John Wylde died Monday.

To the mainstream baseball fan or the corporate executive at the game’s highest level, the name might not resonate or mean much. But to the many of us who knew John, who truly love and appreciate baseball for the sport it is and not the business it has become, John Wylde was one of a kind.

I’ve come to know some special people in baseball, at all levels, through my own involvement in the game, and John’s flame burned as bright as anyone’s. The flame went out early Monday morning, as John quietly succumbed to a long and heroic battle with cancer. He was 70.

Gone he is, but the respect and admiration he earned from those of us who had the good fortune to know him, who sincerely appreciated his quiet and unassuming manner, and his deep and uncompromised passion for baseball, will linger on in our memory of him. He was a giant among us—both literally and figuratively. He was all of 6-foot-9 but in every way a gentle giant.

I knew John for the better part of 30 years—or pretty much ever since he purchased the old Howe News Bureau, then the official statistician for most of the leagues in minor league baseball (and even the American League, until a short time before), and relocated it from Chicago to his family’s steamship company office in Boston. I had just started Baseball America, and launched the first few issues of the publication from the garage of my home in British Columbia, Canada.

Though we were both relatively new to baseball and grew up a country and some 3,000 miles apart, it was apparent immediately that baseball was a universal language, that John and I shared the same passion for baseball. And it was mostly in areas of the game that didn’t generate much mainstream interest at the time, like the minor leagues and summer baseball.

In the process of relocating Baseball America to its current home in Durham, N.C., in 1982, John and I—and Miles Wolff, who eventually purchased a majority interest in Baseball America that paved the way for me to move with it—explored ways of doing some potential joint ventures with our young, emerging baseball companies.

We even looked seriously at joining forces by merging Baseball America and Howe News Bureau, and while that never came to pass John nonetheless played a critical role in Baseball America’s evolution as it was in his living room in his home on Cape Cod, in September of 1982, that the name Baseball America came to be. Prior to that meeting with John, Miles and I, the publication had been known as All-America Baseball News.

But we all agreed that the original title was long and unwieldy, and would be better served by condensing it. We bounced a number of names around before settling on Baseball America, an adaptation of the original name, and the name change coincided with the publication’s move from Canada to the Carolinas.

While John eventually sold Howe News Bureau along with his family’s steamship company, his passion for baseball only escalated. His focus became his hometown Wareham Gatemen of the Cape Cod League, and his beloved Gatemen became John’s life mission for the next 25 years as his involvement evolved from fan, to sponsor, to treasurer, to president and general manager. He also served the Cape League in a variety of ways, some undefined, but most notably as head statistician and official scorer, official try-out coordinator, liaison with Major League Baseball and record-keeper.

In looking back, it’s safe to say that the Gatemen franchise would have died long before John’s unfortunate passing had it not been for his tireless involvement. He not only poured his heart and soul into the franchise, but hundreds of thousands of dollars out of his own pocket (a conservative estimate)—with no expectation of a return on his investment—enabling it to stay afloat initially, and thrive in later years.

He was the driving force behind the annual upgrading of the team’s playing facility at Spillane Field on the Wareham High School campus, and in establishing the high standard for the Cape Cod League that soon enabled it to become the nation’s signature summer college league.

But the Wareham Gatemen was never all about John Wylde. In his mind, it was all about the unique and extraordinary opportunity that playing for the Gatemen each summer provided hundreds of the nation’s best college baseball players through the years—all in their pursuit of a dream to play in the big leagues. All John ever took from the experience was the sheer enjoyment he got from watching the game played at a high level—night after night, in its purest form, unencumbered by the largesse and greed that has consumed the game in other arenas.

In keeping with John’s fixation for baseball statistics and his desire to remain out of the limelight, he was a fixture in the press box at Spillane Field each night, meticulously keeping score while serving as the Voice of the Gatemen on the stadium’s PA system. The voice of this Harvard-educated man, who once was a renowned tennis player and hockey goaltender (imagine that, a 6-foot-9 goalie), was as much distinct as it was eloquent. The respect he had for the game resonated in his voice.

It was only appropriate that John’s place of choice to watch his Gatemen was officially named the John Wylde Press Box. That occurred when the Cape League honored John on Opening Day last year for his 25-year involvement with and dedication to the league.

I maintained a special contact with John through the 25 years I was at Baseball America, and made a specific point of taking in a Gatemen game with him last July, in his press box. It was apparent then, as he struggled to keep his customary diligent scorebook—all the while eating his standard, unwavering fare of two hot dogs per game—that the liver cancer that was discovered less than a year earlier and that would eventually take his life, had taken a significant toll on him. He was very emotional as he knew his time was at hand, and yet was so thankful that he had been granted his one wish to live through one more Cape Cod League season.

He was also incredibly thankful for the joy that baseball had brought him through the years, and my lasting image of John will be when he turned to me, looked me square in the eyes, measured his thoughts for a couple of seconds, and uttered simply, “God, I just love baseball.” The tears then started welling up in his eyes.

John and his wife Patty had no children, and John’s will has generously provided for the Gatemen franchise to live on without their beloved leader.

So long, John. Those among us, who, like you, truly love baseball for the right reasons, for the purity and sanctity of the game, will sorely miss you.