There are few things more sacred in this world than a father and son at a baseball game. Great wars have been fought to preserve this right, and it stands as one of the great gifts, often unspoken, that a father can give to his son. Walking up to the ballpark gate, the men walk subtly more upright in an attempt to regain the glory of their high school playing days, a glory all but faded now after years of physical neglect. But their sons don't see that faded glory; they are proud simply to be known as the son of that Great Man who can unlock the key to America with a simple transaction on a street corner with a man who wears a placard, "I buy tickets." The ballpark noise --- vendors, chatty fans, static-filled announcements --- grows louder as the pair near the destination of their pilgrimage...
Dad puts the glove in his backpack because it's too heavy for me to carry and I keep dropping it anyway. It is his old one, an ancient Rawlings Gold Glove model, near-ivory now and cracked after years of exposure to rural Minnesota sun and dirt. A Lee Smith signature is scrawled in ballpoint on the thumb. Neither of us knew he was the all-time leader in saves when we got his autograph. He was wearing a uniform, which was the most important (and single) criterion for who got a glove or ball thrust into their hands.
As we walk towards the Metrodome, that eyesore of 1980's sports architecture, we are joined by more fathers and sons and daughters and aunts and uncles and friends, until we are just a sea of hot, sweaty Minnesotans adorned in the jerseys representing the magnificent history of the organization --- Puckett, Killebrew, Carew, Versalles, Kaat, Hrbek --- and the ruinous (1990's) present --- Hale, Coomer, Cordova, Knoblauch, Mahomes. The sights, sounds, and smells of the ballpark are overwhelming. Dad steers me in my dazed state to our gate and through the turnstiles. The daily promotion is a Bert Blyleven bobble head. Something is wrong with the spring in mine and Bert's head remains cocked like an inquisitive dog. It's fitting.
I ask for and receive a hot dog, chips, and a coke. I am now ready to find my seat, although I spill most of the pop on a middle aged woman as I shuffle past her in Section 221, Row 13, on my way to Seat 8. It's ok though, she's wearing a Frank Thomas jersey. I give her a sheepish smile and move on. My dad mutters apologies behind me (he's no fan of the White Sox or the Big Hurt either). We settle into our seats just in time to hear the PA announcer Bob Casey say, "There is no smoking in the Metrodome, nooooo smoking in the Metrodome." That's fine, we don't intend to.
The way the players take the field proves that these are men playing a boys game. During warmups, even the lowliest utility infielder --- who would not look out of place at a grocer's check-out counter --- takes on an exaggerated, lazy swagger in the casual way he fields the slowly rolling grounders, takes a jaunty crow-hop, and zips a dart over to first. Most of the relief pitchers are still in the dugout during these early innings, but when they do saunter towards the bullpen along the left field foul line, they joke like first graders on a field trip. I sit for a few minutes with my mouth agape, soaking it all in. Dad idly leafs through the program. Some ketchup falls from my hotdog and onto my lap. Instinctively I cringe, but Dad just smiles and hands me his handkerchief. Mom would've been so mad.
"See how all the players get into the ready position as the pitch is being thrown?" I nod as I notice the subtle ballet taking place on the field. Most players tap their gloves as the pitcher reaches the top of his windup. Some then just bend over, gloves extended. Others move catlike a few steps towards the batter, in anticipation. I take mental notes and soon adopt a pre-pitch ritual reminiscent of Kirby Puckett's. He was my favorite. Dad has probably read Puckett's memoir, "I Love This Game," to me at least a dozen times. I am sure now that it was not worth reading a dozen times, but he never complained.
I am quiet as the game progresses. This is not unusual; I am usually quiet with my dad, but a high-five after a homerun sure says a lot. It's part of a special ritual that countless fathers and sons (and daughters!) have shared in over the years. The slow cadence of baseball fits perfectly into the dynamic of the relationship. It's heartbreaking to see the ritual broken so tragically and unexpectedly. Fathers will do almost anything to provide for their children. Sometimes it's something as simple as a foul ball touched by a hero...
When I was very young, my dad and I went to see the Christmas lights at the zoo. I was standing outside of the bathroom waiting for my dad to come out. Dozens of people were bundled up and milling about around me, swirling with the snow. The bathroom door was illuminated by the yellowish glow of the sodium streetlight above when he came out, decked out in Sorels and a one-piece snowmobile suit. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell, hard. The people stopped swirling and looked on in surprise. I don't think I moved --- my eyes were stuck wide-open. My father finally moved and spent a few seconds inspecting the damage, which was luckily nothing more than a bruised tailbone and an ego. I can't imagine a future where dad didn't get up...
As we walk to the car in the hot, muggy August night, I stop and raise my arms. "You're getting too big for this," he says as he hoists me up. I have a hastily cleaned mini Twins helmet that held my sundae in one hand, the other is clasped around his neck. I fall asleep in the car and wake up the next morning in my bed with the baseball sheets. This is how a ball game should end.
