I will not say that I’ve been a follower of this team my entire life, but my family always has been. I was born into this tradition, and I have proudly accepted it. My parents where there when Gibson hit that magical HR, and in a way, I was there as well. I was barely 4 months in my mom’s womb when that happened, and every chance he gets, my dad recounts of how exciting it was being in the RF pavilions that night.
As can be, growing up was always a weird experience, always seeing and hearing people speak of the Dodgers but I wouldn’t have a clue who they where. My dad would take me to games at the age of 1,2,3,4,5 etc. and when he couldn’t, he’d lay in his bed and sit me next to his belly, crank up the radio and listen to Vin Scully call the game, yet I didn’t know who Vin was.
To me, going to a game wasn’t just about the players or the people. I’d look at the grass, and just be amazed by the surrounding, encased by the history around me. I’d always point at everything, and when I didn’t, it was because my dad would hold my hands down.
It took me until I was about 7 when I began to understand the game of baseball, really incorporate it to my life. I began to play little league and collect baseball cards, read the newspaper, talk about the team, etc. I literally breathed baseball. I couldn’t imagine a greater joy than to go as a baseball player for Halloween, well that or Power Ranger. But I will never forget the values it taught me: leadership, dedication, strength, courage, humbleness, etc.
My dad was always a strong, gifted man, able to crush any pitch a mile long, and he didn’t swing with anything but his own bat. He loved that bat, cared for it because of the respect he held for the game. He would always tell me, wood is better than aluminum. Never understood what that meant. But in all likeliness, I admired that bat, I wanted that bat. I would hold it, and I would crush balls maybe 100 ft. Again, I was about 8.
But the point was that I loved the bat. After so many hits unfortunately, all things had to come to an end. I broke the bat that had been my dad’s since he was a boy probably and rather than tell him, I went with my younger brother to the local Home Depot, bought some duck tape, a few nails and felt and paint. I tried putting felt to connect the handle and the barrel back together, hammer some nails into it and then wrap tape around it. Finish it off with black all around.
I will admit, I was only 8 yrs old, and to think of something like that, at that age, was brilliant. Well, to me at least. To that point, my dad had never gotten mad at me, but when I gave the bat back to him, he used it immediately in the backyard and when it broke in his hands, and he saw all the nails and felt and tape on it, he immediately chased me all around the streets with the handle part until I jumped into my neighbors pool.
I didn’t get out until my mom showed up, and he put it in writing that he wouldn’t hurt me, putting it on Vin Scully, Fernando and the Dodgers. Safe to say, I got out alive.
On my first Opening Day of Middle School, he surprised me by picking me up from school early, along with my friends, (parent’s where notified and agreed to prior) to go to the baseball game. I’ll never forget. 20 people in a Van crammed screeaming “Lets’ go Dodgers, (clap clap clap clap clap) We got out of a test (clap clap clap clap clap)..”
As a grown man, I cannot say that I don’t miss those days as much, realizing that my dad did what not many parents would do for their kids…everything. He changed his work schedule for his kids, became president of the PTA, ran for school board, and yet, slept in with me whenever I wanted to watch I Love Lucy.
Those days are gone now, as work took over his life, and pressing issues needed to be dealt with, but his passion has always remained. He gave me a ball he caught in the 81 World Series, gave me his glove, although through this, I found out I’m left handed when it came to catching and throwing, but that I could catch and throw with my right hand as well, and he taught me what it meant to be a man.
I guess I miss those days, myself being 22 years old. I’ve grown up, gotten a job, and been more focused on school than ever before. I have a daughter now, just turned 4 months on June 26th, and getting bigger by the day. She might not know it yet, but I do love her, and for what its worth, I’d give her anything she wants. My brothers have also grown up, to the point where one goes to UCR and lives in the area and my little brother, whom now is going after girls.
I can’t say I didn’t see this coming, but along with my little brother, we became season ticket holders two years ago, just because we wanted to. We weren’t into the entire backdrop fiasco we have now, we just loved baseball. It was all my savings from working my Work Studies job at my University that got those tickets, but for my brother, I gave him season seats on his birthday.
We didn’t renew this year, as the economy and a putrid team and atmosphere around the team cast doubts on the season. Sometimes I look back and say why didn’t we, but at the end of the day, I understand why. My daughter and my brother might not, but my dad and I know. We love the game too much to make it mean anything as much as money. In the end, money means nothing when compared to who you spend your time with. And so, while I may hold a lot of anger and disgust for the situation surrounding the team, my daughter will never know of it.
To her, everything is brand new, and she is the most innocent of creatures. Just like I was when I was born, she too will someday pass everything along, but for now, I’d rather spend my time at home with my daughter laying at my side, listening to the great Vin Scully call the game. In every which way, she is my everything, and that alone speak volumes, for her mom is a Padres fan and her dad a Dodger fan, and yet, we love her all the same.
Maybe one day, she’ll see all the souvenirs and bobblehead’s, the hats and pictures, article clippings, dirt samples, cards, baseballs, bats and helmets, and see the true value behind them. Because sitting alone, atop my collection of all that I’ve ever collected, and all that is worth any sentiment to me, is a picture of my father, my daughter and her mommy, my brother’s and my mom.
To me, baseball might mean all this and so much more, but it’s insignificant if not for those whom you care about. My daughter is my everything, and only for her, would I ever give everything else up. And just like me, she was born into this passion, and so far, she hasn’t complained a bit.