Finding Your Own Way

When Felix Rodriguez was 11, he struck out to end a playoff game. Then he cried, because there’s definitely crying in little league baseball—and because he didn’t have a dad.

“Go get’em, FeeFee,” my coach told me. Hearing those words, I confidently grabbed the 27oz aluminum bat, tightened my batting gloves, and walked up to the plate. I was 11 and played shortstop for the little league Yankees. It was the playoffs, and we were playing the Cardinals, the best team in the league. We were down by a run, and the bases were loaded with two outs.

As I walked to the plate, the Cardinal’s catcher, a short chubby kid with freckles, glared at me. I had a mouthful of bubble-gum-flavored Big League Chew, so I made sure to spit on the ground when I got close to the batter’s box. I measured the plate with the bat. I glanced at the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher was tall and skinny with curly brown hair busting out of his cap.

I was ready. I briefly looked around the baseball field and bleachers. I saw the Cardinals’ parents on their feet clapping and cheering. A few of them screamed, “Strike him out! Easy Out! Swing Batta Batta Swing!”

I did my best to block out the noise. I may have only been 11, but I had a job to do. And that was to win this game. I was going to be a hero.

The pitcher wound up and delivered the first pitch. The baseball zipped by me and made a loud popping sound in the catcher’s mitt. “Strike!” the umpire shouted, pointing his crooked finger in the air.

Okay, no problem. Coach always told us to take a pitch, anyway.

The pitcher’s second pitch wasn’t nearly as good as his first—it bounced a couple inches away from the plate. “Ball!” the umpire said, although not nearly as loudly as his strike call. One ball, one strike.

The pitcher wound up and released the third pitch. I took a big swing and hit the ball far over the fence and into the woods… behind home plate. Foul ball. “One and two!” the umpire screamed. Did he really have to be so loud?

“Great cut, Fee Fee!” my coach said from the dugout. “Way to stay alive!”

I had two strikes on me, and suddenly I wasn’t so confident anymore. “Be a hitta now!” coach continued. Sweat dripped from my forehead. I clutched the bat tightly.

The pitcher went into his motion and hurled the ball toward the plate. Toward my bat. Eyes on the ball. I was locked in. I shifted my shoulder to swing level. I swung.

“Strike three!” the umpire yelped.

Back in the dugout, my teammates wouldn’t even look at me. No words of understanding. No pats on the back. It was as if I had cooties. Coach tried his best to cheer me up. “We’ll get’em next time,” he told me, but I wanted to cry. So that’s what I did. Tears trickled down my face and off my chin.

♦♦♦

Whenever I played baseball back then, I would look up in the stands hoping to see my dad cheering me on. But he was never there.

Growing up without a dad wasn’t easy. I thought I was alone, but I later realized that many of my friends didn’t have dads in their lives, either. Some friends never knew their dads. Others had dads who were in prison. I knew my dad, but he didn’t really want anything to do with me.

Today, I’m a dad. And I refuse to be a “strikeout dad.”

When my girlfriend told me she was pregnant, I was barely out of my teens. I had only recently started shaving, but suddenly I was going to be a dad. Still, I was up for the challenge. The first thing I did was make a commitment to her and my newborn child. I promised that I was going to be the best dad I could be. I was going to be a better dad than my dad.

Today, as a proud father of two beautiful children, I value my role in their lives. I’m present. On this Father’s Day, let’s remember that the title of good dad is the greatest—and most important—title a man can earn. Let’s also remember that striking out to lose a game when you’re 11 is pretty awful, and that a good dad can go a long way toward making it okay.