Fathers are a bit like baseball season. They inspire you, but eventually they leave. They have to: that’s what angels do.
——
“It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”
— Bartlett Giamatti, The Green Fields of the Mind, 1977
Fathers are a bit like a baseball season, too.
They hold your attention; they inspire you; they set you on a course; they get you going; inevitably, they leave you.
They have to: that’s what angels do.
Whether you want to think about your father as an angel or not, it’s impossible to ignore your father was there to teach you and guide you in a way no one else could.
And that applies whether you liked what he taught you, how he taught you, where he taught you and when he taught you.
Or whether he did none of the above.
I’ll suggest to you that was simply his way of teaching, of getting you to where you are today.
♦◊♦
One
We didn’t talk for a long time.
It might have been a decade, maybe more.
But then, again, it was maybe less; I can’t imagine we’d have let a baseball season pass by without talking, somehow, at least once.
I do remember getting an email reading “257” in the subject line. There wasn’t any text in the body of the email but I knew to immediately turn on ESPN, knowing Ichiro Suzuki must have just tied George Sisler’s hit mark and there would be a replay. I was grateful I knew what those numbers meant.
That would have been 2004.
Anyway, there wasn’t much reason for the time in-between that I can think of. It was just typical, ordinary-life stuff: I was busy raising kids, being married and doing what made me happy; he was in Chile, re-married, reading books, surfing the internet and doing what made him happy.
And then one day in 2008, there he was, again, by email.
It was a longish, bullet-pointed, memo-rant, providing me insight into the treachery of the I.R.S., the implications of the Chilean Central Bank currency intervention, and news of a Bank of America dividend cut.
All that was followed by a day-to-day breakdown on the recent move to an apartment, a brief account of a recent tail-light-meets-tree-mash-up and the whereabouts of his six dogs.
It was clear, concise, impassioned, earnest, easy-to-follow, purposeful and amusing to read–much like everything he wrote–whether it was a memo detailing how to better capture cigarette market share or a letter of complaint to the King of Sweden describing his poorly performing Volvo.
And I know how those memos went because he made me read them. And if I didn’t want to read what he wrote, he read it to me.
So I knew his voice well; the writing voice; the speaking voice.
If he were to describe Hannibal coming over the Alps, you’d hear the elephants and understand exactly why they were necessary.
There was one more bullet point in that email–about a basketball playoff game–a praising of the Boston Celtics’ fourth-quarter comeback over the Los Angeles Lakers the night before; something I saw: Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce outdueling Kobe Bryant, Lamar Odom and Paul Gasol to overcome a 24-point deficit.
There was one more un-bulleted line noting that Albert Pujols was heading to the disabled list and below it, “Hope all is well with you”, indent, space, “Stan”.
Stan, as in, Stan Musial; “The Man”; the National League’s best left-handed hitter from the late forties into the mid-fifties; my father’s favorite player, on my father’s favorite team: the St. Louis Cardinals.
As I looked at the “sign-off”, I smiled, realizing a guy named Benito needed an easy way to address another guy named Benito, especially if they weren’t very practiced at doing it as father and son.
“Stan” was perfect.
It made me think of the afternoon, when I was about eight, when I informed him that Ted Williams was the greatest hitter of all time.
Imagine that, your beautiful little boy tells you your favorite player’s statistical arch-enemy, his ancient nemesis, Ted Williams, the best hitter in the American League, is the best to ever bat; better than Lou Gehrig; better than Babe Ruth, Jimmy Foxx, Rogers Hornsby; better than Ty Cobb and, yes, even better than Stan Musial.
In the shock of the moment, he boomed, “Ted Williams!”
The intensity and force of the sound would have stopped a robbery. Completely. The perpetrator caught hands-up; all the loot scattered on the floor. I felt like throwing up.
That was then.
Now, almost forty years later, I could be “Ted”, the best ever.
And so I did it.
I responded by letting him know I’d seen the basketball game and by giving him an update on the kids. I ended with, “Foul off pitches until you get one you can drive,” indent, space, “Ted”.
It sounded like something one great hitter would say to another, that is, how to frustrate the pitcher enough so he threw a straight pitch over the plate, something fat and flat that could be crushed.
So it went on for a long time: Ted and Stan writing back and forth–or more accurately, two Benitos–a father and a son both in love with baseball–finding a way to talk as equals, as peers, as appreciative fans.
And for quite a while, as strange as it might seem, our being able to talk that way held off a lot of hurt neither of us wanted to go through and kept our conversation easy and nice, in a way it hardly ever had been.
♦◊♦
Two
Over the next few years Stan asked a lot of questions about how things were with Ted, with Stan nearly always fretting about the future and occasionally going on about how he felt cast off and unappreciated by the whole family.
Ted consistently reminded Stan to keep his hands inside the ball, to forgive failure, to stay calm and learn from each at-bat and to drill what was left over the plate.
