ALEX REVISITED
April 22, 2004

by Joe Sobran

     I don't feel like writing today. I just read one of 
those books that make you feel like you've nothing left 
to say. If you haven't read it, please do.

     It's a tiny book called ALEX: THE LIFE OF A CHILD, 
by Frank Deford, first published more than twenty years 
ago now. I reread it every few years, and it never fails 
to bring tears. It's Deford's account of how his little 
girl died of cystic fibrosis.

     Such a story is bound to be sad, but it didn't have 
to be beautiful. But Deford is a gifted writer, best 
known for his way of capturing the human workings of 
sports. He has his ups and downs: On a bad day he is 
merely very good. On his best days he is unforgettable.

     One of his most inspired sports stories was a true 
account of a boxing match that ended in a fighter's 
death. He began by telling the reader that one of the two 
young men would die, but not telling which one. Then he 
wrote profiles of both young men, showing each as 
lovable, admirable, full of hope, and unaware of 
impending tragedy. This simple approach created terrible 
suspense and pathos. All you knew was that the end was 
going to be heartbreaking. And it was.

     That fight convinced Deford that boxing should be 
abolished. No mere argument could have made his point as 
powerfully as this plain narrative of two sweet boys, 
punching each other's heads. They might have been the 
best of friends. Deford turned each into a vivid 
character. Fictionalized, this might have been a great 
short story about war; as it is, it's one of the most 
moving sports stories ever written. Once you've read it, 
it's hard to watch boxing with a clear conscience.

     In similarly plain style, Deford tells the story of 
a little girl, who happened to be his daughter, born with 
a wasting disease that would kill her at age eight. Her 
whole life was a painful effort to stave off death. Once 
again the reader learns the tragic ending at the 
beginning, and this only intensifies the suspense.

     For Alex lives. Her parents know she's going to die 
young, and she comes to realize it soon enough, and every 
day of her life is one of torment -- a painful, incurable 
lung disease, held at bay with painful therapy -- and her 
father describes it all, including his own feelings, in 
an unsparing, matter-of-fact way, not without humor.

     He admits he's sentimental: "I cry at weddings. I 
cry when people lose on TV quiz shows. I cry when people 
win on TV quiz shows." His and his wife's feelings are 
very much part of the story, but he lets the details of 
Alex's fate speak for themselves.

     Still, this poor little victim turns out to be 
anything but passive. She insists on living her life as 
if it might be as it should have been.

     Alex plays with dolls, makes friends, asks why girls 
can't do the things boys are allowed to do, fights with 
her older brother (though she adores him), and plans on 
growing up. "I won't have to do therapy when I'm a lady, 
will I?" she asks her father hopefully.

     But the sense of doom is always there. Alex laughs a 
lot, even though it hurts her lungs; and after one bout 
of laughing, coughing, and choking, she sits on her 
father's lap and says, "Oh, Daddy, wouldn't this have 
been great?" She shuns self-pity, not wanting to upset 
her parents, but she can't help feeling a bit wistful 
when she "imaginates" -- her own coinage -- a normal 
life, "just what it would be like not to have a disease."

     Pitying those who pity her, Alex tries to cheer 
others up; she feels it's her responsibility. She learns 
early to bring out the best in people, even other 
children. But, pretty as she is, she is ashamed of the 
way her disease has wasted her body and slightly deformed 
her fingers. She confides her special "secret" to an 
adult friend: She balls her hands into fists "so I won't 
have to see my own fingers."

     Rarely since J.D. Salinger has a child been brought 
to such vivid life on a printed page. Frank Deford has 
given his child the gift of literary immortality. How 
touching to reflect he'd rather not have had to. Alex 
would have been 33 this month.

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