn a third pitch" - he answered. He then instructed me on how to hold the ball to throw the rise, curveball, and drop. Later that night the field became free and Larry took the time to show me how to throw these pitches, Within twenty minutes he had me throwing my third pitch - a curveball. That pitch would become my "out" pitch and it got me deep into the playoffs that year.

Larry continued to drop by to talk softball that year. He knew I wanted to hear his stories and learn from his experiences. He once told me that he would purposely walk the bases loaded to get the hopes up of the opposing team only to strikeout the side. His stories weren't always about softball though. There was the night he had the attention of our shortstop, Jason O'Connell. The two of us listened in while Larry told us of the time he saved the life of a squirrel. Holding in our laughter we asked for details. "My neighbor called and told me that there was a squirrel that had fallen into the pool. So I scooped it out and began CPR on it." Larry then demonstrated how he used his fingers to pump life back into the squirrel. "It came to life and then ran off," Larry quipped. Jason and I fell over with laughter.

That 1997 season would end with the Sam Moran Club defeating my team (Sidewalk Café) in seven memorable games in the finals. Larry was a constant presence and voice in the stands cheering our victories and offering words of advice in defeat. We spent hours on the phone talking about the hitters' tendencies and how to pitch to them. "Magee is a dead pull hitter - you got to pitch down and away to him" - Larry would say. Knowing I had the best pitcher in the game as someone I could bounce ideas off gave me tremendous confidence in what I was doing and thinking on the mound.

The following year Larry made a comeback and joined our team. Thinking that our friendship would lead to a great one-two punch on the mound we both started with high expectations. However, a few games into the season our ego's got in the way and we both decided it best that Larry pitch for another team - Molly Darcy's. He was mad at me and loved to raise his game when playing against us. Prior to our first face-to-face meeting, I thought back to the conversation we had about pitching inside. "Sometimes you need to back the hitter off the plate Larry - you go up and in," I said. Larry thought for a minute then answered with a smile "I never did that in my career but will consider it for future use." I regretted those words as I stepped in the box that night. He didn't pitch inside, as his respect for our friendship was greater than the outcome of the game. Though, he would later use the advice against lefty hitting Michael Smith in the playoffs.

For the next couple of years Larry bounced around from team to team coming close to winning the championship with the Quietman Pub in 2000. At this time, his health woes had grown worse as he was now fighting an additional battle - Lyme disease. Yet, Larry wanted to pitch and was always seeking to find the answer of a healthy body through doctors and medicine. Most nights he could only give you a few innings but the teams he was playing for wanted and needed more from him. He stepped away again at the conclusion of the 2000 season but vowed he would return when healthy.

In the spring of 2001, I was involved in a near fatal car accident that left me with a fractured neck. As I went through months of physical therapy Larry was always present offering his support and encouragement. He got me out of the house for walks, movies, and other errands. During these times I would share my thoughts about not feeling that I would ever recover from my injuries. He listened and assured me that the pain would go away and that I was healthy and was a fighter who would be back on that mound the following spring. He was correct; I made a complete recovery and was out there throwing that same curveball that Larry had taught me.

In the following years, we stayed in touch as Larry would tell me of his latest foray into his search for the answer to his own health issues. "They're flying me on a private plane to treat my Lyme with human growth hormone" - he would say. I listened but couldn't offer him the same understanding and guidance he gave me. I felt he was dealing with a disease and a possible treatment that was foreign to me.

Then there was the frightful night we were talking and in mid sentence Larry sounded as if he were being electrocuted. I nervously yelled out to him several times as I thought I was hearing my friends last moments. Several seconds later he came to asking what had happened. I knew something wasn't right and offered to drive him to the hospital. We got to the hospital but never got an answer as to what it was or what was the cause. Larry had such a large medical file the doctors knew him by name and I speculate that they may not have taken anything he said seriously.

My last phone call with Larry was just weeks ago. He stated that he was looking for a photo of a fellow M Street pitcher, Joey Magee Jr., who had joined the Marines and was fighting in one of our theaters of battle. "Mark I need one of him in uniform. I need to see him so I my prayers will reach him. I cringe when I hear of another soldier dying." I knew he was sincere and that he really cared about "young Joe's" safe return a great deal. That was the kind of guy he was - someone who cared and wanted to make a difference.

At Larry's wake, there was a collage of photos by the doorway showing a side of Larry that few of us knew. There was one of him as an eight-year old boy standing on the field at Fenway Park. Another showed him proudly posing with his mom in his Red Hat softball uniform. Others showed him posing with family members, always with a big smile on his face. It was obvious to me that he was a great uncle, a loving brother, caring, spiritual, and a compassionate person. A brief conversation with his three sisters put his physical condition in perspective. "He battled his health every day. It was a struggle for him."

After paying my respects and saying my goodbye I stopped and glanced one more time at the photos. The tears began to flow as it hit me. I realized Heaven's gain was my loss. My only safe haven was knowing that my ally, my caring friend, my teammate was not going to suffer anymore. You will be missed Larry!