After a year with cancer, Star Tribune editor Pete Steinert is still here, still swinging

Greetings, everyone, and happy holidays.

It's me again.

​It was exactly six months ago, halfway to Christmas, that I shared a part of my cancer story, especially how it pertains to my love of sports. I was diagnosed in January, and I wrote in June that I was determined not to let the disease take my games away from me. The response I got was so heartwarming and I thank you all for that. It was as good as any medicine.

I heard from friends, co-workers, former co-workers, Star Trib readers — even Steve Rushin, Bloomington native and sportswriter/author. I had to email him back just to confirm: "Are you THAT Steve Rushin?" He replied in style: "I'm afraid I am THAT Steve Rushin." Another emailer said the article was clipped and put on the refrigerator door. Can there be a higher compliment than that?

Since then, expectedly, it's been an up-and-down ride, but I am hanging in there. I just had chemo treatment No. 24, the last of the year. Every other week since January with no missed appointments. Let's just say I've gotten to know everyone on the second floor of my clinic very well, and that the next "Treatment Wednesday" is always right around the corner. I don't know how many times I have had to state my last name and date of birth. I've gotten it right every time. But seriously, the work they do for everyone who comes through their doors is amazing. It makes it all tolerable, and I thank them for that.

Throw in some kidney stone surgery in November and a bum shoulder and it's been an interesting end of the year.

Since I last wrote, in case you were wondering, the smaller moments have become the bigger moments. Such as:

I stopped in to see my pickup basketball buddies this summer. They were playing outdoors at Martin Luther King Park, and I was happy to see some of my favorite characters decide to show up that day (yes, including Big Steve and Little Steve). They were having to play the wind on their three-point shots, but no one cared. They even goaded me into playing a couple of half-court games. I moved around a little, took a few shots, made one. At least I can say I extended my streak of making at least one pickup basket to 25 consecutive years with this group.

I got in a half-dozen rounds of golf. In my last round of 18, a beautiful four-hour escape with no one in front of us or behind us, shot a 94 at Columbia, one of my favorite courses (does that get me a free round for saying that?). Most of my drives were pure that day, neuropathy and all. My playing partner said, "Looks like you figured something out." The scorecard is still on my refrigerator. Also shot a 34 on Labor Day at par-27 Hyland Greens, the little gem in Bloomington, admittedly using driver on more than one hole. Putts were falling. Thanks for playing, Kevin and Marv.

In the 50-and-over baseball circuit, I hit my high point early in the season when I got my first two hits in the same game down in Webster, smiling all the way to first base. One teammate said that those bloop singles made his day. Mine, too. In my first at-bat of the next game, with friends in attendance in Edina, I lined a ball to right field (a Pete special). And the right fielder wasn't going to throw me out. He couldn't. League rule for the slowpokes getting down the line. The average was up over .300. The next weekend in St. Michael, I helped turn a 4-6-3 double play (I was the 4).

But the season tailed off from there. I rarely even hit the ball past the pitcher's mound, but I never struck out. I came down with a "frozen" left shoulder, too, so combine that with my illness and I mostly played base coach/scorekeeper/spectator down the stretch. When I stayed home from games, a couple of teammates sent me photos of the ballfield "facilities" to continue a running gag about what fields have the best accommodations for when nature calls. I keep saying it would make a great coffee table book.

In my last at-bat of the season for the Cardinals, in a blowout loss in Apple Valley, I pinch hit in the final inning with two outs. No magic moment this day. Just another meager grounder, an end to the game and my year and a trip below the Mendoza Line. It was a challenging season, but I look forward to seeing my friends again.

At this time of year, I am reminded of my next-door neighbor of three years in Wichita, Kan. Leo and I never talked until my final days there, so I tried to right a wrong and began exchanging Christmas cards with her after I moved to Minnesota. I always looked forward to hearing from her. But Leo already was elderly when I met her, so I knew that most likely the handwriting would get tougher to read and the cards would stop coming altogether more sooner than later. And sadly they did.

But I'm still writing. And it feels good.

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.