Striking Out

My dad’s been gone for nearly ten years.

And I can say without any hesitation, I only have good thoughts of him.

Funny how time works.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad was a GREAT man.

Honest.

Sincere.

Supportive.

Great.

But when it came to me, his only son.

His only child.

He carried a hammer with him.

Not literally.

That would’ve hurt.

In fact, he never hurt me.

But he did lose his temper with me.

More than once.

Like the time I was supposed to be at the corner waiting for him to pick me up.

So I could go get a haircut.

But instead I was at home playing with the local kids.

You would’ve thought I killed someone.

I’ve never seen his face so red.

But he got over that one.

Eventually.

Or on the day of my Bar Mitzvah.

When I decided to loosen the knot in my tie.

He was not a fan.

So much so that when he tightened it, I could barely breathe.

Thankfully time.. and a little therapy... has erased all of those memories.

And now I only have good ones.

I’m hoping my son can say the same when he is my age.

Now all-in-all, I’m a pretty good dad.

Or so I am told.

But perfect?

Not so much.

Need an example?

Let’s go all the way back to... 

...yesterday.

You see, I see greatness in my son.

I know, that’s my job.

But really, it’s there.

It’s there in the classroom.

It’s there at home.

And it’s definitely there on the baseball field.

This little one has the opportunity to do some great things with a bat.

A little weight room.

A couple hours in the batting cage.

A few shots of steroids.

He’ll be great.

But seriously folks.

From the moment he put on his uniform, on or around age five, he’s had it.

You know... IT.

Not sure exactly what IT is, but he’s got it.

I know it.

His coach knows it.

The problem is he doesn’t know it.

Or doesn’t see it.

Or maybe worse, he doesn’t believe it.

I have tried motivating him.

In every way I know. 

But I haven’t found the magic touch.

I have been too hard.

I have been too soft.

I have been on him all the time.

I have walked away.

I have patted him on the back.

I have kicked him in the butt.

Somedays we are close.

Somedays, not so much.

Yesterday... not so much.

After his game, I took him into the privacy of our basement and gave him a speech.

Actually, it was more lecture than speech.

The gist was -- “You are great, but if you don’t work harder, you won’t be great.”

It was filled with all the nutrients a good lecture needs.

Cliches.

Loud Volume.

F-bombs.

Not my proudest moment.

By far.

And what made it worse were the tears pouring out of my son’s eyes.

Everything I was saying may have been right.

But every way I was saying it was oh so wrong.

Downright pathetic.

Instead of teaching.

And loving.

And holding.

I was yelling.

At the top of my lungs.

At a boy.

My boy.

Who just wants to be loved.

And instead of being loved, he was being screamed at.

By his dad.

What in the world happened to me.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much last night.

And when I got up this morning, I made him a PB&J sandwich.

And I gave him a hug.

Or 10.

And when the clock hit three, I picked him up at school.

The big hand had never moved so slow as it did today.

When I got him, we went directly to the batting cage.

I knew I couldn’t change yesterday.

But I couldn’t wait to start today.

We didn’t pass go.

There was no $200.

But there was a bat.

A new bat.

Courtesy of Daddy Guilt.

(I got it on the clearance rack at 75% off, so we were both happy.)

We spent over an hour at the batting cage.

Laughing.

And smiling.

And a little teaching.

But mostly smiling.

And when the day was done we got in the car to head home.

And he said, “Thank You”.

“Thank you for taking me to the batting cages.”

Now I’m the one with tears in my eyes.