I was maybe seven or eight years old. Hot June day in a small mountain town in Southern California. My dad was out back flipping burgers on the grill, the smell of charcoal and beef mixing with the late afternoon heat. My mom and sisters were inside working on side dishes. It felt like summer had just started, and all I wanted to do was play baseball.
My Little League season had ended a few weeks earlier. The Dodgers were playing the Yankees on TV, and watching it made me itchy to get outside. So I asked my dad if he wanted to play catch. He stepped away from the grill for a while. We tossed the ball back and forth, and I don’t remember much about the conversation. But I remember the feeling. That moment stuck.
From then on it became a thing. My dad worked hard, commuting from our town into the city every day. But whenever I asked him to hit me grounders or pop flies, or catch my pitching — I definitely bounced some curveballs off the concrete, sorry Dad — he always said yes. Even after a long day at work.
Father’s Day and baseball just fit together. It’s the holiday that signals summer is really here. Burgers on the deck with a game on the TV is about as good as it gets. It’s like a warmup for the Fourth of July, except the focus is on your old man.
The real bond went deeper than one Sunday in June
Growing up, I wanted to make the big leagues. Obviously that didn’t happen — I’m writing this, not playing for the Dodgers today. But I spent my whole childhood chasing that dream, and my dad never once told me it was unrealistic.
I started playing travel ball in sixth grade. The team was based in the city, so games were on weekends. My dad would make the same hour-long drive he did for work, except now it was to watch me play doubleheaders in the Southern California sun. He never complained. He didn’t mind giving up his Saturdays and Sundays to watch his only son play ball.
Somewhere along the way I realized baseball wasn’t really about the game itself. For years during spring training, my friends and I and all our dads would pile into one family’s motorhome and drive to Arizona. Father’s Day isn’t in March, but those trips felt like Father’s Day anyway. Just quality time with our dads, watching guys like Vladimir Guerrero Jr., Clayton Kershaw, Grady Sizemore and Tim Lincecum.
Some things don’t change
I played through high school. I was good but not elite. I never made the big leagues. But when Father’s Day rolls around now, I’m still lucky enough to spend it with my dad. There’s usually a ball game on — today we’ll probably have the Dodgers game playing. My dad is a big golf guy too, so the US Open will be on the other TV.
Every time I visit my childhood home, one of the first things that comes back to me is playing catch with my dad in the backyard. That feeling hits hardest on this specific day.
Thanks for all the memories, Dad. I wouldn’t be who I am without you. Father’s Day will always feel like baseball to me.
Happy Father’s Day, everyone.
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