It feels like hes still with you: Nick Cafardos son Ben pushes forward in same industry -

SAN DIEGO — Ben and Nick Cafardo spoke nearly every day. They spoke on Ben’s drive home from his public relations job at ESPN in Bristol, Conn., or when Ben was on his lunch break. Any random curiosity could spark a call — maybe an anecdote that Nick, the longtime Boston Globe national baseball writer, had tweeted. Family too was always on Nick’s mind, even more so after the birth of Ben’s son, Noah, now five. Grandfather and grandson loved to FaceTime.

Ten months after the death of his father, Ben finds both moments of solace and sadness inside the industry they shared. Nick was the reporter, his son the PR man. At ESPN, Ben lives a parallel life born out of a love for sports, managing communications strategy for MLB and NBA coverage.

“I love being able to interact with people that my dad’s always worked with,” Ben said. “That’s a huge highlight for me. It always has been.”

Since Nick died suddenly in February from an embolism, Ben has heard from countless people — famous players and laymen readers alike — who loved his dad’s Sunday notes. Who simply loved his father.

Their relationship was not rooted in work alone. But Ben would so often see his father at baseball parks, Fenway or otherwise. Or at industry events, like the Winter Meetings, where Ben is now in San Diego, and where Nick thrived working the hotel lobby. He was a familiar face and a confidant to so many scouts and executives, stitching together details and tidbits and storylines no one else had.

“He loved the flow of the season,” Ben said. “Maybe not every single day you’d get a major story. But there was always a matter of time, especially in Boston, where something would break and there would be something that would consume you for the day. He loved that. And I think he loved the romance of the game as well.”

To Ben, Nick seemed particularly energized for the 2019 season, 30 years after Nick had joined the Globe. Nick was in good health when he collapsed at the Red Sox’ spring complex in Florida. He died the same day, at 62.

On Tuesday in San Diego, Nick may well be announced as the winner of the J.G. Taylor Spink Award — baseball writing’s highest honor, commemorated by the Hall of Fame, in Cooperstown. Ben is hopeful, and the award would be another in a long series of outreaches and kindnesses. Nick would be celebrated at this summer’s induction ceremony.

The outpouring from the baseball world in the wake of Nick’s death was immense. Teams across the country left flowers in the press box when the Red Sox came to town. Writers who were close to Nick, locally and nationally, paid tribute. The Sox honored the Cafardo family on August night at Fenway Park this season, including Nick’s wife Leeanne, daughter Emilee and granddaughter Annabella.

“It was a reminder that there’s still goodness in the world,” Ben said. “Our family is so grateful for the support we’ve received this year. It’s provided us with so much strength.”

(Barry Chin / The Boston Globe via Getty Images)

But showing up to the same places where his dad once stood is not a panacea, not every day. The reminders can be as painful as they are wonderful, soothing.

“It’s more positive than negative,” Ben said. “It’s still challenging at times, to go to work. ESPN and Major League Baseball have such a deep-rooted partnership, it just so happens that so many high-profile events were tied to the Boston Red Sox, especially coming off the 2018 World Series. Like Opening Night in Seattle, or the home opener in Boston. Those were more challenging than usual. Double-edged sword, gift and a curse. You’re constantly reminded of it. It feels like he’s still with you, in that regard. In terms of grieving, maybe it would be easier if I was in a different industry because it would have set in more. It still hasn’t 100 percent set in.”

The first time Ben, now 36, understood what his father did was in spring training, when Ben and his sister took an extended break from school. They brought their curriculums with them to Winter Haven, Fla., the old home of the Red Sox.

Nick was a product of a different time, when newspapers and their writers built followings that could fill Fenway many times over. Ben’s first brushes with the sport were from an era of greater understanding between players and reporters, of more personal bonds. Ben remembers running around the clubhouse in Winter Haven alongside Kobe Clemens, Roger’s son, while the elder Clemens filled Nick’s notebook nearby. Another day, Ben tagged along for a visit to Wade Boggs’ spring home.

Ben picked up the Globe frequently by the time he got to high school, but he didn’t need to parse every word, no matter how often friends asked what his pops was thinking.

“People were always fascinated with that growing up. Even up until February — ‘was your dad thinking this, was your dad thinking that?’” Ben said. “I always got a kick out of it, and appreciated their interest in him. But it just wasn’t rooted in that. He could have done anything for a career, we would have had the same relationship.”

If the stereotype of a baseball reporter is a disgruntled and grizzled cynic, Nick was an exception. He was steady, unwaveringly pleasant and armed with dry wit. He enjoyed bowling, politics and Steely Dan. In a forum that can be frosty, Nick brought warmth.

“His priority was other people,” Ben said. “Namely his family, but also his friends and colleagues in the industry. He didn’t need anything, didn’t want anything, didn’t ask for anything. Just liked his Marriotts, and all that stuff. Use those Marriott points for a family vacation.”

(Courtesy of Ben Cafardo)

For a time, family was all Nick could count as his own. The son of shoe factory workers in Brockton, Mass., Nick occasionally told a story, tongue-in-cheek, of a lone toy, the tin can he drew a face on. He kept it in his bed when he went to sleep.

“He was serious, actually,” Ben said. “At least for a certain stint there was just not really any money coming in.”

Nick faced serious challenges early in his life, growing up speaking a mixture of Italian and English. In middle school, his English turned a corner, and an obsession with the written word grew as much as one with sports. One of his professors at Northeastern once told him he should go into a different profession. There was at least a small chip on Nick’s shoulder, even if he didn’t broadcast it.

Public relations people can act as the gateways to information, reporters the seekers. But in a way, Ben’s job is centered on constantly assisting people in his father’s mold.

“We have so much press covering us every day and we seem to always be front and center one way or another,” Ben said. “I’ve always admired reporters and writers being from my background and upbringing, so I really enjoy that, the media relations element of the field. Even if it’s just somebody calling and needing help for a story, and you can get X former ballplayer on the phone.

“That stuff happens every day, but when it works out, it’s like you’ve served the press. That’s the type of stuff that my dad liked. He was proud that I enjoyed that element of it. ‘Cause he felt like that was the PR person’s role: You are here to help me. Which I am!”

Ben is considering different ways he could honor his father’s memory beyond his own career, including the possibility of a scholarship. The Spink Award would put Nick on exhibit in the Hall of Fame for generations to see. Still, Ben does not have a full sense of closure, not after such a sudden death.

The day before his father died, Ben texted Nick for help getting in touch with Astros manager A.J. Hinch — typical industry stuff. The next day, Nick checked in with a usual hello, asking what’s up.

“I hadn’t had a chance to get back to him,” Ben said. “He passed away a couple hours later. The last exchange was the day before. We hadn’t spoken on the phone in like a day in a half.

“I go to call him all the time, still to this day. I think of something I want to tell him.”

(Top photo courtesy of Ben Cafardo)

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