For Nationals' Fick, Life Is Bigger Than Baseball

"Nothing against anybody in this clubhouse, but nowadays, the young guys are too comfortable," he said. "It's a joke. There aren't more guys who kind of police things around here. It's kind of a lost art."

It is an art Manager Manny Acta doesn't mind having. Fick has an excellent chance to make the team because he can catch, play first base and the outfield and could be a dangerous left-handed pinch hitter. But his personality could be a plus, too.

"You always need to have a guy who keeps the rest of the guys loose," Acta said, "as long as it is within the guidelines. . . . Fick is a perfect example."

Unbeknownst to the rest of the clubhouse, he is now an example of how to keep his personal travails from affecting anyone else. "I don't need anybody's sympathy," he said. So his teammates don't know that, this winter, he did the shopping, took care of the house, tended to the cats, fit his workouts around Gloria's needs.

"I wish all mothers could have this," Gloria Fick said. "He's a great kid. You've always been there for them, but when you need them, they're there for you."

Robert has been through this once before, when he was coming up through the Detroit Tigers' system. His father, Charles, had been sick most of Robert's life, beginning with open heart surgery six months before Robert was born, continuing with the insertion of nine pacemakers into his chest. But in the summer of 1998, Charlie Fick's youngest kid made his way to the majors. A gang of perhaps 20 Ficks -- Charlie included -- made its way to Kansas City for Robert's second series as a big leaguer.

Charlie Fick was so ill he was afforded use of a private elevator and had to be carried to his seat at Kauffman Stadium. That night, Sept. 21, Robert hit his first major league home run, his dad looking on. The following night, he hit another.

"It wasn't his only dream for his son to play in the big leagues," Fick said. "But he sure did want that for one of his boys."

By Thanksgiving, Charlie Fick was dead. Robert was 24. Now, all his bats, all his gloves, bear the word "Charlie." "He was my best friend in the world," Fick said.

Now, he feels as if he is preparing to lose another friend. Because he is gone nine months of the year, because his brothers and sisters have families to tend to, he said he felt the offseason was "my turn" to take care of Gloria.

"I would tell her every day," he said, "'There isn't anywhere in this world I'd rather be than here with you.' . . .

"My mom raised eight kids. I know everybody says they have the best mom in the whole world, but my mom has set the best example my whole life. Now, she's setting this example when she's dying. Dude, it's unbelievable how tough she is and how disciplined she is, the way she's fighting it.

"Most people would quit. She really thinks she's going to get better."

The din in the clubhouse continued in the background. Robert Fick -- catcher, comedian, caretaker -- continued to speak quietly.

"I don't know if that's the case," he said. "It wears on me every day."