My closest childhood friend died unexpectedly last week.

We were much more than just childhood friends, though.

We were brothers.

We were born on the same day, just hours apart. That's how our parents met. Jimmy's mother and my mother were both in excruciating labor together in the same Cleveland hospital room. They struck up an immediate friendship through the pain of the contractions.

A few years later, our families moved to the same small town and lived just a block away from each other.

Growing up, Jimmy and I were inseparable.

We developed an early love of sports. We played for hours in the backyard — football, baseball, kickball, you name it. We collected football and baseball cards. We rooted for the same professional teams.

It became apparent early on that Jimmy was going to be an amazing athlete.

He was bigger. Faster. Stronger. Had an electric arm. As we grew older, he soared past me in every athletic endeavor.

Jimmy was the star on our Little League teams. No one could hit him.

I'd take batting practice against him and never get close to touching his fastball, which looked like a Nolan Ryan heater to me; it was just a blur.

Jimmy always encouraged me — and never took it easy on me.

He'd hit grounders as hard as he could at me and I had the bruises to prove it. He never grooved one in to me while I was batting against him.

That's what made it so special when I finally did connect. He was more excited about it than I was.

He was a great friend. He was a great brother.

But, sadly, we drifted apart. His family moved not long after we turned 10. We'd visit them often, but it wasn't the same.

I heard about his athletic exploits in high school. The shutouts he threw. The no-hitters.

He was a bulldog on the mound — I always called him Rocket because he had that Roger Clemens mentality on the hill. He always had a swagger and an edge, which probably was what made him such a great athlete.

Jimmy was the darling of Division I scouts, getting numerous offers. He was also a straight-A student.

Jimmy could have punched his ticket anywhere he wanted to go, but he had other ideas.

He fell in love with landscaping and he wanted to do that for a living, so he said no to all of those opportunities and didn't go to college.

No one understood.

I did.

Jimmy always knew what he wanted and went for it, never letting anyone tell him what he couldn't do.

The last time I really spoke with him at length was at his wedding 25 years ago — as I said, we drifted apart.

I kept track of him on Facebook for awhile. I knew he was still involved in baseball, coaching his son's teams. I knew he loved the Cleveland Browns (no one is perfect) and still loved what he did for a living.

When I heard he had died suddenly of a massive heart attack while doing what he loved, it hit me hard. I couldn't believe it.

I wished I would have called him, reconnected with him.

It's too late now. If anything these uncertain times have taught us is not to take anything for granted.

Mike Kilroy is a staff writer for the Butler Eagle.