Mary and family,

        We were so sorry to hear about Alex's death.  He was such a terrific basketball coach and such a lovely person!  He will be missed!    Fondly, Barbara and Bill Garry

Audrey and her Grandpa:

Audrey was fortunate to have met her grandpa even though he was already sick. They share memories of Alex holding her as a baby, to a pic of them at her 1st birthday party, to a time where they visited Illinois and sat together side by side looking at books just being together. He smiled and hummed to her. He would sit and watch her play when we would visit in North Carolina. Audrey would say to us “Grandpa is sick, he walks back and forth a lot and doesn’t say much” but said it in a way where she knew that was him and loved him all the same. She knows grandpa is in heaven and is her angel forever. She misses him too.

It’s difficult to write everything I want to say.  So for now, I want to share what came from my heart this morning.

I’m an early riser just like Alex. And on the countless nights I spent in the Garden City home I would wake and make my way down the stairs to find Alex with a paper, glass of juice or coffee sitting in his chair or if it was nice out in the backyard. I would join him, and just sit with him.  There were times we didn’t even have to talk,  just sat there together and enjoyed each others company. He hummed a lot. I loved that. He made me feel a home away from home. He even would go so far as to do my laundry, wash and fold it, which of course I was mortified about but that’s besides the point. :)

He was a man who loved his family to the core and to the very end. He is the true definition of a family man. I was happy to have known him for some time before he got sick. I remember the Alex who smiled and laughed and loved.   The one who taught me how to play the infamous card game, rat fuck. The one who picked me up from Manhasset train station after work one day with a Heineken in a cup holder due to a terrible delayed commute on the LIRR. 

Some would say he was stern and tough and occasionally mean…he showed me love, kindness, and respect. He opened his home and heart to me…a 5’2 Chicago ice hockey girl. The one sport he said he never played or cared to watch but came to my games and cheered me on.

A lot changed after Alex got sick. Nothing was the same after that. He's the foundation to a wonderful family and I’m grateful to have been part of it for so many years . I love you Alex, Dad, Grandpa.

I have so much more I want to say, but for now, rest in peace.

One my early memories of Alex was on a visit to his Manhasset, Long Island, house when I was in high school with his brother Dick, so maybe the year before Alex came to Regis. The memory concerned a paperback novel of dubious literary distinction but clear biological interest for teens. I think Dick brought it out from some hiding place, and it could be that both he and Alex noted certain compelling passages. The story centered on a James Bond-type secret agent who was blessed/afflicted with priapism. The educational value here was obvious. First, I learned what priapism was. Then there were countless sexual euphemisms that also bolstered my vocabulary. Boys will be boys, but I suspect the Kimball girls were not unfamiliar with this special spy. 

Great writing aside, one of my lasting memories of Alex comes from a time when he patiently tried to introduce me to the game of golf. He and Dick had caddied and become quite good by their teens. I had played nothing beyond the usual rounds of putt-putt. So off we go, and Alex is explaining how to drive from a tee. As I recall, there were approximately 29 things to remember about stance and hips and arm position and swinging and keeping your head down and, oh yes, as an afterthought, after I had whiffed a few times, Alex said, of course, Jeff, you have to keep your eyes on the ball. My finest moment came when I heeled the ball so perfectly that it came away from the tee on a perpendicular line and hit the toe of my left shoe.  

Alex cruised from tee to tee, hole to hole, hitting one gorgeous shot after another, smiling his half-shy smile when I marveled and always encouraging me. But one drive put his ball in the rough, and with a broad, tall, leafy tree exactly between him and the flag. I stood with him as he studied the shot. I said it looked impossible to me. He said, no, not a problem. He said he would hook it around the tree. At this stage in my golf education, I thought hooking was a bad thing and something I seemed to do naturally and regularly, when I wasn't shanking. Alex not only hooked the ball around the tree, but he also managed to have the ball land where he said it would and right in line with the hole. 

Over the years I've had many occasions to be reminded of Alex. When I sing certain songs, when I see a basketball player launch a classy left-handed jump shot, and when I see a golfer do  what we mortals know to be impossible. And especially, perhaps, when someone plays down his or her talent or achievement and reacts to your admiration with something like that handsome, half-shy smile.