Certain dates on the calendar just mean more. Someone's birthday. An anniversary of something. Or a date that jostles the memory bank a little when you see it in print, when you write it on a check, or maybe when you see it on your phone. Maybe a certain date sparks pleasant thoughts, or brings back bad memories. Or maybe a certain date just makes you think more.
May 20th is one of those dates for me.
I'm going to depart from the blog's usual silliness and uninformed commentary, and simply go with what's on my mind today, because that's what the blog is for and because today is different.
I lost my dad two years ago today.
And if you'll indulge me, I'll feel like writing about him.
And if not, that's ok too. You can come back Monday.
I reflect on the past two years and I think about many things. I think of how that awful day seems so long ago, yet how I remember it so vividly. I think about how often I've felt the urge to call, text, or email him. I think about all that's happened in my life, in our family, in the world, in sports, since I lost him.
But mainly, I think about baseball. My old man loved baseball. It was the game he introduced me to first. It was the thing we talked about most. It was the sport that gave him the most joy, created the most angst, and provided his litmus test for whether or not another guy was ok.
If the guy liked baseball, he was legit. If not, there was probably something wrong with him.
My dad died at a baseball game, minutes before the Reds played the Phillies. I never talk deeply enough with my dad to broach the subject of death with him, but I imagine that if I had asked him where he wanted to die, he'd tell me he wanted to go at a Reds game.
My dad loved the Reds. And not the way anyone else I've ever met loves the Reds. He talked about the team like they were family, passionately defending his favorite players, taking each loss almost personally, and enjoying even the most meaningless wins like they changed the balance of an entire sport.
He liked talking about the Big Red Machine just a little too much, consistently expected too much from the Reds of he late 80s, was the only person I knew who could thoroughly outline how they'd beat the A's in 1990, and spent the down years of the late 90s and 2000s thinking the Reds were on the verge of something big.
My dad had some great times in his life. The Reds were an accompaniment.
My dad had some lousy times in his life. The Reds were a comfort.
I remember my wedding, standing there, waiting beforehand, nervous all hell, life about to change for good....and my dad approaching me moments before the ceremony, not with any last-second words of wisdom, but to inform me that the Reds had beaten the Rockies.
I remember being in college when he had a stroke. I remember him not letting anyone see him those initial scary moments. He was too proud a man too let anyone see him. After a few days, he finally took visitors. When I went to see him, he was watching a Reds/Expos game.
And cussing out whatever reliever had just given up the lead.
I remember 13 straight Opening Days with my dad. I remember going with him to the '99 one game playoff. I remember the Friday night in '06 when Dunn cracked a grand slam off Bob Wickman to beat the Indians and standing in the Moon Deck 15 minutes after the game ended and him just staring at the field saying "I can't believe we won that game."
I remember how he was always up for going to the ballpark, no matter the circumstance. Those cold nights in April, the hot July afternoons, even those dreary evenings in late September when the pennant races were being played out in other parts of the country.
I remember trips to Chicago, Pittsburgh, St. Louis and Cleveland. I remember how he proudly wore his colors even in the most hostile enemy territory.
I remember how he always tipped the ushers, how he would hum the anthem, and how if a complete stranger sat next to him, he'd be buying him a beer by the middle innings.
I remember hundreds of games with him...section 401 at Riverfront, 141 at Great American.....and he never let me spend a dime on anything.
I remember my dad and I think of baseball.
I watch baseball, and I think of my dad.
Since May 20th 2009, I've been to maybe 50, perhaps 60 baseball games. I've seen two Opening Days, been in attendance for a division clincher, and I've attended a playoff game.
Each has been enjoyed in the company of good friends and close loved ones, each of whom understood what it meant for me to have them occupy my dad's seat.
But despite some great games, endless good times, and awesome people to share them with, baseball games havrn't been the same since May 20th, 2009, because nothing beat going to them with my dad.
Nothing.
If you're lucky enough to have your dad around, call him, pick a game on the schedule, and go to with each other.
Don't tell yourself you'll get around to it. Don't tell him that you and he will go to a game "sometime soon." Don't let life get in the way of doing this. Don't make excuses.
Go to a baseball game with your dad. And do it soon.
Baseball is unlike every other sport in so many ways, but maybe the best thing that separates it from the others is the game's ability to provide a backdrop for a long conversation. You don't get that as much in any other sport.
When was the last time you had a long conversation with your dad? Start one with him at a ballgame.
Go with him because no other sport on this planet has connected so many dads with their kids, even though it connects them far less than it used to.
Go regardless of the cost. Get the cheap tickets, hold off on the concessions if need be, and split the parking if you have to. But go.
Go regardless of what teams you see. Go see the Reds. Go see somebody else. Go see a minor league game. Go see a college tilt. Whatever. Just go.
Go, regardless the demands life is putting you. Nothing being asked of you by anyone or anything else is more important.
Go, regardless of the geographic distance between you and him. There are hundred of ballparks in this country. Find one, find your dad, and go.
Go, regardless of the emotional distance between you and him. Allow the game to break the ice and maybe help you reconnect, even if just a little.
Go because simply going to one might lead to more.
Go because of what it will mean to him.
Go because of what it will mean to you.
Go for those of us who can't, for those of us who would do anything...anything....for nine more innings with their dads.
Go because one day you'll be one of us.
Find a schedule, pick a game, buy the tickets, call him, and go. There's nothing you'll regret less.
