My Dad, Part II, Sports

My dad played semi-pro baseball when he and my mom were first married. For a time, he did it exclusively after my two older sisters were born. He played for a farm team of the (then) Philidelphia Athletics. He was a pitcher. He could certainly wing those balls around with accuracy and "heat" as they say.


Dad wanted each of his kids to play a sport. I wanted to do gymnastics, but that was prissy and he didn't think it was sporty enough. So he made me join a softball team between 7th and 8th grades. My idea of sports was watching it when I had to, and perhaps trying to cheer on those I knew who did play sports. So, I displayed my pitiful skills for the coach and was chosen for the right outfield. Practice was just something I endured to be on the team.


Our first game was on a field near the junior high school I attended. Dad was there, pacing as he watched. Mom was calmly in the stands, as was my younger brother. My first time at bat, my coach said we'd psych them out if I took a pitch or two right-handed and then switched to left-handed (which I was, but I was just as lousy either way!) It worked, for the first pitch sent to me left-handed was slow and I hit it! Dropping the bat, I overran first base and was rewarded with a ball to the back of my helmet. It knocked me to the ground mostly from the surprise of it. Suddenly, I had this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that this sport was going to be more dangerous than I thought. But after a few deep breaths, I was up and then took my base. But I wasn't surrendering my helmet. I wore it all around the bases that inning. The next few batters had us advance a base each and eventually I crossed home plate. (For the one thing I could do well was RUN.)


I survived eight innings because no one hit a ball my way. YEA! This might be ok, I thought. Until a ball came my way. Back, back, back I ran with my eyes forward and my mitt open, up and ready to receive the ball... until I fell into a cement ditch and broke my fall with my right hand, breaking many of the blood vessels in my knuckles. The hand began to swell immediately and my fingers were two, then three times their normal size. I couldn't bend my fingers any longer. Of course, there wasn't the kind of ice packs in those days that we are fortunate to have now. So my hand went into the cold Gatorade. Now it was sticky and sore.


It took weeks for my hand to return to normal. I felt like I had my mitt on (although I wore it on my left hand) because movement was so limited for such a long time. I still cannot make as tight a fist with my right hand as I can with my left hand ever since then.


So, after that disaster, it was my idea to give up. Clearly I wasn't talented enough to play this game. My father had other ideas. After recuperating until my hand wasn't swollen and could hold a ball, I spent a week in practice (all of which I complained at and wanted to go home early). When we played on Saturday, we had a light practice on Friday afternoon. This was such a week.


As usual, we outfielders had to catch a certain number of balls batted to us before we could go home. The first ball I caught, I had to jump up for and somehow my legs weren't in the right position and I fell on my hiney -- in the process breaking my tale bone. I cried and carried on, and wanted to go home early. But my coach was having none of that. He just told me I had to catch two more balls before I went home. I have no idea how I did that for the pain was so bad!


When I wasn't better the next morning, my Dad brought me to the hospital where an x-ray confirmed that I had indeed broken my tale bone. Of course, there is no cast for that. One must simply behave like Tim Conway's old man and move exceedingly slow. Changing from a sitting to a standing position was very painful and vice-versa too!


That was the end of my career in softball and sports pretty much. Except, I did much better in swimming as a high school student -- until I got mononucleosis. But that's a story for another day.


Now, my dad cannot watch an entire football game, or baseball game, or hockey game, or basketball game without falling asleep in his chair several times, waking occasionally and then falling back asleep. His stamina is very short, especially because of his congestive heart failure. His world is closing in upon himself and its difficult to see a parent slip away in small increments this way.


I would encourage you to pray for people you know who are on either side of this issue. As I visit my dad I see lots of other folks in similar circumstances and I know they have similar stories of one or more of their parents who were energetic, strong and engaged in life and now are awaiting death.


And even though this sports remembrance was one of showing my lack of talent, I still do like to remember the times spent with my dad doing something HE loved -- throwing the ball around and being outside in the wonderful Colorado sunshine!