San Francisco Giants outfielder Drew Robinson’s remarkable second act

ON APRIL 16, 2020, Drew Robinson woke up, spread peanut butter on a cinnamon-raisin bagel, pulsed a green smoothie, sat at his kitchen table and finished writing a note that would explain to his family and friends why he had decided to end his life. He had spent the past month alone in his house, confined by the pandemic and quarantined in his own mind. He hated his life. He hated that no one knew how much he hated his life.

“I hope eventually that you guys will realize that no one could’ve seen this coming to prevent it because of how hard I try to hide it,” he wrote, “and that it’s no one else’s fault.”

He apologized — to Daiana, Darryl, Renee, Britney and Chad, the five people he loved the most. The ones who knew him best and still couldn’t see the sadness suffocating him. Even they believed the avatar Drew had created: a Major League Baseball player, handsome, charming, funny, with an easy laugh and a big smile. Drew was living his dream and wanting to die.

Guilt commingled with a sense of peace when he signed the letter: “I’m sorry. Drew Robinson.” Now he could get everything ready, tidy up the remnants of the last 27 years. He started to clean the house. He wanted the place to be spotless, as clean as when he moved in. His family would have enough problems after this. He wouldn’t burden them with another.

His final hours melted away. Around 5 p.m., Drew felt a rush of adrenaline. It was time.

He grabbed his handgun from the nightstand. He placed the note on the most visible place possible, the kitchen counter. He jumped into his truck, planning to drive to a nearby park where he had settled on doing it. But that felt wrong. He tried another location. He decided he didn’t want to die in his truck. He drove home.

Drew sat on his living room couch. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and then another. He stopped. He didn’t have an alcohol problem and didn’t want anyone to surmise otherwise. His thoughts crashed into one another — about what it would look like and whom it would affect and who would find him. He was alone, alone until the end. At about 8 p.m., in one uninterrupted motion, he leaned to the side, reached out to the coffee table, lifted the gun, pressed it against his right temple and pulled the trigger.