For my Father on Christmas

When I was ten years old my father took me to a baseball card signing to meet Willie McCovey (HoF 1986), Willie Stargell (HoF 1988) and Johnny Mize (HoF 1981) at the New York Penn Hotel. It was a day that I think about often, even now as a man grown, because of the way that these stars went out of their way to make it a special experience for me. Hundreds of people waited in line with their countless wares looking to make a big score in that world of memorabilia speculation, but when I approached the table at which McCovey sat, the former great brought me around to his side of things, pulled up a second chair, and spent fifteen minutes while he signed pictures and whatnot for others, talking to me about baseball.

 

Some time later in the afternoon, when I came to meet Willie Stargell, "Pops" did the exact same thing.

I'm sure you can imagine, for a young boy who never wanted to do anything but play ball, what an incredible series of events that had to have been. Needless to say, as if I needed any kind of push at that point, I was hooked. I would be a baseball fan forever. Even now, in a life full of highs and lows, it continues to be one of my best days.

 

My father and I have never had what you would consider a close relationship, but what can never be explained to masses of people flocking towards the newer, more exciting games the likes of NFL Football or NBA Basketball, and away from America's Past-time, are the unbreakable bonds formed between the first pitch, and the seventh inning stretch, and that last strike in the bottom of the ninth. For whatever disagreements we may have had, whatever ills during a lifetime of struggles and mistakes and miscues, for whatever hurts may have pulled us apart, my dad and I could always talk about baseball. So when I pulled his name for our family's first Christmas Secret Santa, and thought about what I could do, my mind went instantly to McCovey, and Stargell, and my first love, the New York Yankees.

Way back, before they were the Evil Empire, when the Mets ruled the city and the fans in the upper deck seemed more interested in the cartoons on the big screen than the game on the field, it didn't matter to me that the Yanks would lose close to a hundred games a year. What I remember was my father, trying to get me to a game at least once for every homestand. I remember him taking me out of school for trips to the Stadium for opening day, and the magic that hung in the air of the place. I remember the Yankees as my father's way of telling me that I was special. For all the winning that I've seen them do since, there's not a thing on the earth that compares to that; something the legion of Yankee haters will never be able to take away from me, and maybe few can understand.

So what can I do for my dad on Christmas? The best I can figure, it's to honor my favorite memories of him by teaching my own children the lessons about life that he taught me through the game we both love, those universal truths we can all understand, whether a parent, a child, a Hall of Famer or a 10 year old kid. It only takes one. Keep fouling them off till you get your pitch. As long as you've got a strike left, we can pull this one out. If you only succeed 30% of the time... you're in the Hall of Fame.

And most importantly, in that way that the long marathon of a baseball season most resembles life, because you play it every day.... if you lose this one, as my dad always told me, "Tomorrow's another day".

I love you Dad.

Let's Go Yankees!!!