June 19, 2011
After a big game one thing was certain.
Either I’d call my dad or he’d call me. That’s the way it was for the forty years since I left the home nest. Often it was a game in which one of my teams was involved but just as often it was to review the Cyclones, the Cubs, the Masters or the Super Bowl. They were routine exchanges but they were golden.
We are spending our Father’s Day at the College World Series for the first time. There was plenty of discussion about dads yesterday when President George H.W. Bush welcomed the crowd of 22,745 over the mammoth Jumbotron by asking his son to throw out the first pitch. President George W. Bush then trotted out to do the honors.
My dad and I liked to play catch. We started when I was a little tyke; dad would find time between his farm chores to lob it back and forth. We were out on the lawn near the barn. Mom would worry that I’d miss one of his throws and get hurt so she was always on dad’s case to be gentle. As I got bigger, we’d play “burnout” and dad would whip them in as hard as he figured I could take it.
I once read a yellowed clipping from a World War II era newspaper suggesting that dad was so successful playing service ball that the St. Louis Cardinals had offered him a contract. He never talked about himself so I don’t know if that is even true and, besides, he was a Cubs fan.
By the time I got to high school, dad had turned into a very successful insurance salesman in our Mayberry-like town. He missed a lot of my games on sales appointments but I have one special memory.
I was not expecting dad to be at this particular game but happened to glance into the crowd while awaiting my next at-bat. There was dad; I did a double-take, unnoticed by all but one of my teammates. Stepping into the batter’s box, I proceeded to hit the only home run of my mediocre prep career and when I got back to the dugout, my observant teammate asked what had I seen in the on deck circle. I never answered.
My father-in-law Frank was also a big sportsman. He had played small college basketball, liked to bowl and was a crack golfer. He loved to watch me outdrive him by 60 yards and then sink a 25-footer to beat me on the hole. No doubt he was in my head and it drove me nuts.When I became a dad I briefly coached both my kids. I was the skipper of my daughter’s six-year old team – Johnny’s Orr-bits – and later, my son’s little league teams until they knew more than I did, which didn’t take long. There is something timeless about teaching a kid how to catch or swing a bat; tens of thousands of dads have done the same thing over the last century-plus. Most of the Commodores began the same way, with dad playing soft toss.I thought about dad and my father-in law after yesterday’s big World Series win. It was the kind of game we loved to rehash. Dad died two years ago and Frank has been gone much longer but I still have to resist the temptation to pick up the phone and compare notes.Among the text messages I received before and after yesterday’s big Vanderbilt victory were those from my son, busy recruiting in Michigan, and my daughter, representing my 8-year old grandson who wanted me to email the Vandy stats so he could better follow the game on tv.I didn’t have to call dad to ask what he thought of that. I know. The circle stays unbroken.Happy Father’s Day to all dads, wherever they may be.
