You’ve got a friend in me

(First appeared in The Baldwin Times for Gulf Coast Media, May 29, 2026.)

The author with his best friend and wife, Dorinda, in 2011.

By Wayne Smith

Gulf Coast Media Contributor

The famous sports writer Red Smith — no relation — was once asked if it was hard to write a daily column. His reply:

“Writing a column is easy. You just sit at your typewriter until little drops of blood appear on your forehead.”

This, my friends, is one of those columns.

And it’s about friends, some of whom helped me through a difficult week — three friends in particular. And one best friend I desperately miss — my wife, Dorinda.

Now, that became a running one-liner with us over nearly 43 years together. Of course, among many, “I love you” statements. One of us would say, “You’re my best friend,” with a familiar smile. The obvious response, “You’re my best friend, too.”

That, more than anything else, is what I credit for those wonderful years with my Bear. We were best friends. I lost my best friend April 25, 2025.

This column is about three other good friends, three people who helped me through waiting on the precious arrival of a new granddaughter. Much more on her another time. Believe me.

But, staying with my daughter in Florence ahead of her delivery, my emotions were mixed. Excitement surrounding a new little girl in our lives, one that will carry part of her grandmother’s name. But those emotions were tinged with the knowing that Dorinda should be here, too.

I’d like to believe they’ve already met.

Gary Kelley is the first friend to mention here. A close friend for more than 20 years, Gary and I have leaned on each other a lot during the past year or so. He lost his dear wife, Sheila, in January 2025. They had been married 48 years.

A portrait of Gary and Sheila Kelley. (Photo courtesy of Gary Kelley.)

Dorinda and I learned about Sheila’s passing on the way to one of our many trips to UAB for cancer treatment. I pulled the car over at the first opportunity. I hugged my best friend. We cried.

When I lost Dorinda a few months later, Gary spoke at her Celebration of Life Service. His message was simple: I know.

He knew what I was going through. He still does. I can’t tell you how many phone calls and texts we’ve exchanged since — some well after midnight. How many tears we’ve shed, “enough to bring them back on tidal waves if we could,” is one of Gary’s familiar sayings.

But we can’t bring them back. We can lean on each other though. And we have a “pinkie promise,” we’re not going to let the darkest moments overtake us. We promise to call each other when those darkest times come, regardless of the time of day or night.

So going into the week ahead of my daughter’s delivery date, Gary knew I’d be in Florence and invited me to go to church with him. We met in the church parking lot and hugged. A lot didn’t have to be said.

Later during the worship service, my emotions were too much. Leaning over with my head in my hands, I felt Gary’s hand on my shoulder. He knew.

We talked and texted many more times during the week, enjoyed a couple of meals together. As my granddaughter’s due date approached, he texted, simply asking, “How’s everything going?”

Nothing fancy. Just a friend checking on a friend. A friend in need.

I told him I was hanging in and asked how he was.

“Same!”

He knew.

Kent Brown with his wife, Molly. (Photo courtesy of Kent Brown.)

Another longtime friend also is an important part of this story — Kent Brown — the high school friend who first introduced me to Dorinda, a church meeting in 1983, a lifetime ago. One meeting was all it took. Nearly 40 years of a wonderful marriage, two children, and now, soon to be four grandchildren.

As often happens with friends as they move apart geographically, Kent and I aren’t as close as we once were. Those days of playing baseball, basketball, football, even hockey on a frozen pond. Collecting baseball cards. Shadowing each other’s every move.

No, last week was the first time we’d shared a meal together in I can’t tell you how long. We still text, talk every now and then. But breaking bread with someone is special, the best way to catch up.

We shared what’s going on in our lives, with us each facing physical obstacles we didn’t dream of back in those days of shagging fly balls and grounders with each other. Nope, now we’re just older. Grounded. But I did want to tell him one thing in person — hoping I can convince him and his wife to visit me at the beach sometime soon. I wanted to thank him once again for introducing me to that young girl at a Killen church more than four decades ago.

I barely got the words out of my mouth before my voice cracked. I didn’t have to say much else. He knew.

Oh, there’s one other little friend that’s lying by my side as I write this column — my 5-year-old grandson, who is about to become a big brother. We’ve developed kind of a similar habit that I shared with his Dee Dee. He says I’m his best friend. Then I’ll reply that he’s my best friend, too.

On this night, he was drowsy as I read to him, one of his superhero books. Closing the book and realizing he was asleep, I told him he was my best friend. He was too sleepy to respond, but there was no need.

I knew.

With my oldes grandson, Rhys.