Per my now six year old tradition on Opening Day, I bring a photo of my dad sitting in his recliner up on my laptop and watch the game with him.
Not necessarily in that order.
Of all the things I miss about his not being around, talking to him during a game is easily number one. I can't tell you how many times I still reach for the phone in the course of a year.
He was former high school basketball coach in the Bronx and helped me to see the game inside the game and, whatever sport we watched, he always brought insight and compassion.
For example, he didn't like booing. He believed that athletes are always giving their best. Then again he never got to see Gleyber play. So there's that.
His favorite player was DiMaggio.
He would have loved Judge.
It's hard to for me to comprehend but he never got to see him play.
Moreover, what I realized yesterday, is that by passing away seven years ago, he missed the entirety of my participation on this blog.
He would have gotten a real kick out of reading all of us. Well except the "Fuck Boone. Fuck Brian. Fuck Hal." part. He might have felt similarly in terms of disappointment but would have expressed it differently.
Opening Day. The Yankees won and I got a nice visit in. Sometimes that's all you get. Sometimes that's enough.
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17 comments:
A wonderful read, Thank you!
Made me think of my Dad. Thanks, Doug.
A nice change of pace, thanks Doug!
"Sometimes, it's enough?" Disagree. It's always enough to make us keep going. Thanks, Doug.
I used to reach for the phone to call my mom long after my dad died. She sat and yelled at the TV during Yankee games.
Mine was a Mets fan.
very nice Doug. very nice
Wish I had that with my dad. Thanks Doug. Glad you did.
Lovely story thanks for sharing
Hinky took the space shuttle in from the Mid Atlantic, Above Average rode the thermal shuttle from the Pacific coast, JM is currently between galaxies, but he managed to stop time for a few hours and convene with us. My friend Tommy passed by in the space shuttle -and Hoss most likely rode the subway. I swam the moat, but then had only to walk a few hundred yards, where we all drank, supped, talked shit, and started to brainstorm our way out of the current dilemma that is Yankee-dom (quick take: we need to wait for Hal to sell the team).
A fine time was had by all. We're all at the stage where we can appreciate what Warren Zevon once said, knowing he had a terminal diagnosis, when he replied to the question: "What's the one thing you would tell people now?" His immortal answer:
"ENJOY EVERY SANDWICH."
We happened upon the origin story of kosher rat feces, among other fascinating topics, far too many to recount here. And we talked beisbol.
We hope to do this some more. Photos may follow. They may not. Onward!
Doug, I'll comment today without profanity to honor your father. Mine left me when I was in seventh grade. I would have liked to talk to my dad about medicine. I'm glad you're dad was compassionate. It's tough to do that. It's great you had a good role model.
Would someone please take my effing predictions!!?
What a cool thought! But it might feel a little like talking to myself, since my baseball perspective is largely informed by my dad's.
That was a nice piece, Doug K.
My father was a quietly passionate football fan. Baseball, not so much. For the first year after he died (far too young), every time some receiver made a spectacular catch, I'd think to myself "i wonder if he saw that. I need to remember to bring it up next time we speak."
And then I'd arrive at the sad, empty realization that there wasn't going to be a next time.
Thanks again for writing this.
Beautiful, Doug—just beautiful. And yeah, fathers and sons. My best times with my Dad were at the ballpark...which also reflects how often they were not good, everywhere else. He also didn't like profanity, and he never quite got over the fact that I wasn't a good athlete. But I think about him all the time. I had an infinitely better relationship with my mother, who I loved deeply, and who gave me so much. But I think about her less often, just in that, after she died, our time together felt complete. With my father, I think about what might have been, which is the hardest thing.
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