Baseball Fireworks with Dad

Could be Anywhere, U.S.A. However, this was in Altoona, Pa at a minor league baseball game. Our “Curve” ran the bases five times more than the Binghamton Ponies, so that’s a win by any measure. Fireworks – combined with a “wrestling” theme ticket stamp (that never materialized into anything) – and perfect weather swung the evening’s five hour carve-out of life without an error.

Yes, a minor league game, but a major win for fun, relaxation, and connection … to dad.

He and I weren’t the typical dad/son baseball team. I didn’t enjoy the usual, “get-out there and do it, son”, kind of encouragements most young boys got. Music was my juice, not sports. One miraculous diving catch from a half-asleep pre-teen who went on to a hit-less career in little league did not produce any proud dad moments. Gladly did I hand in my uniform and cleats after my team won the local championship with no help from a useless bat so unproductively, and awkwardly, swung from the ends of my sportily unrhythmic arms. Piano, yes. Getting to first base, no.

So, sitting with dad at a semi-professional baseball game wasn’t going to re-live any remember moments between us. Frankly, I doubt either one of us, to this day, would know how to fill in a score sheet or analyze a game beyond the usual “ground rule double” or “balk rule”. He was a wrestling coach, primarily, focused on grunts and sweats in closed, hot, winter season practice rooms – not open, fresh air sports like baseball. My first – and only – mitt came via a great-uncle, not dad. See, we just don’t have that traditional baseball dad-son thing going on here.

What we did have Sunday evening, though, was time. Time to spend together … forty-five years of life experiences after a son stood ankle deep in outfield weeds praying a baseball didn’t arcfully whiz up in his direction. Decades after a dad was frustratingly finding ways to supplement a measley teacher’s salary, we sat,… together.

I understand, now, my age. In baseball years, I’m older than my dad was when he insisted it was better to look at the ball in order to hit it. Pick your methodology, “blind squirrel” theory, I believed was the best approach at the time. Even a tightly closed, shuttering little man at the plate was hopeful one blind swing at the right time – combined with that perfect pitch – would manufacture a hit. Alas, not to be.

I do believe this may be the regret on dad’s face in the above picture. He may be having flashbacks. Either that, or handing over a twenty-spot and getting no change back for one burger, a dip of ice cream, and a lemonade may be stinging his financial consciousness. Hey, he offered, and nobody says, “no” to a dad who wants to pony up for goodies at the ballpark. After all, the tickets were complimentary – and quite a nice surprise along the bottom tier behind our home team dugout. So, there was no problem giving him the pleasure of paying for a delicious $10.50 Curve burger w/jalapeno cheese, ketchup, mayo, and tomato. Don’t know about the ice cream and lemonade … suppose they were fine, too.

We talked over the usual words he’s familiar with – long hair under hats and too-high salaries. 2021 fashion and cell phone usage among the visitors at the ball-park was an occasional attention radar blip as is almost always the case in public when dad and I go out. The what’s and how’s don’t mean much to dad. He’s not so much fascinated or intrigued by life as I am. His contentment is in routine, stability, and helping others. At his age, these are the good ole’ reliables, I suppose.

And so, we watched the final out together then waited for the fireworks. The announcer began a ten-digit countdown with three-thousand remaining loyal waiters sitting, standing, and reclining so patiently within the comforting park … Ten, nine, eight …

I sat back behind dad. A few spritzes, little sparkles, and all different colors of artificial stars lit up a clear black sky for fifteen minutes.

The finale wasn’t your big city, New York, kind-of million dollar bang, for sure. We’re a little city. This was a “wrestling” theme ticket night with nary a Hulkster or hint of what they meant in sight. At least fireworks were advertised and delivered. The last of the bangers didn’t disappoint me, but not for the reason you’d expect.

That first picture sums up a lot of what baseball, and life, with dad means to me. It’s the end of something wonderful even though most of it wasn’t that impressive.

Most of our life together was, well, hitless. No need for details. It’s just enough to say music, sports, personalities, etc … didn’t run the bases together very well.

That was then, as they say.

We’ve come through the relational minor leagues together and have been on the same team for some time now. Up and downs? Sure. Disagreements and missed calls at home plate? Absolutely!! We are currently two very independent, strong-willed men who aren’t afraid to speak our minds when necessary … and sometimes when not.

This is all part of the experience. I watched dad watch the finale. At a baseball game we were. Both of us living weird, different life experiences now – neither thinking, a few years ago, we’d be inside our individual situations. Thing is, we are where we are together, too. This is, simply, a nice place to be.

We can’t choose some life things, right? I didn’t choose my inability to connect a bat to a ball, nor do I think I had a hand in playing simple Chopin at the age of six. Dad didn’t choose his personality or later-in-life challenges. We chose to go to a ballgame Sunday evening. The tickets were complimentary and the food was deliciously expensive, of course. His dime, so extra-good as far as I was concerned.

A special evening to think about what was – and to watch dad watch a finale in a place that wasn’t Anywhere, U.S.A. It was home base for a dad and a son.

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