Years ago, Barb and I would drag ourselves out of bed early Sunday mornings to play in a tennis drill-and-play class at a local park district. We made lots of friends and accumulated future playing partners among the 20 or so people who showed up every week. The sessions were friendly, competitive, and frequently filled with laughter.

One of our companions was Joel Stern, an attorney, storyteller, and devoted sports fan. Joel wasn’t the most ferocious tennis player, but he had a gift for placement and rarely lost a set. I spent many moments between matches discussing his daughter’s progress through medical school, his beloved Cleveland Browns, and our mutual hero, Bruce Springsteen.

Covid put an end to the Sunday morning classes, and I didn’t see Joel for quite a while. When I retired, with plenty of time on my hands, I reconnected with many old friends, including Joel. Along with a few other fellows, we would play a few sets of tennis and then head out for lunch, sometimes fancy, sometimes casual.

It was during the first of these sessions that Joel told me he had advanced renal cell carcinoma. He also told me he would beat it. I never doubted him.

As time went on, it became harder to find time for our tennis matches. We still got together occasionally for lunch, but most of my contact with Joel came through his very detailed Facebook posts describing his status, his various therapies, and his always optimistic outlook.

Eventually, even our lunches came to a halt, as he gently rebuffed my overtures, letting me know he was on his way to MD Anderson, Memorial Sloan Kettering, or some other renowned cancer center. There was no clinical trial he wouldn’t consider, no avenue he failed to pursue.

Three weeks ago, I texted Joel to ask if I could stop by to visit him, perhaps bring lunch. He responded immediately that he was sorry, but he just wasn’t ready for visitors. I think he knew the end was coming.

Joel passed away yesterday. I am sure he went the way he lived: courageously and without self-pity. And I know he’s out there somewhere, hitting every shot right down the line, cheering on the Boss, and suffering right along with the hapless Browns.

We will miss him.