LETTERS FROM MY DAD: BASEBALL

My beloved Detroit Tigers are playing great baseball this year. I try to catch a part of each game. I time four hour trips up north to coincide with broadcasts. I wear my Verlander shirt whenever he pitches. It’s always been that way. Beginning around age ten I had a tiny white plastic radio I would listen to every night, straining to hear Van Patrick give the play by play, learning to keep score, penciling in finished diamonds. I remember my dear stepfather driving me across town to get Al Kaline’s autograph when he was playing in an exhibition game. My dream was not so much to play baseball as to be a sportscaster for baseball

I know I was dreaming for my dad. His letters home were full of baseball references including thanking his nephew, Phil, for sending the box score. At around nine or ten, Phil loved to keep track of the games and send the score sheets off to his Uncle Art. In his letters, Dad would often ask about the Tigers, mention a game he was lucky enough to pick up on his radio, or talk about a pick-up game he played in on the base.

Dad played baseball in high school, wrote about it for his school paper, kept score just like Phil in the Forties, me in the Fifties. I have an old signed baseball on my book case. It’s from a May 12, 1939, game between Quincy and Athens. All dad’s friends and fellow players signed it, even the coach. Dad inked in the score: Athens: 8, Quincy:2, as well as his own contributions: AB:4, HR: 1, H: 2, O:1.

I often wonder do I love baseball because I know my Dad loved baseball or just because I love baseball? Probably a little of both. My own children never showed that much interest growing up, but this year my daughter and her family are following every pitch. Instead of exchanging score sheets, we exchange texts. I heard Eldon L. Ham on IPR Radio discussing his new book, Broadcasting Baseball: A History of the National Pastime on Radio and Television. He said no sport has the connections, the stories, like baseball. I agree especially about the connections. My dad is cheering with me each time Cabrera comes to the plate. I feel connected to my family at Comerica Park when my daughter sends a picture on her phone of where they are sitting. I love watching my granddaughter do her Boesch Dance. I miss the dance now that Brennan is hurt. Memories woven over seventy years with a common baseball thread.