Sports fans in Michigan collectively mourned last week when former Detroit Tigers outfielder Jim Northrup died at the age of 71.

Northrup wasn’t a hero of mine, but my dad could probably tell you his batting average from the Tigers’ 1968 championship season. It was the next day that I would mourn the loss of one of the greatest athletes I knew. One of my sporting heroes.

My Uncle Kenny.

Uncle Kenny (far left) had four daughters, so he treated me (far right) and my brothers, Drew (blue shirt), and Tommy like the sons he never got the chance to beat.

You probably never knew my Uncle Kenny, aka Ken MacDonell, and his exploits in athletics didn’t make headlines, or the late night edition of SportsCenter. But make no mistake, the man was as fierce of a competitor as Michael Jordan, LeBron James or Tiger Woods could ever hope to be.

Last Thursday, Uncle Kenny lost a match with an opponent that always seems to play under its handicap and never needs any strokes, leukemia.

Uncle Kenny was a golfer and he always -- ALWAYS -- played to, or under, his handicap (+9). Years ago, he was at about +13, and then he “accidentally” severed his fingers in a home carpentry accident.

After the doctors sewed his fingers back on, there was less flexibility in two of his fingers, which somehow improved his grip on the golf club.

There were no witnesses to this accident and nothing to this day will convince me that he didn’t chop those fingers off to improve his handicap. If you ever golfed with Uncle Kenny, that statement doesn’t sound quite so absurd.

The ride to the course was always, a battle -- over strokes. He wanted to give less; I wanted him to give more. He’d play mind games, and my ego was his biggest ally.

He’d razz me for taking all the strokes I was owed. After fierce haggling, I’d sometimes concede, “Fine, let’s play straight up.”

Famous last words. He’d count the money he won on the ride home -- never more than a few bucks -- then he’d flip the stack of cash over and count it again.

He'd fly me and my brothers to St. Louis, put us up for the weekend, pay for our rounds of golf, then gloat over winning six bucks on a clutch putt on the 18th hole.

He had four daughters, so he treated us like the sons he never got the chance to beat. On the course, the man was a robot. Straight down the middle off the tee, never particularly long, stick the approach shot, then putt for birdie or par. Bogeys were a rarity.

One time I took a big risk, cut a corner over a hazard and drove the green on a par four. Uncle Kenny played the safe shot, laid up, and I ragged on him all the way to our shots.

“You’re away,” I sarcastically screamed to him from the green, right before he chipped in for eagle.

After I three-putted -- which Uncle Kenny NEVER did -- I got back in the cart as he wrote down the scores.

“Hey, Pete,” he said. “That was a really nice drive.”

I don't remember much about my first basketball game, but if Uncle Kenny was involved, I know one thing: it was "make it, take it."

Golf was his game, but Uncle Kenny’s lust for competition knew no end. One of my first memories is of Uncle Kenny teaching me to play basketball. I was about 3 years old and don’t remember much from the game itself. But if Uncle Kenny was involved, I can guarantee you this: that game was "make-it, take-it."

I once beat him 21-18 in a game of ping-pong, but he contested the winning point. Knowing he would never concede the argument, I set my paddle on the table and he proceeded to serve the ball. I’d let the ball pass; he’d count the point, walk around the table, pick up the ball and serve again.

He did this until the game was 23-21, his favor.

That was Uncle Kenny. A fighter to the last point, stroke, run or out. That’s why when the damned disease that took his life was so frustrating and unbelievable. How could Uncle Kenny not beat it? Uncle Kenny beats everything, right?

Until the very end, I thought cancer didn’t know who it was going up against. Leukemia would think it had won, and then he’d chip in for eagle. Leukemia would think the game was over and Uncle Kenny would pick up the ball and just keep serving.

But leukemia always seems to play under its handicap. Never needs any strokes.

It wasn’t long ago that I thought Uncle Kenny had leukemia licked. His first rounds of chemotherapy had gone reasonably well and when we golfed last summer, he seemed healthy as ever.

He showed me the port the doctors inserted in his shoulder for chemotherapy right before firing a sub-80 round. I was convinced the port had been strategically placed to help his backswing.

Having cancer didn’t suit Uncle Kenny well. He wasn’t the type who took well to sympathy. He was more Macho Man than Hulk Hogan. More Ty Cobb than Mickey Mantle. He relished in playing the villain. In competing.

One of the last conversations I ever had with Uncle Kenny was this April, on his 59th birthday. I had heard his condition was getting worse, but once I had him on the phone, I knew -- KNEW -- he would beat that damned disease.

All he wanted to talk about was getting back at me for the time I beat him last summer -- a rare occasion indeed.

Uncle Kenny: "Pete, I’m not giving you so many strokes next time. Set us up a tee time for the Saturday when I come in."

Me: "My wedding day?"

Uncle Kenny: "It’s an afternoon wedding, we can get 18 in."

I had every intention of making that tee time, but in the weeks that followed, his cancer spread and took his life. Even lying in his hospital bed, a few weeks ago, weak from treatments, he mustered the strength to ask about my golf game.

Because that’s who he was until the end: A great uncle, father, husband, grandpa, brother and golfer.

I know a lot of the time for articles like this, writers ask readers to contribute to cancer research, which you can do by following the link below. If you want my advice though, do what Uncle Kenny would do. Call someone you love, and take them golfing. Then take them for all they're worth.

Click here to learn more about what you can do in the fight against leukemia and lymphoma at www.lls.org.

Pete Cunningham covers sports for AnnArbor.com. He can be reached at petercunningham@annarbor.com or by phone at 734-623-2561. Follow him on Twitter @petcunningham.