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Happy Father’s Day

I don't normally do much blogging on weekends.  I certainly jot down ideas or placeholders for Monday Morning Musings or Theology Thursdays, but normally I don't post anything.  But it's Father's Day weekend.  And so I blog.

I love being a dad. Since Ethan arrived, I've often wished we'd started having kids earlier, because I find being a dad such a cool experience. Oh, there are definitely trying moments, but overall being a dad ranks as awesome.

Not long ago, I was out throwing fly balls for Ethan, and he had a breakthrough. Suddenly, he was catching more than he was dropping. I started lowering the throws a bit and eventually they were more like throws to first base, and he was gloving nearly all of them. After we'd thrown nine or ten back and forth without one hitting the ground, I realized we were "having a catch."

A big, dumb, uncontrollable grin broke out on my face, and initially I thought it was just that I was really proud of my son. Since then, though, it's occurred to me that many of my best memories with my dad revolve around sports, and baseball most of all (on account of playing baseball more than other sports, with hockey a close second).

Anchorage isn't exactly rich in sporting events one can attend, but I remember going to see the Bucs and the Pilots (Cook Inlet League Baseball...I know, that game again) quite a number of times with the old man.  And we caught our share of Seawolves games (UAA Hockey).  But mostly the memories are of playing sports.

Of course, it's not like all my childhood memories with Dad involve sports.

I can remember the smell of Dad's lab (where he let me play with the colored chalk and found out I'm right-handed at a chalkboard but lefty elsewhere...I didn't find that out until college).  And his yellow notepads.  I doodled away on quite a few of those while hanging out in his office.

And I remember a lot of instances of pressing my cheek up against Dad's scruff so he'd do the jaw-clenching thing I thought was so awesome.  Or trying to squeeze between his ankles while he was standing so he'd give me the calf-flex-ribcage-crusher.

Why do so many of my memories involve muscles flexing?  Maybe it's that a son revels in his dad's strength.  Funny how that gets flipped on its head later on.  I remember Dad waking me up one morning (which I believe was about as much of a chore as I now have trying to wake my son), squeezing my arm and saying, "Feel the arms on that kid!" to no one in particular.

And I remember appreciating that Dad didn't put pressure on me about things.  I remember bringing home a report card with something sub-par on it (could've been a C, might've been a D - that one quarter of U.S. Government), but Dad didn't come down on me.  "You can do better," was all he said.  He was right.  And I did.  And it made it all the more awesome when I was working at Longs Drugs after my best semester at George Fox and Dad came driving up to hand me my report card (which had just arrived).  Straight A's.  To me, it was no big deal, but it felt good because I knew Dad liked it.  You should've seen his grin.

But back to sports. Maybe it's funny that most of my memories of Great Sports Exploits stem from my Little League days.  But that's the way it worked for me.  I was much more into sports in grade school than afterward.

There's something just so good and right about a dad being involved in his son's sports life, and I'm really glad I have so many of those memories.  I can vividly remember looking for my dad after scoring a goal (or two) in hockey, or spotting him on the sidelines of an outdoor game, shaking (shivering doesn't begin to cover it, and you'd understand if you knew my dad).  And how can I forget how Dad tried (mostly in vain) to learn to skate so he could share some rink time with me?  I'd be surprised if the injuries he sustained in that pursuit don't still pain him.

My favorite memories, however, are of baseball.  I know.  Shocker.

I remember many a night, throwing with my dad until he'd start to complain about his arm being shredded.  Of course, I now know what that feels like, after having my son insist that he'd like to catch twenty, then fifty, then one hundred fly balls as his skill has increased.  But I do like to throw, so it's a good soreness.

(By the way, just in case there's any question about Ethan's future Favorite Sports Memories with Dad, he can name the Mariners' starting lineup and most of their reserves and probably everybody in the bullpen.  And he can tell you their uniform numbers.  And show you their batting stances.  You could say I've succeeded in imprinting baseball on him.)

Dad was always quick to praise me when I'd make a good play on defense (two unassisted double-plays at third base in one game!), but here's what I remember most:

I was always a nervous batter.  There's something about the way you can hear yourself breathe in a battered, oversize batting helmet.  Makes you nervous.  I never had the quickest bat, so I always had to make sure my timing was right.  And I really wanted to get a hit.  Because dad was right behind me.

No, he wasn't the ump.  He'd always (or at least frequently) wander over behind the backstop to watch me hit.  He wasn't overbearing, never once issuing me a "Come on, Seth!  Lay off the high ones!"  No, instead, here's what he'd say:

"Okay, Seth."

That's it.  Right as I stepped into the batter's box, that's what I'd hear.  And what  a packed phrase it was.  I knew what it meant.  Dad's watching, and he knows what I can do.  And he doesn't expect me to knock the sky down or anything.  Just do my best.  I loved that there was no pressure there.

Of course, I struck out my share  of times.  But I also got my share of solid hits.  I was never the kid who hit the ball over the fence, but I could usually find a hole.  And after I'd get to first, or second, or sometimes third, I'd see Dad wandering back over to the bleachers with this big, dumb, uncontrollable smile on his face.

Now I know what that smile was all about.

Love you, Dad.  Happy Father's Day.