Fathers, Sons and Baseball

With the beginning of every baseball season comes memories of my late Father, who loved two things more than anything else: my Mother, and the Atlanta Braves.

After watching the Braves play last week, I was hit once again with one of those times where I wanted to talk to him about the beginning of another season. Of course, those phone conversations were challenging. He had a way of talking about a player, but getting the name slightly wrong. “You know that Andrew Young (Andrew Jones) in the minors is going to be the best centerfielder in the game one day.” “I hope they find a spot for that Ryan Kelso (Ryan Klesko) since he can really hit.” And of course, the biggie, “If we can get Terry Pennington (Terry Pendleton) to hit like he did in 1991, we might win the Series this year.”

Dad passed in 1996, just a few months after his beloved Braves won the World Series. His passing reminded me of other perfect finishes in the game he loved, like Ted Williams hitting a home run in his last at bat, or Cal Ripken going deep the night he broke Lou Gehrig’s all-time consecutive games played streak. After years of last place finishes, which never shook Dad’s love for his team, he left this world at the right time.

The first game my Dad ever took me to was in 1973 in old Tiger Stadium as Detroit played Cleveland. He had a few PBR’s on the way to the park, and sure enough, around the third or fourth inning, Tiger infielder Dick McAuliffe hit a deep drive into the left field seats. Dad saw the ball, leaned forward to catch the souvenir, but unfortunately, all he caught was the next few rows of seats below us. He spent the next few innings buying concession items for the people below us who had their food squashed or spilled by his sprawling body tumbling down the seats.

Dad passed down his love and passion for the game to me, just as his father did for him. Years later I found out Grandpa loved baseball, just as much as he liked to sip the barley at the stadium. The first game he ever took my father to went down to the ninth inning when his hero, Hank Greenberg, hit a two strike pitch into the center field bleachers for a Tiger win. As the custom of the times, fans threw their straw hats on the field, like Frisbees, and Gramps was no exception as he got caught up in the moment. When they got home, Grandma asked what had happened to his hat, and when she smelled the beer on his breath, she pieced it together since that wasn’t his first rodeo at Tiger Stadium. He spent the next few nights on the couch.

Dad taught me about the finer points of the game, as far as strategy and ability were concerned. He also taught me how important it is to show class when a player on the opposing team makes a great play. He was in the seats one afternoon at Ebbets Field when Cardinals Hall of Famer, Stan Musial, was given a standing ovation by the Brooklyn fans after he personally crushed their Dodgers with his hitting and fielding. Sometimes, especially later in his life, he would tear up when he would tell me stories of going to games with Grandpa, or when he talked about seeing Brooks Robinson make a great play at third base, or a masterful pitching performance by Tom Seaver. I would snap him out of his sentimental journey by mentioning his arch nemesis, Boog Powell, whom he hated. “If I was pitching, I would knock that Boog Powell on his fat keyster every time he stepped up to the plate,” he snarled, then opened another PBR.

Things are a little busy around the house these days because my wife and I are getting ready to start a team of our own. As you can imagine, I don’t have as much time to watch the Braves, but seeing the game the other night brought my Father closer to me, at least for a few hours. I wanted to pick up the phone and ask him what he thought of this year’s team and if they had a chance to go to the Series. He probably would have said, “You know, if that Ryan Langerhouse (Langerhans) has a good year, we might just make it.”