Happy Birthday

Today -- October 12th -- would've been my father's 81st birthday. Here's something I wrote a year ago in his memory.

Pilgrimage

Thirty-five years ago, in the summer of 1969, my mother and father drove west from Detroit for a California vacation. I rode along with them in my mother's womb, little more than a dream the two of them shared. After standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, driving across the Golden Gate Bridge, and wrapping their arms around giant redwoods, there was another tourist attraction which could not be missed. My father wanted to see Willie Mays.

Mays was fading in 1969, on his way to the worst power numbers of his career. Playing along side youngsters Bobby Bonds and Willie McCovey, Mays was no longer even the best player on the Giants, but he was still an attraction. For much of the 50's and 60's, Mays dominated the National League like few players ever have, changing the very framework of the game with his startling combination of power, speed, and defense. For my father, growing up as a black man during this era, Mays would have been an icon. And so my father took my mother to San Francisco to ride trolleys, eat some crab, and see the Say Hey Kid.

My parents watched the Giants on a sunny afternoon in Candlestick Park, and Mays played, though uneventfully. Four days later my father died of a heart attack in a hotel room in Seattle. I came into the world five months later.

For much of my life, I've tried to build some sort of a connection with my father, a man that I know only through pictures, anecdotes, and letters. Early on I found a bond through music, as I filled my collection with people like Coltrane and Miles, following the blueprint he laid out in his own extensive record library. Certain milestones, like the births of my children and a recent trip to his grave, have brought me closer to him, but he still remains elusive in many ways. Last week he came a little closer.

Barry Bonds is this generation's Willie Mays. Without question, he's the best player I'll ever see, a player whose finished career will dwarf legends like Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, Hank Aaron, and even Mays. And so like my father before me, I took my wife on a pilgrimage two weeks ago to see Bonds and the Giants play the Padres in San Diego's Petco Park.

I went in hopes of seeing him hit his 704th home run, but he ended up going hitless with a pair of walks. It hardly mattered. As I sat in the right field stands, watching Bonds at bat and in the field, I felt my father's presence, as if a circle were closing. Thirty-five years earlier he had sat in Candlestick Park watching Willie Mays, and now I sat in San Diego, watching Willie's god-son. And so today, on what would’ve been my father’s 80th birthday, I celebrate the memory of a man I never knew, partially because of Barry Bonds. Baseball has always been a game for fathers and sons; it was nice to watch a game with my father.

Comments

[Dutch]

Beautiful. Touching.

Now I feel like such an asshat for writing a post on Monday about how I don't like baseball anymore.

Seriously, you're post answers a question I have had for some time. Part of the reason a love of sport perpetuates is because of a bond between a father and his child, a bond based on powerfully emotional experiences watching sports together in childhood or even, in your case, a bond that stretches between the living and the dead.

Thanks for sharing this.

[Dutch]

I can't believe I did a you're for a your.

Perhaps I should spend a few days in your class, SD, I could probably stand to diagram a sentence or two.

[Rose]

Very touching. Thank you for sharing!

[MetroDad]

Beautifully touching, Hank. I hadn't known that about your father before. I think it partly explains why you're such an amazing and involved father. And I especially love how you've used sports to connect with your kids in ways that have nothing to do with competition or ego (like your post awhile back on Alison scoring her first basket.) I find it all very inspiring and hope that I can take the same approach with my child (or children).

Thanks for sharing.

[tpon]

This is truly beautiful and touching. Baseball is something that I share with my father, although I do ahve the pleasure to continue to enjoy it with him.

There is something about the sport that is timeless and perfect for father/child bonding. The care and effort it takes to learn the game and the scroekeeping, the length of the games(and how, when inside a ball park everything else seems to slow down for a while), the smells and sounds...

Thank you for letting me take a moment to remember the important things.

[ann adams]

I'm grateful to Dutch for sending me here. What a beautiful tribute.

I grew up in the late 40's and early 50's in upstate New York listening with my favorite uncle to the Brooklyn Dogers.

It started my love of baseball which has continued to this day and I'll always associate the game in my mind with my uncle, me, an ancient radio, and Vin Scully.

The Giants and I moved to S. F.about the same time. With the Dogers in L. A., I started (reluctantly) following the Giants. I've since learned to love them.

However, to this day, when Vin does the playoffs, I mute the t.v. and listen to him. The memories come right back.

[Matthew]

Thank you for sharing such a touching story. I lost my father at an early age. I think something like that has the ability to shape how you want to be as a parent.

Your father would be proud.

[shannon]

i need to email you, but can't find any way to. please email me!