I had just gotten home after a night with a friend enjoying the foot-stomping music of the Pine Leaf Boys.

On Friday, they played to a full dance hall of Midwestern fans knowing that they’d make it back to Lafayette in plenty of time to celebrate Mardi Gras Cajun-style; with a good pot of gumbo, old friends, and their favorite hooch.

Nicki and I had a great time. We enjoyed the music, swapping stories of pre and post-Katrina visits to N’awlins, and giving our full lungpower to answering the accordionist’s frequent cry, “Can anybody scream?”

When I got home and flipped on the TV, as is my habit, I listened to a local newscaster announce the passing of Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub. What a strange counterpoint to a fun evening out.

My mind swirled with incredible memories. What a terrific ballplayer! What a gentle soul!

Ernie Banks hit 512 home runs, played in 14 All-Star games, was named MVP two consecutive years, and was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2013. He was one of only a handful of players from the Negro league that made it to the Bigs without having to play in the minor leagues first.

Most remarkable, and unheard of in today’s world of free agency and Money Ball, he played with only one team for the entirety of his major league career.

He was an important part of my life as I grew up. Not only was he a great athlete, his “Let’s play two” mantra and “It’s a beautiful day for a ball game” catchphrase, while playing nearly two decades for a losing franchise, taught me a lot about appreciating life.

Late Friday night I felt like I had lost a friend. I was also filled with gratitude. I felt very glad I was born WHEN I was born. Thanks in large part to Mr. Cub, I grew up knowing the pure joy of baseball as a game.

I started thinking about other milestones or great events I witnessed.

My life was made easier when automatic transmissions became standard on cars. The invention of the birth control pill gave me freedoms my mother’s generation didn’t know, yet I came of age when sex was regarded with a certain level of respect and mystery I don’t see these days.

I was inspired by the individual daring of space pioneers on the Apollo missions (Could anything make you think about possibilities more than seeing someone walk on the moon?), and the image of the lone student in Tiananmen Square in 1989. Still unidentified, this young man stared into a tank to protest censorship. What courage!

I witnessed many gifts of flight; from the growth of airline travel (now almost everyone collects frequent flyer miles and feeds their curiosity to learn about life beyond their hometown), and I’ve seen Michael Jordan take off from the hardwood.

I developed what felt like personal relationships with cultural icons. I could comfort myself on sick days, from school or work, by watching hours of TV sitcoms. I really cared about Dick van Dyke and Jerry Seinfeld. I still look forward to spreading out and then reading the Sunday Times (curled up on my couch, maybe still in my jammies).

And of course, there were the Beatles and the Stones (before Mick had to rub Ben Gay on his joints after a show).

Being grateful for the many times of your life because the Time of Your Life is no small thing.

Mr. Cub sings