Thanks Dad

"Don't aim the ball, just step toward your target and throw it. Son, if you keep waiving at the ball, you'll take one in the head. You're not catching butterflies now, let the ball come to you and pull back with your mitt when it hits."

I'm six years old and learning how to play catch with my father on the side of our house. Everyone wants to teach you something when you're a kid and most of it goes in one ear and out the other. The same cannot be said for any words of wisdom that a father offers in the world of sports. I listened with intensity as I wanted desperately to do everything right and make him proud. I listened with the intensity of a soldier getting his final debriefing before a major battle. His words were with me always, every time I practiced he was in my head coaching me.

"See what you think of these and maybe we'll get you into a few other sets later."

Dad just brought home the first birthday gift that I can remember, the 1984 Topps baseball card set. I spend the entire day looking at every single card, reading the stats from every single Tiger and marveling at their glorious mustaches. I loved this set of cards and must have reorganized it twenty times - by team, by last name, by division, by talent, etc. My father was an avid collector and I was proud to have an identical set that I knew he had in his collection. I secretly started to scheme on how I could build a better collection than his as at eight years old; all of his hobbies became one of mine.

"You won't be able to use this for a few weeks but there are some tricks to loosen it up. Let's tie some string around it with two balls in the pocket and I bought you this glove ointment that I want you to rub in for fifteen minutes every night. Let's make sure to leave some weight on top of it when it sits at night."

I am nine years old and Dad just bought me my first catcher's mitt and it's a dandy. The Rawlings black mitt (see pictured on left indent) was the same glove that Lance Parrish wore, and it came complete with the fluorescent orange ring around the lip to offer an ideal target for my battery mate. I treated this glove as if Mom had brought home a baby brother from the hospital and Dad taught me every trick to break it in.

"You're swinging with your arms still. You'll be nothing but a singles hitter if you can't learn to 'pop your hips'. I didn't say to 'step in the bucket', you've got to learn the difference. Imagine a straight line down your body, it's all in the timing son. You can't hit a ball deep with just your wrists."

I'm twelve years old and after 200 swings in the batting cage, I'm completely frustrated and it has nothing to do with the blisters on my hands. I'm making contact but that's not what I was born to do. I'm the son of a massive, oak of a man who regularly deposits softballs well beyond the fence at the games I go to. A steelworker with a barrel chest and Popeye forearms, my father was not raising a 'singles hitter' and I knew it. I wanted nothing more than to impress him and to be just like him in every way. I'm listening just as hard as a twelve-year old can but my body doesn't want to cooperate. Dad is firm but patient, he doesn't need to tell me but I know he is just as frustrated that I can't put it all together yet.

"You're guessing up there. It's obvious when you are looking for a curve ball because you can't get the bat off your shoulder when the fastball comes. Get ready for the fastball first because you don't have time to react if you're not looking for it."

I'm fifteen and playing J.V. ball in High School. I know everything there is to know about life at this age and stare blankly out the car window with my eyes rolled, not caring nearly as much as Dad about an awful 0-4 game in which I struck out three times. What does he know about curve balls? They probably didn't even exist when he was playing. I go back to thinking about girls and what I'm going to eat when I get home. Clearly, I don't need any help from anyone.

"Come here son, check this one out! I am pretty sure this is the swing when you hit the home run. Look at your hips! Look at your arm extension - we can draw a line down your body. Why did it take you so long to figure this out you hard-head? That is a beautiful swing. I'm proud of you son."

Dad and I have come full circle and he's still talking about my hips. I'm eighteen and Dad is leafing through the hundreds of pictures he took from the bleachers during my senior year. He is most thrilled with the action shot he snapped off when I hit a ball 400 feet to dead center in the district playoffs on our way to the state championship. Eighteen years of lessons and his son finally figured it all out. Dad sits back in the chair in his office and reflects on a job well done.

The relationship and most major moments between a father and son can be traced through the game of baseball. Every game was a teaching moment, a lesson about life, an exercise in perseverance. I'm a better man because my father spent so much time teaching me the game and on this Father's Day, I look to a future where I can measure up to one of the greatest fathers in history when my son is born. Thanks for everything Dad, you taught me more than you know.