In late 2011, there came a time though when I needed to talk to my father openly–and not about baseball: I hated my home life and wanted a divorce.
I was feeling completely worn out, bewildered; beyond believing there was anything I could do to make my marriage, my kids or even myself happy.
It was my own futility and feebleness having its way with me. Even beautiful days at the beach became bothersome and inconvenient. There were bills that couldn’t be paid; there were work deadlines that couldn’t be met; there were school schedules and party commitments being made that I wanted no part of.
Every want I heard sounded like a demand; every suggestion on how to cope reassured me I was doomed; I craved being alone.
I felt like I couldn’t take one more summer in the same places, hearing the same people talk about the same things.
It also hurt to be so aware of my misery and frustration; it hurt to be incessantly “doing”: chores, errands, work; life; all the while hoping the horrible loneliness and hostility would pass and all the “doing-stuff” would make me feel better.
As far I could tell, nothing was “wrong” or “out-of-place” on the outside–everything at home looked the same–but on the inside I felt disconnected, irritated, spent; trapped, disgusted, ashamed.
It was as if I was suddenly coming-to from a crazy sleep and there was nothing I could do to shut off the incessant alarm.
I desperately wanted quiet and calm.
It then came to me, there is one person uniquely qualified to help: my father.
Although I knew it was time to drop the Stan and Ted, I couldn’t.
Here’s what came out, instead:
Stan, comma, indent, space. You left the family for the love and peace you couldn’t find there. Did you get what you were looking for? Did you find what you wanted? We can set up a time to talk if email doesn’t work. Your answers are important to me. Indent, space, Ted.
The answer back:
Ted, Don’t do it! Stan.
There was more to come from Stan in the next two days, about how his last ten years had been happy ones, about his learning how to connect with people, about his having to confront insecurities of all sorts, about how he felt we had left him, about how he abhorred the filth and violence he found himself so much a part of.
In the end of that back-and-forth email exchange, there was a quick one-liner. No greeting, simply:
What’s your cell phone so we can talk later. When is it convenient? You have my support. How are the kids? Indent, space. Dad.
Dad. That was different.
I’d never seen that before. Never even called him that. He told me he called his father “el Viejo”–the old man–and at some point around twelve I did the same thing. After that, I never addressed him, as Papi, Father, Daddy or anything.
That one unfamiliar word fit a whole lot better than “Stan”.
♦◊♦
Three
Even though there was no more hiding behind Stan or Ted, and he had offered up “Dad”, I still couldn’t bring myself to use that word, or, any sort of endearment for that matter.
Our talk started with me saying, “Hi”.
I remember the physical details of the call: the low early November afternoon dropping long shadows across the backyard and onto the tree house; the pale cloudless sky so high and faraway; my opting to sit down in the middle of the kitchen banquette with a lined spiral notepad, like I was doing an interview, so I wouldn’t pace and become distracted.
I remember those details a lot more than I do the specific words we used or even what exactly we said. I was after an answer; I really wanted to know what to do to make things “right”.
What I needed came to me all at once, in his answer to a question.
I asked if he regretted the divorce, his leaving the family and stepping away from the world he had created and he said, “Yes”.
For instant, I felt I was in love with life again, completely at peace, like all the pain and agony I was locked into would pass, that it was best to stay married and that I could get out from under whatever had a hold of me.
But then my father went on to say how he missed the money, the security, the stuff he once had.
I was stunned: his regret was not about the hurt he shoved at us or about the contempt we threw back. He missed his old life. He missed being in control of the money, of what the family was doing, of what its priorities were.
That was it. I’d been hit in the heart. I wasn’t staying married.
What I wanted at home didn’t exist there any more. As I looked around, I felt no connection to the stuff in the house. It didn’t matter to me any more; it was as if it was someone else’s and I was just tending to it out of habit.
What I wanted more than anything was to be open, kind, considerate and welcoming; I’d grown so accustomed to being hard, bitter and miserable; to saying “no”.
What I wanted the tenderness my father had come across–even if he said he didn’t really want it.
I asked about his new wife, Veronica, if that relationship was making him happy. He insisted: he would have been better off if he had stayed married to my mother.
It became clearer as he went on: he was being made to change, being made to adapt–daily. He didn’t really like that. He preferred his old life, even if it came with its old resentments.
I didn’t like what I was hearing.
Here he was–my cranky, distant, punishing, hurtful “dad”–all shiny and new, speaking with a kindness I’d never known, and now regretting what he had to do to get clean, clear and approachable.
It reminded me of a moment in the late seventies when we smoked pot together for the only time ever. We were in his study; he sat in the floral, winged reading chair by the window and I was at his study desk with the weed at my belly.
My sisters and I knew it was there and there was only enough weed left to roll one last joint. It had come from “some girl” he’d chatted up on the train from Grand Central who was struck by the fact he had never been stoned.
