We first met over 30 years ago and rarely saw each other since. When I spotted him in the front row of our church, I was eager to greet him.

Bruce was a developmentally disabled young adult working for the food service at Trinity Christian College, where I happened to be working at the time. He was a great conversationalist with a quirky sense of humor and a deep commitment to his work. He also took ownership of the place as if he was the CEO of the food service provider. Never shy, he was eager to offer suggestions for improving life at Trinity.

I was the Dean of Students, and Bruce would often corner me with opinions about which students needed “straightening out.” That might mean that someone ignored him or he saw someone cut in the line ahead of others. Not major crimes, but perhaps the start of aberrant behaviors.

The real food service manager saw us conversing one day and asked if the two of us might like to use their corporate tickets to an upcoming Chicago White Sox game at the then relatively new Comiskey Park, which opened at the start of the 1991 season. It’s gone through several corporate names since and is currently named Rate Field. Old Comiskey—or Cominskey as President Obama once called it—was torn down, and the new ballpark was a bright spot on the south side of Chicago.

Well, of course, we said yes and made plans for an upcoming night game.

The new ballpark was built to the west of the Dan Ryan Expressway directly across from the Robert Taylor Homes, a public housing high-rise to the east. From the upper deck of Comiskey one could look straight at the upper floors of the “projects.” Residents of the high-rise looked directly at the ballpark.

It didn’t take long before a racist rumor began to circulate that an easy rifle shot from the top floors of the Taylor homes could hit one of the unsuspecting fans in the upper deck of Comiskey.

That didn’t keep us from sitting right there on a cold Spring night at the start of the season. We were thrilled to be there, comparing the old worn park to this architectural revelation and marveling at how high up we were seated. Bruce stopped smiling only when eating his popcorn. Our seats faced the public housing high-rise.

About the third inning our section of the stadium heard a loud sound, something like an M-80 firecracker. Everyone, including the two of us, looked around to see what was happening, wondering, of course, if the racist rumor were true. The woman in the row in front of me turned to the man on her left and said, “Why did you do that?” And I noticed that blood was streaming from her right thigh. Nearby security, locating the sound in our section, rushed down, saw the sight, and one of the guards said, “Frisk the guy.” And then the circus began.

Soon the guards surrounded the suspect, pulling his hand and a gun from his jacket pocket. He gripped his gun, the guards gripped his hand and arm, and now the combined hands and arms danced a circle in the air, with the gun waving, still in the shooter’s grasp. 

Naturally, most of us ducked as the gun circled, except for Bruce. He was making his escape running into the next section of seats. And I gave chase, catching him, and together we watched the shooter being escorted out of the section while first aid was given to the woman.

Later in the game security guards came to our section and ushered those of us considered witnesses to a small Chicago Police Station located in the depths of the stadium. They were looking for witness descriptions of the event. When it came to our turn, Bruce went first. He was very eager to describe the incident. I could tell he hoped this adventure would end up on some crime show and he would be an instant star. I sat nearby, within earshot.

“Yep, I saw it all.” Bruce was warming up. “It was a silver handled Colt .45, like they use on Maverick. The guy was polishing it instead of watching the game.” The cop had doubt written all over his face. “And when he shot the lady, he blew at the tip of the gun like it was a candle, you know how they do. But I didn’t see his holster.”

I had a hard time restraining my laugh, but not restraining my smile, which the cop noticed. I waved him over and told him a bit about Bruce so he could understand Bruce’s enthusiastic description. So, he went back to Bruce and gave him a pat on the back, thanking him for his valuable testimony.

Bruce was living with his parents at the time. I thought I better call them from a pay phone at the stadium. I imagined that Bruce might expand the story significantly by the time he came home. I assured them he was safe the whole time and that the man did not shoot his friend with a howitzer.

The next day the Chicago Tribune account of the event said that an off-duty Marine, fidgeting with the gun while warming his hands in his coat pocket, accidentally discharged his weapon, injuring his fiancé. It did not speculate as to the nature of their future together.

Decades passed, and then I saw Bruce at church. It was “Kickoff Sunday” when the usual church activities resumed, and we anticipated visitors from the neighborhood. All members wore name tags. Guests wore them as well.

When the time came for us to greet each other, after the call to worship and after the greeting from God, I went to the front row to greet Bruce. He was seated with other members of his group home. He, like me, had aged since the days at Trinity and the night at the Sox game.

I reached out to shake his hand. We both smiled at the reunion. Bruce spotted my name tag, and without missing a beat, said with great confidence, “Dave Larsen, I thought you’d be in heaven by now!” 

And in that moment, in church, hearing his voice and seeing his smile, while I laughed and laughed, I thought it was heaven enough, for now.