My dad always jokes that he wanted to have 9 sons with my mom; enough for his own baseball team. "I made it simple," he chides. "Three sets of triplets. Why was that so hard?" Instead of 9 boys, however, he was "blessed" with 2 girls. And, thus, my sister and I took the brunt of enough love for the game to inspire the team that never was.
"Instead of Mother Goose, I was put to bed to stories of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig...and the great Shoeless Joe Jackson."
I say he jokes about wanting 9 sons, but I know part of him, no matter how much he loves my sister and me (which is A LOT) would have loved at least one boy. And as much as he loves my daughter (which words cannot describe), he was praying I was having a boy, and really, really, really wants me to have another kid, and soon...and male. I say all of this with not even a hint of negativity. I never felt like I wasn't good enough because I was a girl, and trust me, I've known a girl or two in my life who have honestly felt that way. Instead of lamenting our non-boyness, however, my dad did everything he could to turn us into the best softball players this side of the Mississippi.
I sometimes wonder at what point in our childhood that he realized my sister was the better prospect, as he coached my sister's team a few years in a row and the spark in his eyes when Nikki played was always just a bit brighter than it was watching me. This probably stems from one basic fact: Nikki loved it more than I did. She inherited not only my father's athletic prowess, but his intensity, his drive, and his temper (but that's another story, which involves my sister denting a fence post with a baseball bat). Although my parents honestly supported my sister and I in our triumphs and our failures, and I knew I would be loved as long as I gave it my all and played with class, I can still remember the look on my dad's face after each of my triple plays (yeah, that's right, it's plural. I had TWO.) For me, there was nothing in the world as wonderful as earning the respect of my dad for something I had accomplished in sports. It was like, hey Dad, look- I'm awesome, too.
And awesome he was. Growing up, we'd spend nights and weekends at parks around the valley watching while my dad played in various softball leagues. On the field, and especially at the plate, my dad was a beast. He could crush a ball over the fence and make it look like a Sunday stroll in the park. He was everything: Popeye, Superman, Babe Ruth, all rolled into one. Back then, watching him wasn't always what I wanted to do, and I remember wandering around to play and basically do anything I could to avoid just sitting and watching him play. When I would watch, though, I remember thinking he was the best player on the field, on any field. I'd give anything to watch him play again today, but such is the curse of youth: never knowing what a gift your experiences are until it's too late to get them back.
"He'd put on a few pounds, and the spring was gone from his step,but he could still hit."
And it was the same with watching games at home. My sister and I would whine and complain when the tv in our family room was tuned to a baseball game, begging to be allowed to change the channel. I want to pull that little girl aside and say, "sit on his lap, nuzzle your head onto his chest, and just listen to him tell you about the game." There were life lessons to be learned by watching baseball with my dad, that was for sure. Lessons in character, in team building, in perseverance and in faith, which is what being a fan is all about. My dad was so excited when Arizona was awarded its first baseball franchise, and was a Diamonbacks fan even beforewe knew what the team would be called. He took us down to the BOB (Bank One Ballpark) for a game during opening week, and looked like a kid in a candy store as we explored the stadium. When the Diamondbacks started selling bricks for their front concourse, my dad purchased on with the inscription, "My 3 Girls, Shana, Nicole and Lynnette. May you stay Forever Young. Dad." I've had a look through many of the bricks out in front of the stadium, and biased though I am, I have yet to find one with so much beautiful
sentiment in such a short space.
The day we went down to find our brick, Dad was so excited because ours had been placed in the Kirk Gibson section of the concourse. Excitedly and with a glint in his eye, he told us about the 1st game of the World Series where the Oakland A's played the Los Angeles Dodgers. Injured and limping, Kirk Gibson came off the bench in the bottom of the 9th for his only appearance of the series to hit the game-winning homerun, setting the tone for a series that the Dodgers would win, despite being noted underdogs. It's hard to not get excited around my dad when he's telling stories like that, and I remember feeling so proud that our family would forever be nestled next to such a great sports memory.
"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game. It's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again."
When the Diamondbacks started transitioning from new-team-finding-its-footing to contender, a new spark came into Dad's eyes. "We can do this; we can win it all," he told me at the NLCS game he took me to. And when we made it into the World Series, he and I spent hours on the phone trying to get through to purchase tickets each time they went on sale, each time with no luck. I wanted so badly to experience a World Series game with my dad that I even turned down a ticket from the boy I was dating at the time when he told me he only had the one to give. Sure, we had offers for tickets from a few people, but the $500- $1000 price tag (no joke) kept us from attending. Instead, I came home from ASU for the games to watch with my parents, and, like most AZ folks, will never forget Game 7. For me, though, the memory isn't just watching Gonzo pump his arms up and down around the bases, although that was pretty sweet. For me, it was going into the bottom of the 9th inning, and pacing around the house, nervous that we wouldn't pull it off. "Sit down, Shane. We've got this," Dad said. I did what I was told.
"We can do this, I know we can do this. Come on boys. You've got this," he muttered over and over as the inning progressed. And when Gonzo came up to bat, he looked me in the eye, tears already forming, and said, "We are going to do it! We're going to beat the F-ING YANKEES!" I reached over and grabbed his arm, and when that little blooper of a hit sealed our fate and the World Series had been won, I swear I felt an electric shock come off his arm as he jumped from his chair, screaming by this point, "WE DID IT! WORLD SERIES CHAMPS BABY! WOO HOO!" Soon, I was scooped up in his arms for a crushing bear hug, as he ran me outside to high five and hug some neighbors, most of whom had also come out to honk car horns and join in the celebration. In 2000, my dad had his hip replaced, and even though every other day up until then you could see the pain in every step, I know in that moment that he didn't feel a thing. He was 35 again, maybe younger, and I was the little girl he would hoist onto his shoulders. Together, we were 10 feet tall.
Nowadays, I watch baseball games by my own decision, a far cry from the whiny little girl begging to watch Full House or some other (let's face it) dumb show that I wanted to see. I cheer for the Diamondbacks always, and the St. Louis Cardinals for my husband (as long as they aren't playing my team, of course), and always remember the guy who taught me everything I know about the game. Some people say baseball is a sport that bonds fathers and sons, but I know the truth. As I watch Anna sit on the couch next to Mark for games (mostly so she can delay bedtime, but still), or get super excited at a game at Chase Field (which I still accidentally-on-purpose call BOB from time to time), I know that it doesn't matter if you have sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, or what-have-you; sharing your passion for something you love will always impact the next generation. I'll always love baseball, I'll always cry when I watch Field of Dreams, and I'll always be happy to head down to the ballpark to pick up a bobblehead for the guy who made me who I am today. It's really the least I can do.
John Kinsella: "It's so beautiful here. For me...For me, it's like a dream come true. Can I ask you something? Is this heaven?"
Ray Kinsella: "It's lowa."
John Kinsella: "Iowa?"
Ray Kinsella: "Yeah."
John Kinsella: "I could have sworn it was heaven."
Ray Kinsella: "Is there a heaven?"
John Kinsella: "Oh, yeah. It's the place where dreams come true."
Ray Kinsella (looks around, sees his wife and daughter): "Maybe this is heaven."
John Kinsella: "Good night, Ray."
Ray Kinsella: "Good night, John. Hey, Dad? You want to have a catch?"
John Kinsella: "I'd like that."
