Good times had knack for following good guy Brian Hilderbrand

He was such a fixture at Las Vegas Motor Speedway they gave him space No. 1 in the media parking lot. Then when Brian Hilderbrand took a position in the LVMS public relations department before last year’s NASCAR weekend, I inherited his parking spot.

Brian swore he had nothing to do with it. Maybe he didn’t. This year my parking space is No. 92.

Brian Hilderbrand was an outstanding auto racing writer, and before that he was an outstanding baseball writer. Before that he was the best man at my wedding. Know this: The man could throw a hell of a bachelor party.

There are too many stories to tell here. About that night, about a lot of nights. Many have pictures. Somewhere in a shoebox in a closet there’s one of Brian and me and Max Baer Jr. Jethro draped one arm around Brian’s shoulder, the other around mine. He may have mentioned Elly May, or these sisters who sort of looked like her. Click.

We always talked about turning that picture into a Christmas card, but we never did.

There were lots of things we talked about doing but never did. Such as going to Tijuana, Mexico, on short notice. This conversation usually occurred toward the end of happy hour. Sometimes there would be other people at the table. No problemo, we’d say. We’ll rent a van.

We talked about playing catch, like one does with his old man when one is young. And then one day it actually happened. It was the only time I used the new fielder’s glove I had purchased on the Internet.

Brian wore a first baseman’s mitt.

Playing catch is easy when you’re a kid. When you’re 50 and need graduated lenses, it can be a challenge.

Eventually we got the hang of it, though, and then some moms, much younger and attractive than the ones of our youth, showed up at the park with their little ones. Brian and I raised an eyebrow. We vowed to play catch at the park more often.

Then we started showing off, throwing curveballs and stuff.

The young moms didn’t seem all that impressed, however, and by then the White Sox and Rays were limbering up for a playoff game. There was a bar around the corner. The next thing you knew, it was the bottom of the eighth and we were talking about renting a van and driving to Tijuana.

I saw Brian at the speedway on Jan. 19 when some of the NASCAR drivers were in town to test tires and work on their setups. He asked if he could borrow my truck. He wanted to haul some stuff to the dump.

Sure, I said. Let’s do it on a weekend. I’ll go with you. I think there’s a bar just around the corner from the waste disposal station.

The next time I saw him was Jan. 27. It wasn’t a weekend. It was a Tuesday morning. Paramedics were carrying Brian from his home on a gurney.

He had suffered a massive stroke.

Brian Hilderbrand died Wednesday.

He was 55 years old.

A few hours later, a couple of us were at his place, rummaging through his things. We helped ourselves to multiple bottles of Coors that were in his refrigerator. We left what was in the pizza box.

We had gone over there to find a will or a trust or anything else that seems important at a time like this.

We mostly found photographs and memories. Like in that old Jim Croce song.

As I was leaving, I opened the door in his kitchen that led to the garage.

My pal Brian’s first baseman’s mitt was hanging from a hook on a work bench. It appeared it needed oiling.

Las Vegas Review-Journal sports columnist Ron Kantowski can be reached at rkantowski@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0352. Follow him on Twitter: @ronkantowski.