I have been missing my dad terribly again. He died suddenly in October – the day after my two-year wedding anniversary. I vividly remember everything about that day leading up to the 8 PM call that he was gone. When I heard the news, I felt nothing. I blanked out. It’s still a mystery to me as to why I just went into a zombie-like mode. I didn’t truly cry until his “baseball funeral” a week later.
My dad was a baseball man. Since returning from his two tours of duty in Vietnam (1971), he worked in the front office of minor league baseball. He spent the vast majority of his career working as a General Manager, and it took him all over the country – Midland, TX; Danville, IL; Montgomery, AL; Newburg, NY; Tupelo, MS; Beaumont, TX; somewhere up in Massachusetts and finally to Edinburg, TX. I am sure I am leaving out a few places. It was difficult for me to keep up with his location most of the time. Sometimes every new season brought a new team and a new city.
I was born in Montgomery, Alabama (but moved to Texas when I was 6-weeks old) when he was the General Manager for the Montgomery Rebels; a Triple A team in the Tigers organization. At the time, my parents were younger than I am right now. I am an only child, and I always felt a burden being the daughter and only child of a sports man. He never told me such, but I always believed he was disappointed that I wasn’t a boy. So even as a little girl I tried to compensate and appease him in that department.
Since my parents divorced when I was still a baby, my dad got me every summer. I remember asking my mom to take me to the public library so I could check out baseball history and stats books. I would memorize as much trivia as my 7-year old brain could hold, just so I could impress the baseball fat cats that hung around my dad during the season. Dad would beam with pride as I recited off Cobb and DiMaggio stats. He would have me list off every baseball team in each league and have me also cite what city, state, name of the stadium, etc. Looking back on it now, I must have seemed like nothing more than a dancing monkey with a bow in my hair to these men. I just lived to see my dad brag about me though.
Naturally, given his profession, I grew-up in ballparks. Baseball is in my blood and in my family tree. My only paternal cousin also plays minor league ball in Florida. I have attended more games than anyone else I know. I love the smell of the leather gloves, the crack of the bat, sitting off to myself before the crowd is let in and watching batting practice and warm-ups. I look back fondly on the summers in high school and college when I worked as my dad’s assistant. The experiences I had and the characters I met I will never forget.
I’m sorry. I know I am just rambling, but I can’t seem to get him out of my mind lately.
I am grateful that he died a quick and painless death (pulmonary embolism). I am grateful that he died at the ballpark – the place he loved more than anywhere else. I am grateful that we had repaired some rocky spots in our relationship. I am grateful that he lived to see me get married. I am grateful that he lived to see me grow into a smart, strong woman. And I am most especially grateful that he taught me the love of baseball. I am sure that may sound silly since it just a game, but it’s all we had between us.
There are so many things I am grateful for, but a few things I am also haunted by. I hate that he died on the night the Astros got swept in the World Series. The Astros were our team. Ever since I was a kid we would joke that the Astros would never go to the Series. And then it actually happened and we were so excited. He called me almost every day in the two weeks leading up to his death – which was highly unusual. The last phone call we had was during Game 4. We watched last few innings of the game together on the phone.
I haven’t been able to watch or attend a baseball game since his death.
I hate that he won’t get to see his future grandchildren. He was one of those men that lacked in the fatherhood department, but would have been an awesome grandfather. I am sure I will cry the first time I take my own child to their first ball game. That would have been something I would have wanted my dad to do with them.
Two days after he died, hubby and I went down to the Valley to meet up with my uncle and start the horrible process of settling my dad’s affairs. On Halloween night, his team threw a memorial service at the stadium, and I finally allowed myself to get emotional. Even though he had been with that team for several years, it was the first time I was getting to meet all the people he had told me so much about. To my surprise, they knew everything about me as well.
Anyway, I have no idea if there is an afterlife or not, but I’ve always thought that “heaven” would be customized to every individual. I hope I am right. I hope my dad is sitting in a big leather club chair and talking shop with all the greats he loved so much…Ruth, Mantle, DiMaggio, Cobb, Gehrig.
