He Made Good on His Life After losing part of his hand and a chance at professional baseball, Frank Pramesa spent the next 72 years proving a dream can end without ending a life. We sat comfortably in a booth at the local Panera Bread, sharing a late lunch. It was kind of ironic that we both shared the same first name. Amy Pramesa and I connected through my speaking and writing. She was especially drawn to my latest book, Everyday Resilience, where I share essays and reflection questions about identity, grief, and the relentless pursuit of never giving up. Amy P. and I were meeting so I could learn the details of her father Frank’s inspiring story—one I’m honored to share with you today. Frank Pramesa was not an ordinary man. He was an extraordinary man living an ordinary life. I’m grateful to have been given permission to share exactly how special he was and why his story resonated so deeply with me. Like so many people who dared to dream, Frank imagined a life like his older brother John, who played eight years of professional baseball for the Cincinnati Reds and the Chicago Cubs. And for all of John’s success, most people said Frank was even more talented at baseball. Frank, in his humble and modest way, always said John was the better athlete. After graduating from Wheeling Central Catholic High School, Frank was drafted to play professional baseball. He was well on his way to realizing his dream when, a little over a month before he was to join the team, a press fell on his right hand and crushed his fingers and part of his hand while he was working in the steel mill. Frank was rushed to the hospital, where his sister Betty , who was studying to be a nurse, met him in the emergency room. Frank’s parents didn’t have a car, and according to Amy P., his father was in shock after learning about the accident. Betty’s nursing background came in extremely handy that day. The surgeon told her they needed permission to amputate Frank’s hand at the wrist. Betty said, “You can cut the rest of his fingers off and cut off part of his hand, but leave the thumb. He will make use of it.” Even though doctors back then didn’t take kindly to being challenged, for some reason they listened to Betty. On that day in 1950, they removed Frank’s fingers and part of his hand. And with them went a dream he had spent years earning the opportunity to pursue. When Amy P. first told me her father’s story, I immediately became curious about how he managed to recover—not only from losing part of a limb, but from losing a life-changing opportunity that few people ever get the chance to experience. I hadn’t experienced the loss of a limb, but I had experienced the complete disruption of my life. I understood deeply what it was like to dare to dream and then have your life completely blown up with little warning. So I asked Amy, “How did your dad handle this devastation?” Frank’s father, known as Pap, was a coal miner. He was tough and resilient himself—a trait that seems to have permeated generations of the Premesa family. Amy answered, “Pap told my dad you have two choices. Number one—you can lay down and die. Or number two—you can make good of yourself.” After everyone’s initial shock, there was no pity party for Frank. And throughout his life, he embraced the notion that no one should feel sorry for him. As someone who speaks and writes about resilience, I couldn’t help but recognize in Frank the same principles I’ve come to describe through my resilience C.A.P. framework: Continue. Adapt. Perspective. Frank continued by enrolling at West Liberty and completing two years before deciding college wasn’t for him. He adapted by learning how to play baseball with his left hand and played for the Warwood Reds. And perhaps most remarkably, he found perspective. People asked him on multiple occasions, “Were you mad at the world?” Frank would reply, “Why be mad at the world? It’s not the world’s fault. It was an accident.” Frank had the sheer determination to do exactly what Pap had offered as the alternative. He made good on his life. He married his sweetheart, Marilyn, and they had three children. According to Amy, Frank treated Marilyn like a queen. Frank lived his life as a highly principled man. “My dad had high morals, was positive, competitive, and always for the underdog,” Amy told me. She followed that with something even more telling: “If everyone treated spouses like my dad, there would be no problems.” Frank coached baseball for years. He learned how to play golf—and regularly beat guys with two hands. His message to them was simple: “You guys can’t beat a one-handed golfer.” Frank was pretty proud of that fact. I asked Amy where she saw her dad in her own life. “His positivity and competitiveness,” she replied. After learning more about Amy, I saw his morals, values, and incredible resilience in her as well. Frank’s philosophy was something of a master class in resilience. He believed that regardless of what was thrown at you, you could succeed. There was always a solution to a problem, although sometimes you had to look hard to find it. He believed in giving something your all or not doing it at all. And he often said, “The cream is always gonna rise to the top.” As I sat there listening to Amy P., I told her, “I really wish I could have met your father. But his spirit definitely lives on in you.” We both had tears in our eyes. It was a moment of shared grief. Frank once told his family, “When I’m 90, I’ll close my eyes.” Frank turned 90 years old on February 1, 2022. He died six days later, on February 7. Marilyn told her family she would die within a year of Frank. She died the following year, in 2023. Frank’s story is an extraordinary story of resilience, acceptance, faith, and the relentless proof that even when life hands us incredibly difficult blows, if we persist, we may discover that our lives can still be full despite the obstacles we face. I do wish I’d met Frank. But after hearing his story, I see that his life and legacy live on in his daughter Amy P. and, from everything she shared with me, in his grandson Owen. Amy P. and I first connected when I learned that Owen, who is nine years old at the time of this writing, is an avid baseball fan. He wants to be like his Pap. I happened to have a collection of baseball cards from the 1970s that I had kept since I was a kid. They needed a home. They found Owen. Owen’s mom, Brittany—Amy’s daughter—recently took him to a Chicago Cubs baseball game. Owen looked out at the field and asked, “Do you think that’s the same home plate Uncle John played with?” His question gave me chills. Maybe that’s part of the proof that our loved ones who have passed live on in the stories we tell, the moments we share with one another, and the connections we make—often unexpectedly. Amy P. and I ended our conversation with both of us a little choked up as we shared a moment of grief, missing our parents and missing their love. I told her I’m still driving my way through grief. Just not literally anymore. Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed Beyond the Arc today, might you consider subscribing? Thanks for reading Beyond the Arc: Reflections on Resilience, Identity, & Life! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit byamygamble.substack.com
