People: An extraordinary ordinary man: Glenn Raggio tells of his longtime friend and fellow officer Andy Kline People: An extraordinary ordinary man: Glenn Raggio tells of his longtime friend and fellow officer Andy Kline (November 23, 2005)

By Glenn Raggio

San Mateo County sheriff's deputy

I had hoped that by being a pallbearer and by addressing those assembled at Andy Kline's funeral, I would find closure and a chance to say goodbye, officially and not.

I realized a few days ago, however, when, purely out of habit, I inadvertently dialed his phone number, that it would be easier to say goodbye to my shadow. Our friendship spanned over three decades. We were family.

I was the first man Andy called with any remarkable (or unremarkable) minutiae. Andy loved the phone. He loved communication. It was his way of waxing the friendship -- keeping it shiny, clean and current -- and it was a passion, I might add, that didn't wane even in the 11th hour of his final fight.

I loved Andy Kline. I'm not sure you ever really understand the measure of friendships that prosper for so many years. Such friends are present right behind your eyes, looking out with you at the world, commenting, laughing, and inspiring. The challenges you face are always halved, the grief and disappointments absorbed by two. Such is the wonderful relationship of best friends.

Andy grew up in Menlo Park. Few people know that he was a tennis player, a photographer, a coin collector, and a trivia buff who was enamored by anything on television during the 1960s.

He must have been brought up on reruns, because he was too young in many cases to have been there for the original shows. He also must have not missed a one, because his recall was 20/20 on shows I had long since forgotten.

I was nine years his senior, and his perfect recall worried me not a little. Was I just not paying attention? Were my brain cells atrophying at an accelerated rate?

A late night knock and Andy was at my door, rushing in to show me a "McHale's Navy" outtake. My annoyance gave way to hysterical laughter and my guest left without saying a word.

Our laughter was always ridiculously loud and high-pitched --whatever comes after falsetto and causes wine glasses to break. We cried in laughter more times than I can count.

When Andy called to tell me he had discovered a way to save hundreds of dollars on haircuts by using my vacuum cleaner and a thing called a Floeby, I had a stomachache for days from laughing so hard.

When he called me -- over and over and over again -- on my new car phone, I advised him that this was costing a fortune, that nothing had happened in the last five minutes since he had called the last time. I finally answered the phone by saying, "Andy, I can't talk to you right now -- I'm expecting a phone call from you any minute," and I hung up, convulsed in laughter.

Andy's courage in becoming a police officer is not a well-known story today. Today you would think he had been born with that badge and gun. Fact is, his limited life experience, his shy and timid demeanor, were considerable obstacles. It took more than a few tries, but Andy adapted. The lessons he learned in conquering his shyness, and his ability to adjust to some violent realities, served him throughout this career, his life.

Andy was a dedicated police officer. He knew his penal code and was the person other cops went to when they needed someone who was right on point about the law.

His demeanor rarely changed with circumstances on the street. He kept his head. He directed his men well when he later became a sergeant, and his priority was to keep them safe.

He was absent any maliciousness or ill motive. His ability to be tolerant of others and their opinions was famous. A graduate of the former Ravenswood High School, he came across many of his classmates during the course of his career. They couldn't believe the thin, timid, and all-too-quiet Kline had graduated to another level.

When Andy met Rebecca, my phone went on vacation. Now I was calling him to see if he was OK. He'd say: "Hey ... no, no, nothing's wrong." (You had to prod when it came to girlfriends.)

"Well ... actually, I met someone. The someone, I think. ..."

And she was the someone. I was proud to serve as his best man.

Rebecca was a medic who wanted to be a cop in Palo Alto. Andy was on board and that was all she needed. Palo Alto got lucky. When they both made sergeant, I thought the story was almost a bit too much. I now think all that success came early because the ending was to be premature.

And so began a dual love affair -- with his wife and his career -- that never ended, never dimmed. When Andy was accused of not having a life, he'd shrug and smile. On one occasion when I was the accuser, he smiled and said: "Glenn, I have all I want in life. I have all I need.

And so I came to understand a remarkable man a bit better. His life was an active, ongoing celebration of what he had. As I said at his funeral, work was caviar for Andy, and going home was champagne.

His ability to be grateful every day of his life for what he had was a gift I only wish I could own.

He was the most contented human I have ever met -- save those times when he came to the end of the contents of his Junior Mints box, leading to a furrowed brow, a quickly crushed box, and a direct route to the store. An addiction to be sure. How many times did I see him close one eye and look dolefully down that thin box.

During my career I took chances; some were risky, others less so. I basked in risk-reward and considered myself fortunate and even "heroic" after a good arrest or chase.

But I have learned something about heroism. While some take risks, there are others who face certainties. They know the outcome, they face the abyss.

That timid and shy young man I once knew possessed more courage in his last months than anyone I've known. His attention was always directed out, not in.

Even when we both knew he was dying, he insisted on talking about tomorrow. He was a man of uncommon courage, the kind of bravery you hope to own if you ever have to face the unthinkable.

Sharing these past 33 years with Andy Kline has been a lesson in tolerance, gratitude, and appreciation. I have been taught by an extraordinary ordinary man who wanted nothing more than what he earned. I will miss Andy Kline.
EDITORíS NOTE

Sgt. Andrew Maurice "Andy" Kline of Menlo Park, who served on the Menlo Park police force for 23 years, died November 2 after a year-long battle with cancer. He was 47. The author is his longtime friend Glenn Raggio, an officer with the Menlo Park Police Department for many years and now a deputy with the San Mateo County Sheriffís Office.

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