Joseph "Joe B, Coach B, Pops" Paul Byrum

I first met Joe over thirty years ago, back in our Little League All-Stars days. I’ll be honest—I didn’t even remember it until our freshman summer, when football practice started and Joe was the one who reminded me. From then on, we became part of a tight-knit crew—a group of friends who moved between many homes, many dinner tables, and many sets of “parents” who took us in as their own throughout high school. Those houses, those kitchens, and those late nights were where our brotherhood was forged. After graduation, life pulled us in different directions, as it always does. Yet no matter how far we went or how much time passed, whenever we came home for holidays or random weekends, we picked up right where we left off. That was one of Joe’s gifts—he made time and distance feel small. You could go months without seeing him, and within minutes of being together, it felt like you were right back in those old familiar places. Over more than three decades, Joe and I stayed connected through texts, phone calls, and countless conversations about the Dodgers, our families, and coaching. Every time I came back home, I knew without question that we’d find a way to see each other. When I left the military and bought my house in Ventura, I called Joe and asked if he could come show me how to tile. He didn’t just come once—he kept coming back, again and again, until every renovation was finished. That was who Joe was: faithful, steady, and always willing to roll up his sleeves and help. While Joe was going through treatment, I just so happened to be off work recovering from quad repair surgery. We talked often, checking in on each other’s progress. During that time, I found an old all-black Kershaw A2000 glove. When I showed it to Joe, he suggested I re-lace it with Dodger blue leather. I went with his idea, and it turned out amazing—the glove has now become my everyday gamer. But more than talking about gloves, we talked about life. We told each other what our friendship meant, how much we missed one another, and how much simpler life felt when we were teenagers. From that point on, every conversation ended with an “I love you.” I’ll always be grateful we said those words to each other while we still could. It’s only fitting that Joe first came into my life on the baseball field, and now the glove he helped design goes with me onto the field every day as I teach my daughters their own life lessons through the game. Joe was a coach and a mentor to so many young athletes, and his impact cannot be measured. He didn’t just teach skills—he shaped character, work ethic, and resilience. He cared about who his players were becoming off the field just as much as what they did on it. Watching him coach, I learned more than he probably realized—about leadership, patience, and how to pour into the next generation. Back in high school, Joe used to talk about JJ and his career as a firefighter. Those conversations planted a seed in me that I didn’t recognize at the time. Today, after more than twenty-seven years as a firefighter myself, I can say Joe’s influence was a big part of why I chose this path. The irony is, even now, I’ll admit that Joe probably still knew more about fire behavior than I do—and I’m a Chief Officer. That mix of humility, humor, and quiet knowledge was simply who he was. For those of us lucky enough to call him friend, we carry countless memories—some we can share, and some that will always stay between us and Joe. There were long talks, hard times, big laughs, and moments that shaped who we became as men. Through it all, Joe was constant: loyal, genuine, and full of heart. In his final battle, Joe fought the way only he could—hard, determined, and with a courage that mirrored the life he led. He showed us what it truly means to face adversity with grit and grace. His legacy lives on in the athletes he coached, the friends he stood by, and the family he loved beyond measure. If there’s one lesson Joe would want us to take from his life, it’s this: don’t wait. Let people know how they’ve impacted your life. Tell them what they mean to you. Don’t wait for moments like this to bring you back together, and don’t let the only time those words are spoken be when they can’t reply. Say it now—while you can still hear their voice on the other end of the line. Joe, my friend, my brother—thank you. I am a better man for having had you in my life. We will carry your stories, your lessons, and your love with us always. Rest easy, Joe B. #99, forever in our hearts.