I’ve been on this Earth for over 50 years. I have been a baseball fan for 90% of my time taking breaths. It is hard to exactly pinpoint where my love for the game began. Perhaps it was the first wiffle ball and bat set I had or the smell of my first glove. How that translated to a home viewership is a little tricker. Baseball had to have been televised in my house and since my sister is a Mets’ fan, I can’t seem to figure out how I became a Yankees’ fan. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. Anything good in my life, including baseball, can be traced back to one place.
Mom and Dad.
The ironic thing is that they weren’t even huge fans of baseball while I was growing up. Sure, I would attend the occasional game with them. My Mom was very fond of going to Old Timer’s Day festivities. It was a chance to see to see her favorite players when she was growing up, such as Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra and Whitey Ford. I remember we went to the 1984 Old Timer’s Day game when the Yankees honored Roger Maris and Elston Howard. For reasons unknown, we saw Joe Pepitone in the stands; he signed my program. Mom was a big Yankee fan in her youth; by the time I came around she couldn’t stand George Steinbrenner. Maybe it was the firings, maybe it was his bullying but for as long as I can remember, she really stopped following the Yankees, and by extension, the sport of baseball.
My Dad was born in Brooklyn and naturally, was a Dodgers’ fan. However, his joy in baseball was cut short when the team moved to Los Angeles in 1957. Thanks to him, I attended my first game on September 25, 1980, a 5-0 Yankees’ loss to the Cleveland Indians. The other game I remember was the final contest of the 1984 season. I had a paper route and I won a contest, receiving two bleacher seats on that last game of the regular season. My Dad and I celebrated (I cheered, he half clapped) when the Yanks closed out the campaign with a 9-2 victory over the eventual World Champion Detroit Tigers. It was a memorable contest as Don Mattingly edged out Dave Winfield for the batting title. That might have been the last game we attended together.
Guess what?
That’s not a big deal.
My Mom and Dad came to the most important games. Mine. I don’t care that we barely went to stadiums or sat together for nine innings of a random Yankees-Red Sox game in July. They did right by me by spending money on a bat, a glove or giving enough funds for me to win a batting helmet at the fair. They would ask how practice was, or better yet, stay to watch me practice. Mom was at every game and was my great cheerleader. The only time Dad had to miss a game was when he switched to working nights. One of the best memories I have is when Dad attempted to catch a foul ball at one of my games while leaning on his car. I could see him tracking the flight of it but he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Of course, he made the catch, holding it up for effect. For his efforts, he was awarded the game ball. Perhaps most impactful of all, they would take me to the Yankees at Spring Training when they were based in Ft. Lauderdale. They probably wanted to anywhere else in the world but it never showed. Mom and Dad knew how much I loved going to watch the workouts and being fortunate enough to get autographs.
Today, my parents only pay attention to baseball on the local sports report. They will ask my kids how their teams are doing. The upcoming playoffs mean nothing to them. Yet, it is because of them that I have become the baseball fan, nerd, savant, pick your adjective, that I am today. And for that I have two things to say.
Thank you. I love you.