Regret is a part of life, moreso as you get older. My dad died too suddenly and unexpectedly for me to ask if he any regrets, but I'm sure that he did.
I can promise you though, that attending too many baseball games with his son was not among them.
May 20th is one of those dates for me.
I'm going to depart from the blog's usual silliness and uninformed commentary, and simply go with what's on my mind today, because that's what the blog is for and because today is different.
I lost my dad two years ago today.
And if you'll indulge me, I'll feel like writing about him.
And if not, that's ok too. You can come back Monday.
I reflect on the past two years and I think about many things. I think of how that awful day seems so long ago, yet how I remember it so vividly. I think about how often I've felt the urge to call, text, or email him. I think about all that's happened in my life, in our family, in the world, in sports, since I lost him.
But mainly, I think about baseball. My old man loved baseball. It was the game he introduced me to first. It was the thing we talked about most. It was the sport that gave him the most joy, created the most angst, and provided his litmus test for whether or not another guy was ok.
If the guy liked baseball, he was legit. If not, there was probably something wrong with him.
My dad died at a baseball game, minutes before the Reds played the Phillies. I never talk deeply enough with my dad to broach the subject of death with him, but I imagine that if I had asked him where he wanted to die, he'd tell me he wanted to go at a Reds game.
My dad loved the Reds. And not the way anyone else I've ever met loves the Reds. He talked about the team like they were family, passionately defending his favorite players, taking each loss almost personally, and enjoying even the most meaningless wins like they changed the balance of an entire sport.
He liked talking about the Big Red Machine just a little too much, consistently expected too much from the Reds of he late 80s, was the only person I knew who could thoroughly outline how they'd beat the A's in 1990, and spent the down years of the late 90s and 2000s thinking the Reds were on the verge of something big.
My dad had some great times in his life. The Reds were an accompaniment.
My dad had some lousy times in his life. The Reds were a comfort.
I remember my wedding, standing there, waiting beforehand, nervous all hell, life about to change for good....and my dad approaching me moments before the ceremony, not with any last-second words of wisdom, but to inform me that the Reds had beaten the Rockies.
I remember being in college when he had a stroke. I remember him not letting anyone see him those initial scary moments. He was too proud a man too let anyone see him. After a few days, he finally took visitors. When I went to see him, he was watching a Reds/Expos game.
And cussing out whatever reliever had just given up the lead.
I remember 13 straight Opening Days with my dad. I remember going with him to the '99 one game playoff. I remember the Friday night in '06 when Dunn cracked a grand slam off Bob Wickman to beat the Indians and standing in the Moon Deck 15 minutes after the game ended and him just staring at the field saying "I can't believe we won that game."
I remember how he was always up for going to the ballpark, no matter the circumstance. Those cold nights in April, the hot July afternoons, even those dreary evenings in late September when the pennant races were being played out in other parts of the country.
I remember trips to Chicago, Pittsburgh, St. Louis and Cleveland. I remember how he proudly wore his colors even in the most hostile enemy territory.
I remember how he always tipped the ushers, how he would hum the anthem, and how if a complete stranger sat next to him, he'd be buying him a beer by the middle innings.
I remember hundreds of games with him...section 401 at Riverfront, 141 at Great American.....and he never let me spend a dime on anything.
I remember my dad and I think of baseball.
I watch baseball, and I think of my dad.
Since May 20th 2009, I've been to maybe 50, perhaps 60 baseball games. I've seen two Opening Days, been in attendance for a division clincher, and I've attended a playoff game.
Each has been enjoyed in the company of good friends and close loved ones, each of whom understood what it meant for me to have them occupy my dad's seat.
But despite some great games, endless good times, and awesome people to share them with, baseball games havrn't been the same since May 20th, 2009, because nothing beat going to them with my dad.
Nothing.
If you're lucky enough to have your dad around, call him, pick a game on the schedule, and go to with each other.
Don't tell yourself you'll get around to it. Don't tell him that you and he will go to a game "sometime soon." Don't let life get in the way of doing this. Don't make excuses.
Go to a baseball game with your dad. And do it soon.
Baseball is unlike every other sport in so many ways, but maybe the best thing that separates it from the others is the game's ability to provide a backdrop for a long conversation. You don't get that as much in any other sport.
When was the last time you had a long conversation with your dad? Start one with him at a ballgame.
Go with him because no other sport on this planet has connected so many dads with their kids, even though it connects them far less than it used to.
Go regardless of the cost. Get the cheap tickets, hold off on the concessions if need be, and split the parking if you have to. But go.
Go regardless of what teams you see. Go see the Reds. Go see somebody else. Go see a minor league game. Go see a college tilt. Whatever. Just go.
Go, regardless the demands life is putting you. Nothing being asked of you by anyone or anything else is more important.
Go, regardless of the geographic distance between you and him. There are hundred of ballparks in this country. Find one, find your dad, and go.
Go, regardless of the emotional distance between you and him. Allow the game to break the ice and maybe help you reconnect, even if just a little.
Go because simply going to one might lead to more.
Go because of what it will mean to him.
Go because of what it will mean to you.
Go for those of us who can't, for those of us who would do anything...anything....for nine more innings with their dads.
Go because one day you'll be one of us.
Find a schedule, pick a game, buy the tickets, call him, and go. There's nothing you'll regret less.
Regret is a part of life, moreso as you get older. My dad died too suddenly and unexpectedly for me to ask if he any regrets, but I'm sure that he did.
I can promise you though, that attending too many baseball games with his son was not among them.
