Darryl Kile had spent most of his life playing baseball, hanging out at the park, spitting seeds in the dugout on the days he wasn't pitching, calling his wife and kids from the hotel room while on the road.

Maybe he called them Friday night. I hope he did.

Kile probably didn't start playing baseball to become a big leaguer. Maybe like the rest of us who enjoyed the game in grade school he liked the feel of the leather around his fingers, or the sweetness of a line drive up the middle, or just adjusting your cap on a sunny day. But at some point he realized he had a special gift. He developed that devastating curveball of his, that 12-to-6 hook that buckled batters' knees, a pitch that helped him become a three-time All-Star, throw a no-hitter, win 20 games, pitch in the playoffs.

Darryl Kile was 33 years old. He won 133 games in the major leagues.

I'm the same age as Kile. Like him, I've spent a lot of days and a lot of hours with baseball -- playing it as a kid, reading books and books, going to games and, now, being lucky enough to be a baseball editor. Thirty-three years old. It strikes a little blow through my veins.

My path crossed just once with Kile. It was during a spring training game in Arizona, during his first year with the Rockies in 1998. Kile had signed with the Rockies as a free agent for some big money, coming off the best year of his career with the Astros in 1997, when he won 19 games.

The Rockies play in Denver, and the high altitude makes it difficult to pitch there, especially if you rely on throwing curveballs; they just don't break as much up there. So there was a lot of speculation about how Kile would perform with the Rockies.

On this day, the Padres roughed him up. It was midway through spring training and Kile hadn't been pitching well; in particular, he was having trouble throwing his curveball for strikes, which wasn't exactly good news for somebody who would have to pitch half his games at Coors Field.

In spring training, the starting pitcher doesn't have to wait around for the game to finish, so the media is allowed to go into the clubhouse to interview him. Since the game is still going on, the clubhouse is quiet and empty.

I remember Kile sitting in a little folding chair -- in the middle of the room instead of next to his locker. He was wearing a gray Rockies T-shirt, a packet of ice wrapped around his right shoulder, sipping from a bottle of water.

He didn't look happy. It may have been just a spring training game, but pitchers don't like to get beat at any time. Kile patiently answered questions about his curveball, how he was coming along, if he was looking forward to pitching in Coors Field.

He probably wanted to go home, maybe hit the golf course for a quick round. But he sat on that chair in his sweat-soaked shirt, talking baseball, saying he wasn't concerned yet, that he would be fine.

Darryl Kile never did find the feel on his curveball that year and led the league in losses. He was even worse the next season. But throughout his two years of struggles, you never heard Kile complaining, never heard him blame his troubles on Coors Field.

Kile was traded to St. Louis and returned to being one of baseball's top pitchers. He won 20 games in 2000 and 16 last season. Cardinals manager Tony La Russa described Kile as being "very noble and a leader on our ballclub" in an interview on Fox television.

Thirty-three years old. As La Russa said, "You can have someone smarter than me explain it, because I don't understand it."

You can never explain these things. You can't attempt to. And while I didn't know Darryl Kile, I know this: that was a beautiful gift he had.

David Schoenfield is the baseball editor at ESPN.com.