She gave him a bag with about three joints of sticky blonde buds that we three had slowly and desperately picked over.
He asked me to open the drawer. I feigned astonishment at what I saw. He asked me to roll a joint, a task I fumbled with, afraid I wouldn’t keep it tight enough and that one of us, or the furniture, would catch fire.
After we smoked, our discussion led to his becoming wildly irritated, almost shouting, in an adamant outburst, declaring everything in the universe fits together like logic and mathematics; it was fiery lecture, delivered as if he were talking to someone that had suddenly become hard of hearing.
I’ll never know what he was afraid of–if he was angry, if he was intimidated–but he was certainly annoyed that anyone could or would see the world otherwise.
I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t go on about the wind, the dappled sunlight on the trees or about chaos having an innate structure.
I was simply glad to get out of that room alive.
Now here we were, on the phone a continent apart, thirty years later.
I was eager to talk about how I longed to be happy but thought better than to go that way.
When I tuned back in to him again, he was still going on about what he missed, as if somehow he really believed he’d have been happier still married, forever stuck to a life that made him rant corrosively.
There was no way I was condemning myself to that resentful state or to letting anyone keep me there. I knew throughout my whole body, head to toe and back, that it was time to make a change, come what may.
He may have sensed I found what I was after, or maybe he realized I’d gone hard of hearing again, because soon we were back at talking baseball: off-season trades and the Cardinals’ chances of repeating as World Series champions.
An interesting lesson came out of the call before it was all done: my father explained things had changed more for him between the ages of 50 and 70 than they had between the ages of 30 and 50.
This was something to consider, especially since he told me in my late teens that he considered himself the same person between 17 and 44, a piece of information I found extremely useful.
It occurred to me that he was probably right about what was coming my way now, too.
♦◊♦
Four
How many times we spoke before he died is not easy to say. I don’t remember our talking very much in 2012 and the email trail has a hole in it from New Year’s until May.
By then we’re back to Stan wondering whether Albert Pujols will ever put up Gehrig-like numbers again with Ted insisting Pujols’ mechanics at the plate are limiting his opportunities and limiting his chances of getting lucky.
“If he starts to relax and use the whole field, all will be well for him”, I typed away to Stan.
Late May saw him leave Chile with his new wife, Veronica, to visit my brother, Santiago, and his family in Jacksonville. I was busy with my baseball team, which was setting all sorts of local records; with the paper, which was trying to top a best year ever; and with getting divorced and re-settled at the same time.
In early June there was a one-line, unsigned statement of concern about his not being supportive enough and with my quick, unsigned response that he was being a fabulous parent; Father’s Day wishes came with an exclamation point, along with a book list for Santiago’s kids and a note that my kids needed those books less since I’d done a good job with them.
By August, he was worried for me again, but I reassured him I was well:
Stan,
I am ok.
I didn’t have time mid-week to elaborate much.
Work is work. Home-life is totally funky. Love-life is good.
I’m happy most moments, much better than I’ve felt in a long, long time.
Both kids are working at jobs they got on their own; Kerrie at the ladies and kids surf boutique and Colman at the local burger place.
Kerrie’s starting in the high school theater program in her free time; that and perfecting her mastery of her iPhone and making plans with friends.
Colman’s been pitching well (although he got beat last week); no college coaches approaching him, yet.
He’s discovered girls and beer and all that comes with being 17.
Not sure how to describe what’s going on between Kathleen and I without sounding insensitive and naive.
Selling the house, paying for college and clearing debt is mostly what we talk about; that and child support, which is not something I really want from her.
Each of wants to move on but there’s a bit to go through (and junk drawers, cellars, storage units and the like to clear) before all that happens for both of us.
How are you?
How did you survive having three teenagers at once?
And with all that was going on in your own life?
That may take you days to answer.
I find my hair is more gray than black, sort of suddenly.
And I’m doing what I can to stay ahead in the count.
I hope they’re leaving them over the plate for you.
Ted
That was met with:
Ted:
You sound fine.
1) Once your life has settled down, you should spend a couple of weeks with us in Chile.
2) What college expenses? Where is he going?
3) Girls are fine; beer is a waste of time.
Stan
P.S. Pujols is back to Beltran levels
And my back to him:
Stan,
Words to describe Carlos Beltran’s career statistics: Freddy Lynn, Reggie Smith, Bobby Bonilla.
Words to describe Albert Pujols’: Jimmy Foxx, Frank Robinson, Joe DiMaggio.
Yes, they are sort of even this year, but still, the two really don’t compare.
I’d like it very much if my life worked out so that I could spend a couple of weeks in Chile.
I like the Nationals, Giants, Reds, Braves and Texas.
All have been playing good baseball of late.
