After my father passed away
unexpectedly on Halloween morning last week, I was asked to write a remembrance
of some kind to share at the memorial. It was hard, too, because picking one
event or moment out of an 88 year mosaic of life, that would be brief but
poignant, and a representative of the man's body of work as a Godly parent and person
would require more than a passing thought. It took the whole weekend and part
of Monday. But here's what I came up with-
I could tell you a lot of
things Dad and I talked about over the years. Life, school. girls; the value of
working hard and doing the right things. He and I had some pretty good
discussions and I think it’s safe to say, when I look back, of all the wisdom and
advice he passed on- or tried to, when I was listening anyway- some of it
may have actually stuck.
Life- well, like everyone’s
mine’s been up and down, littered with mistakes, failures and regrets; along
with a few successes. Check.
School? I did ok. I
graduated from college anyway. Check.
Girls- though it took
forever and several broken hearts, I was finally smart enough to find the right
one in Amy. Check, check.
Hard work? Ask anyone who’s
ever worked with me. They know. Some call me a workaholic. I just like
keeping busy. Check.
Doing the right thing?
Well, not always; that's maybe a 60-40 proposition. But I’m getting better. Check.
But I think the one thing Dad
and I were always pretty much in agreement about, from the time I was little
until last week, was our shared passion for baseball.
In some ways, baseball kind
of kept us connected; following the A’s, the Giants and the teams I played on
and coached. Although he and I hadn't gone to a game together since before I was married, and in these later years he didn’t know the ballplayers anymore,
and had forgotten a lot of things he used to know by rote- like the infield fly
rule (although I'm sure even I can explain that one very well). However I know
Dad still tried keeping up best he could, and I’m sure he was pulling for the Giants to
win the Series last week.
But as a boy, though we
didn’t play catch and he didn’t hit me ground balls, he did teach me something
just as important. Because it’s something I can still do now. Dad taught me how
to keep score---all the little intricate markings and symbols that go into
tracking the progress of a 9 inning (or more) baseball game. Dad was the first
to teach me that a “K” stood for strike out, and an "E-6" was error
on the shortstop. He was good at math and knew how to calculate batters averages and earned run avaerages. He encouraged me to appreciate a beautifully turned double play
as much as a long home run. He taught me to admire hitting the cut off man. And
to question the umpires' eyesight.
Dad was gone a lot when I
was growing up- doing all the unknown and unsung things it takes to make a
decent living and raise a family; stuff children seldom see or appreciate until
they get older. Regardless, he always found time on a summer weekend to take me
over to a Giants or A’s game. Sometimes it'd be the whole family, but a lot of
times it was just him and me. He’d buy a scorecard and then help me keep score-
until I could do it on my own. When I had it down, he let me do it for the both of us, occasionally peeking at my work to see who was coming up, what they'd done in
previous at-bats, who was still on the bench.
It was kind of our own
little bonding thing.
And there was one baseball
outing I remember especially because it was one of those 'one of those things'
type of days. Dad and I went to a Saturday afternoon A’s game. It was Labor Day
weekend and Mom had planned an end of summer barbeque that evening with some
families from our church. At the time we lived in Citrus Heights, east of
Sacramento, and- in those days- the drive to Oakland could be completed in two
hours. A little less, the way Dad drove sometimes. So with the baseball game
starting at 1:30 and ending, maybe by 4, and company not coming till around 6,
we’d be back pretty close to right on time.
Except the game went into
extra innings. 9 of them.
Dad had to get me a second
scorecard because the first one was all used up. It was the longest A’s game of
the year- 18 innings, five hours and fifteen minutes. It ended at a quarter to
seven. We didn’t make it home till 9. At night.
After about the 10th inning, Dad went out to call home
(there weren't cell phones then so he had to use a pay phone and call collect)
reporting that we ‘might be a little late’. I think he told Mom we'd be
'a little late' about four more times before the game finally ended. And I’m
sure none of those calls were well received. But he always came back calm and
cool, once with another hot dog for me, and said each time, "Don't worry.
We can stay till the last out". And we did.
Though in the grand scheme
of life, it was a meaningless baseball game played near the end of the season
by two really crummy teams- I think they played Cleveland that day, and the
stupid A's lost- but for
me, in my young life it was a big win. My Dad risked catching hell when we
got home (and probably did), just to sit through an 18 inning extra inning
baseball game with me. His priority that afternoon was not what Mom or our
church friends might say or think about the barbeque. His priority that day was
me.
And in fact, from the day I
was born, until last Friday, I knew he still felt that way. Thanks Dad. If
they've put up bleachers in Heaven, grab a spot there and rest in peace.
