It was warm outside and my Dad was grilling on the barbecue. The smell of burgers filled the air on the back deck, while my Mom and sisters were making side dishes in the kitchen. The middle of June in a small mountain town really does give you a taste of what Heaven may be like. For me, as a seven or eight-year-old kid at the time, all I wanted to do was play baseball.
My little league season had ended a few weeks before. The Los Angeles Dodgers were playing the New York Yankees on the television. Watching the game made me want to play baseball even more. I asked my Dad if he wanted to play catch outside, so he took a break from barbecuing for a bit. Whether we “played catch” or “had a catch” is up to you, as people like to call it different things. But it’s a memory I’ll always cherish.
That day sparked a tradition. My Dad worked his butt off, often commuting to the city from our small mountain town home in Southern California. But whenever I asked him to throw me some ground balls and pop flys — or even catch my pitching (I may have bounced a few curveballs… Sorry Dad) — he was always willing even after work.
Father’s Day and baseball go hand in hand. It’s a holiday that feels like summer is truly beginning. Burgers on the back deck with a ball game on is one of the best environments I can think of. It almost feels like a warm up for The Fourth of July, but it is simply focused on Dad.
The connection to baseball and my father goes deeper than one day of the year, though.
Baseball and Dad
Growing up, my dream was to reach the big leagues. That didn’t quite happen (Obviously… I wouldn’t be writing this if I had a game to play for the Dodgers today!). Nevertheless, my childhood was spent as a kid who was chasing that dream, and my Dad never told me the goal was out of reach.
I began playing travel ball in sixth grade. The team was based in the city and we played games on Saturday and Sundays, so my Dad would often make that same commute he did for work on weekdays during the weekend. It was about an hour or so to travel to the games, and my Dad never complained about watching me play doubleheaders in the Southern California heat. He didn’t mind spending his Saturdays and Sundays watching his only son play ball.
I began to realize that the magic of baseball was more than just playing the sport. For a number of years during spring training, my friends and I and all of our fathers would drive to Arizona in one of the Dad’s motorhomes. Although Father’s Day obviously is not in March, those trips felt like Father’s Day in all reality. It was quality time with our dads and each other while watching our favorite players — such as Vladimir Guerrero Jr., Clayton Kershaw, Grady Sizemore, Tim Lincecum and so many other stars from the 2000’s decade.
Some things never change
Anyway, I played baseball through high school. I was good, but not elite. I never did reach the big leagues. When Father’s Day rolls around these days, I am still able to spend it with my Dad. There’s usually a ball game on — we will likely have the Dodgers’ game on today (my Dad, a big golf guy, will surely have the US Open on as well).
And when I visit my childhood home, one of the first memories that pops into my head is playing catch with my Dad back in the day. That feeling is especially true on this specific day.
Thanks for the great memories, Dad. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you.
Father’s Day will always feel like baseball to me.
Happy Father’s Day everyone!
It was warm outside and my Dad was grilling on the barbecue. The smell of burgers filled the air on the back deck, while my Mom and sisters were making side dishes in the kitchen. The middle of June in a small mountain town really does give you a taste of what Heaven may be like. For me, as a seven or eight-year-old kid at the time, all I wanted to do was play baseball.
