One of my favorite memories about going to watch the Giants in the mid-1980's was the way the crowd absolutely LOVED Jose Uribe, the light-hitting but sweet-fielding shortstop (a virtual relic of the past these days) with possibly one of the most fun names to say in history. Uribe was never much of an offensive powerhouse, but he played hard and with a joy that was very evident from all who watched him.
I remember sitting at the Stick on a summer night - which meant it was freezing there, with huge gusts of icy wind - with half of the stadium screaming "YOU!" and the other half responding "REEBAY!" everytime Jose got up to the plate.
Jose Uribe was killed in a car accident in the Dominican Republic this morning, dying at the tragically young age of 47. That's just incredibly depressing, and certainly not the bright and cheery sentiment I'd normally want to start my Friday with. (Yes, that's right - it's apparently all about me. God, I'm a dick.) Anyhow, quite a bit of sadness for the Uribe family (including his son Juan who plays for the White Sox) and anyone who remembers the Humm Baby years with as much fondness as I do.