This post is for my father, who recently told me that he liked when I wrote about my childhood. So here you go Dad. Happy Father’s Day — no necktie this year.
My family lived less than a quarter of a mile away from the local baseball field where all three of us kids played in the Little League. Dad’s dedication to our baseball careers was saintly. Not only did he practice with us at home, he was a constant presence at our games, bringing us gum balls and M&Ms from the snack shack and yelling encouragement from the sidelines.
My older brother was a baseball phenomenon. Ever since I can remember, he was the batter that every pitcher feared, with his long muscled arms and broad shoulders that could whack balls out of the field and into the parking lot. (Parents feared him, too). Years later, when I waitressed at a nearby Dennys over college break one summer, two men came and sat in my section. One of them stared at me and asked “Are you Brian Green’s sister?” When I nodded, he turned to his friend and said, “I coached her brother. He was the most natural hitter I have ever coached.” I stood there smiling with pride, and then he looked at me and said the most evil thing ever: “You look just like your brother.”
The “natural” hitting talent was also evident in my older sister, who was one of the most sought-after players when the coaches selected teams at the start of the season. A league rule required siblings to be on the same team, so I was the kid-sister baggage that came with her formidable swing and her bullet arm. The genetic talent for hitting completely bypassed me. I could neither hit nor throw, but I could catch, unless the ball was thrown hard, and then I would drop it.
When I was about eight or nine, my sister and I were on a team that just couldn’t win a game. Our coach was a woman named Linda, who I suspect was too nice to whip us into shape. My sister’s batting prowess was our only saving grace. We lost game after game.
One day, my Dad, sister, and I showed up to a softball game against a formidable team of little girls coached by the father of a classmate of mine named Lauren. The umpire cancelled at the last minute, and it looked as though the game wouldn’t happen unless they found a replacement. The coaches enlisted my Dad to be the umpire.
Now, I should say here that my Dad is the rare type of man who values kindness above all other human qualities. He would rather be nice than be fair. He saw his two daughters on a softball team that had not won a single game, and naturally it clouded his judgment. I don’t remember a lot about the game, but I remember batting and hearing his voice call out “Ball?” from behind me as pitches flew by me unchallenged. But what father could declare his youngest daughter striked out?
We won that game. It was our first and one of our few wins that season. The fact that my father was the umpire didn’t tarnish the win any, not even when my classmate Lauren made a biting remark to me about my father’s biased judgment. Looking back, the fact that my Dad was the umpire makes the win that much more special, because it proves his devotion to his children, and it was something that we did together.
