I was shocked when I saw George Morgan at the U.S. Open Tennis tournament in New York last week.

One, because I didn’t peg George for a tennis fan.

And two, because George is dead.

He passed away a few days after Christmas in 2022. He was 88.

I have several fond memories of “Mr. Morgan,” as we called him when he coached in the Pittston Little League. One is the day when as a goofy little kid of about 8 years old, I came walking around the press box with a big smile on my face (for what reason I have no idea) and Mr. Morgan threw his arms around me in a warm hug and said, “Why are you smiling like that?”

I was a lousy player but a good smiler, and it felt good that a coach not only recognized this but seemed to appreciate it.

That was more than 65 years ago, and I obviously never forgot it.

“Seeing” him at the Open sent me off in a delightful reverie about that moment. Even though it was not George Morgan I saw.

The guy sure looked like him at first. But when I took another glance, I realized he didn’t resemble George all that much.

This should have come as a surprise. But it didn’t. See, this is just the latest episode in a series of phenomena that began about five years ago, and I have yet to figure out.

A while back, as I sat down to compose yet another eulogy, I found myself writing: “That little kid in ‘The Sixth Sense’ movie sees dead people. I write about them.”

I thought it was clever but as time went on, I began to see it as somewhat flippant and felt bad about it. While I’ve written several eulogies since, I never again made that disrespectful, as I saw it, statement.

Then, something happened. While I continued to occasionally write about dead people, I too started seeing them.

It always goes the same. I see someone I know. I get excited and look forward to talking with them. Then it dawns on me that they are no longer with us. (I may have even attended their funeral.) I look again and the person bears little or no resemblance to the person I took them for. It leaves me a little sad and more than a little bewildered.

Until today, I’ve told few people about this.

The first time it happened was in 2021 when I saw Jerry Allardyce at Planet Fitness. This was about a year after he died. I had always been drawn to his kindly face and took a few steps toward him before he stopped looking like Mr. Allardyce. I’ve had amble opportunities since to tell his son, Dr. Tom Allardyce, about this but never did. I hope hearing it pleases him.

I’ve seen others at Planet Fitness, months and often years after they passed. I’m not sure any of them frequented Plant Fitness when alive, but it doesn’t matter. I see them and almost just as quickly don’t. Jimmy Deice comes to mind. And Mark Rostkowski (No, it wasn’t his twin brother Mike. I know the difference), and Donald “Butch” Searfoss, former owner of LaBarre’s Printing in West Pittston, who died before Planet Fitness opened.

I did happen to see one such person in a place where he truly belonged … if he were still alive. I attended a funeral at St. Barbara’s Church, the former St. Anthony’s, in Exeter, and as I waited for Mass to begin, I spotted Father Michael Finn walking down the side aisle. “Why is he not on the altar?” I thought. “And why is he not wearing his vestments?”

The answer was clear. It wasn’t him.

I never know when or where I am going to see someone back from the dead for just a second or two. Sheila McGarry in the parking lot at Minooka Pastry Shop. I even waved before she didn’t look like Sheila anymore. And my old friend Joe Leone at the Grande Restaurant. Could have sworn it was him.

As I said, I don’t know what to make of this. The only thing I can come up with is that by showing themselves ever so briefly in this unsettling yet somehow comforting fashion, is the departed’s way of saying, “Don’t worry about me. I am fine.”

I sure want that to be the case.

In fact, I’m going to say it is.

So, if after I leave this earth, you should happen to see my face in another’s, please remember this column, and know wherever I am, I am telling you my soul is at peace.

And maybe enjoying a warm hug from George Morgan.

Ed Ackerman writes The Optimist every Sunday.