My Dad spoke to me in baseball

On a Saturday afternoon,

after returning home after the Army and Undergrad,

I would sit with my sickly and rapidly aging Dad

and watch the Red Flops,

as he often called them in the early 80s.

We’d watch on the little TV set up in the kitchen.

He’d sit backwards on a chair and chain smoke,

and swear.

I know, an endearing image of the returning adult son and the loving dad.

Baseball was the common thread,

stitched together tight as the baseball itself

that he’d throw to me while playing catch when I was about seven years old,

with him showing off that he was ambidextrous.

And so many times, over the years,

his admonitions,

his advice,

and his love would be stated in baseball.

“Babe Ruth struck out more than a thousand times!

Get back up there!”

“Yeah you’re fast,

But you can’t steal first base!”

“Three strikes you’re out,

unless the catcher drops the ball.

Don’t drop the ball!”

“You’re only as good as your last at bat!”

“Don’t be caught looking!”

And the night before he died,

I swear he looked at me and mumbled

and I swear he said,

“It ain’t over til it’s over”

Yes, my Dad’s last words were from a Yankee.

Go figure.