“You like baseball, Mommy?”
My three-year old’s question was a simple one. My answer was too.
“Yes, I do like baseball. Do you like baseball?”
I waited, wondering what he’d say. He’s never played the game before and most of the time, he’s watching Power Rangers on YouTube while the sounds of the ballpark fill our living room.
“I like baseball, too. Poppy like baseball?”
“Yeah, I like baseball,” Poppy said, smiling brightly at my son. Inside, my heart filled with joy.
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Poppy, as my son lovingly refers to my Dad, sat across from us on the loveseat. Poppy’s hearing has waned a bit over the years, so I wasn’t sure he heard the question. I repeated it louder to give him a chance to answer.
“Yeah, I like baseball,” Poppy said, smiling brightly at my son. Inside, my heart filled with joy.
My love for the game of baseball is different than most fans. It is not experience driven the way it for those lucky enough to catch a game on the weekends or call in sick through the week to relive a childhood memory. I live nearly four hours from the closest ballpark.
But we go way back, me and baseball and Dad.
Growing up, my Sundays consisted of church on Sunday morning and baseball in the afternoon. I’d sit on the couch and Dad in his recliner. Together, we’d watch the game playing out in the friendly confines of Wrigley Field. WGN was one of the few local channels we could tune in from our 1990’s satellite dish. I’d watch until the end, praying for homer in the ninth when Chicago trailed. Dad usually snuck out somewhere in the middle, heading to the garage to tinker on whatever was occupying the garage at the time, be it his truck, a torn up weed eater, or the go-cart I loved to ride.
For the last several years, though, baseball has been missing from my world. After my Mother passed over a decade ago, my Daddy started to lose interest in the few things he once found joy in. He fell into a deep depression, which almost took his life. It is only by God’s grace it didn’t.
I watched God answer my prayers through a baseball team, as the man who raised me stepped out of the darkness and into the light.
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Tinkering with cars became a thing of the past. Watching television, including baseball, became a distant memory. I’d all but given up on ever watching another game with Dad, until the Cubs made the postseason in 2016.
Toward the end of the season, I mentioned to Dad in passing about how good the team was doing. I gushed with excitement as the playoffs neared. Though Dad would listen intently to my chatter, it looked like I’d be watching the games without him when October rolled around.
Looks can be deceiving. When the National League Championship Series started, he walked into the living room and sat down next to me. Together we watched pitch after pitch, hit after hit, or lack of hits when the offensive drought came. He retreated to his house somewhere in the middle, but he always asked if Chicago was winning or losing when I told him goodnight.
Watching the Cubs win Game Seven is a night I won’t soon forget. It was beyond amazing to see them break the curse of the goat and walk off the field as champions. They broke more than a curse that night, though. They broke the chains of depression. I watched God answer my prayers through a baseball team, as the man who raised me stepped out of the darkness and into the light. His love of the game was one of the few things he found joy in, especially during his fight with cancer. In fact, I laid him to rest with a replica championship ring resting on his finger.
For us, the game ushers in more than peanuts and cracker jacks and I plan on seizing every opportunity I can to pass baseball on to my son. You should see him try a catcher’s stance! Right now, he’s comical, but we might have the next David Ross on our hands. If not, he’ll always have the love of the game.
And hope.
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Photo by Joey Kyber on Unsplash