Ted
And then back:
Ted:
Spring doesn’t really come until late September so you have some time yet. I do expect to see some magnolias in early bloom next time I go into town, but winter still has a ways to go.
What college for Colman?
Have your hitters keep their heads steady as they stride.
Stan
And that was the last one I have from him.
♦◊♦
Colman and I were in San Francisco at PacBell Park, the home of the San Francisco Giants, when I got a call from Santiago that our father had had a stroke, that it didn’t look good.
Colman and I were just starting out a college tour, and we were 3000 miles from home, and it didn’t seem there was much I could do.
The idea of rescheduling the interviews and coming back was beyond crazy; there was no getting free time again to do the five colleges.
Santiago said he understood and provided email and phone updates once he got to Chile a few days later. By then, Colman and I were closing in on the University of San Diego, our last stop.
On the morning of August 30th, my birthday–and Ted’s, too–I was awakened by a call from Santiago saying our father had died. It was weird; I swear I saw the full moon set in that exact moment, it dropping quietly behind a hill.
We cried; we laughed; we promised to talk in a little bit. I called friends on the East Coast, got some love and reassurances and went off to practice yoga.
When I got up from the floor about 90 minutes later, I got another call from Santiago: he wasn’t totally dead, just almost dead; his vitals had fallen off completely and the doctors thought he was a goner but now they and he were coming back.
The next few days were beyond bizarre: Colman and I went east to Sag Harbor on Friday; I looked into reservations to go to Chile, but Stan’s condition improved over the weekend with Santiago saying there was recognition and the intensity in his eyes was still bright even if it was wordless.
On Tuesday, Kathleen’s stepmother had an aneurism on the street in Dublin and died; with her father being 80-some and now completely alone it seemed best she should leave Manhattan immediately and go to him through the weekend. That all taken care of, the kids covered, and my deadlines at the newspaper, too, I made reservations to leave for Chile on the next Tuesday.
I never got to see my father alive.
He died that Sunday, September 9th,.
Despite my pleas, Santiago and my father’s new wife, Veronica, decided to have the burial Tuesday morning, something I will never understand, despite their both citing Chilean burial laws, archaic rules that have nothing to do with the modern world or common compassion.
♦◊♦
Five
My trip to Chile was about my delivering a baseball, signed by those I love that I delivered to his gravesite overlooking Valparaiso; it was a liberating moment on an oppressively misty day: a simple baseball covered in smeared signatures being tucked underneath a couple of dewy wet bouquets. I was able to say “thank you” my way; it felt right.
I was able to read him this:
Hi.
There’s a lot I could do today and there’s a lot I could say. I just hope we both come away from this with the peace we each deserve and that I know we each want for each other.
I appreciate the time you took to teach me how to throw, run, hit and learn the game of baseball. That alone has brought joy into the lives of more people than either of us can ever imagine.
I appreciate the effort you made in providing me the same advantages you had growing up. The dedication and sacrifices you made were not lost on me and I am still awed by what you did.
I appreciate your humor, curiosity and passion, and I try to bring those same blessings into all I do. Thank you.
I appreciate this trip to Santiago. I hope you can see what it means.
I also appreciate the trip we took here. I had no way of knowing how sweet and special that was. It still means a lot to me.
I appreciate the help you given me recently. It’s allowed me to become more the man I’ve always wanted to be.
And I appreciate you sharing your insights into growing up. They’ve been concepts and truths that I’ve grown to rely on.
I regret I was so harsh, cold and dismissive. Especially as a teenager and young man.
Please forgive me.
I regret I could not be here sooner.
Please forgive me.
I regret I didn’t encourage you to play more.
Please forgive me.
And for all the slights, upsets, attitude and hatred I fired your way.
Please forgive me.
And know that in my heart hostility and disappointment have no place because of you.
Thank you. You were a wonderful teacher and I hope to keep learning from you.
Truth is I continued to write to “Stan” as “Ted” on occasion for a while.
In 2013, it was mostly about Colman: when Colman threw a no-hitter to lead his team to the Class C Long Island Championship, when Colman came back the next day to close out the Southeast title game and when Colman was named All-Long Island by Newsday.
I thought Stan would like to have seen all that.
I sent him a picture or two in 2014, stuff that I wanted to share: Kerrie laughing on the beach, my fiancé Aura dancing, my new dog staring at the camera; just a few moments; life’s treasures.
It’s a funny thing, those notes never bounced back; it seems he got them.
“These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.”
— A. Bartlett Giamatti, The Green Fields of the Mind, 1977
——
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Photo: pogo_mm/Pixabay
This is a real life “Field of Dreams”. Initially, I was very sad reading it, but after reflecting a bit, I realized how much we (sons) need our dads. I love sports so much because of my dad and we always have sports to talk about when there is nothing else. And “nothing” is often. For you, it was baseball. I pray this post reaches the disconnected fathers & sons.