Ugghh, I need sleep. This was rambling and dreadfully written, but I just needed to get all of this off of me and send it out into the void of cyberspace.
My dad was a baseball man. Since returning from his two tours of duty in Vietnam (1971), he worked in the front office of minor league baseball. He spent the vast majority of his career working as a General Manager, and it took him all over the country – Midland, TX; Danville, IL; Montgomery, AL; Newburg, NY; Tupelo, MS; Beaumont, TX; somewhere up in Massachusetts and finally to Edinburg, TX. I am sure I am leaving out a few places. It was difficult for me to keep up with his location most of the time. Sometimes every new season brought a new team and a new city.
I was born in Montgomery, Alabama (but moved to Texas when I was 6-weeks old) when he was the General Manager for the Montgomery Rebels; a Triple A team in the Tigers organization. At the time, my parents were younger than I am right now. I am an only child, and I always felt a burden being the daughter and only child of a sports man. He never told me such, but I always believed he was disappointed that I wasn’t a boy. So even as a little girl I tried to compensate and appease him in that department.
Since my parents divorced when I was still a baby, my dad got me every summer. I remember asking my mom to take me to the public library so I could check out baseball history and stats books. I would memorize as much trivia as my 7-year old brain could hold, just so I could impress the baseball fat cats that hung around my dad during the season. Dad would beam with pride as I recited off Cobb and DiMaggio stats. He would have me list off every baseball team in each league and have me also cite what city, state, name of the stadium, etc. Looking back on it now, I must have seemed like nothing more than a dancing monkey with a bow in my hair to these men. I just lived to see my dad brag about me though.
Naturally, given his profession, I grew-up in ballparks. Baseball is in my blood and in my family tree. My only paternal cousin also plays minor league ball in Florida. I have attended more games than anyone else I know. I love the smell of the leather gloves, the crack of the bat, sitting off to myself before the crowd is let in and watching batting practice and warm-ups. I look back fondly on the summers in high school and college when I worked as my dad’s assistant. The experiences I had and the characters I met I will never forget.
I’m sorry. I know I am just rambling, but I can’t seem to get him out of my mind lately.
I am grateful that he died a quick and painless death (pulmonary embolism). I am grateful that he died at the ballpark – the place he loved more than anywhere else. I am grateful that we had repaired some rocky spots in our relationship. I am grateful that he lived to see me get married. I am grateful that he lived to see me grow into a smart, strong woman. And I am most especially grateful that he taught me the love of baseball. I am sure that may sound silly since it just a game, but it’s all we had between us.
There are so many things I am grateful for, but a few things I am also haunted by. I hate that he died on the night the Astros got swept in the World Series. The Astros were our team. Ever since I was a kid we would joke that the Astros would never go to the Series. And then it actually happened and we were so excited. He called me almost every day in the two weeks leading up to his death – which was highly unusual. The last phone call we had was during Game 4. We watched last few innings of the game together on the phone.
I haven’t been able to watch or attend a baseball game since his death.
I hate that he won’t get to see his future grandchildren. He was one of those men that lacked in the fatherhood department, but would have been an awesome grandfather. I am sure I will cry the first time I take my own child to their first ball game. That would have been something I would have wanted my dad to do with them.
Two days after he died, hubby and I went down to the Valley to meet up with my uncle and start the horrible process of settling my dad’s affairs. On Halloween night, his team threw a memorial service at the stadium, and I finally allowed myself to get emotional. Even though he had been with that team for several years, it was the first time I was getting to meet all the people he had told me so much about. To my surprise, they knew everything about me as well.
Anyway, I have no idea if there is an afterlife or not, but I’ve always thought that “heaven” would be customized to every individual. I hope I am right. I hope my dad is sitting in a big leather club chair and talking shop with all the greats he loved so much…Ruth, Mantle, DiMaggio, Cobb, Gehrig.
Ugghh, I need sleep. This was rambling and dreadfully written, but I just needed to get all of this off of me and send it out into the void of cyberspace.
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