Now And Forever: How Being A Father Keeps You From Being A Dad
Violet and Henry and Dad
There were times when I was all by myself way out in left field when it hit me like a ton of bricks.
I’d be playing with a blade of summer grass, or watching sparrows looking for worms over by the fence when I should have been getting ready for the next pitch, and my eyes would wander out from under my ball cap and focus on the wooden bleachers next to our dugout, and I would see my mom sitting there, a can of supermarket soda in her one hand, her other hand usually shading her eyes so she could see me when I saw her.
She’d wave then, a big flappy MomWave and I’d smile, embarrassed, and kind of wish that I could melt into the short-cut field.
But still.
She was there.
She was always there to watch me play, to watch her average kid play average ball in the early summer evenings, to take me to Dairy Queen when the game was over, if we won or if we lost, it didn’t mean a damn thing to her.
I reckon I played baseball from the time I was about five years old. Tee-ball, Little League, Babe Ruth league, middle school, I played them all when I was young. And if I wasn’t out on the field in some organized game, well then I was down in the vacant lot playing with my friends or out in my Mom-Mom’s long narrow yard, throwing up a filthy ripped pink rubber ball with my own hand and then popping it with my aluminum bat.
I must have thrown 50,000 baseballs in my time; I must have took about that many swings, too. But sometimes, no matter how much I loved playing the game, it came out of nowhere and slammed into me hard.
My father never saw me play. Not even once.
He never had a catch with me in the yard, never threw me any batting practice. Nothing. Oh he was alive alright. And close by, too. We even lived in the same house for my tee-ball years and all, but he didn’t show up.
I’ve let that go for years now. For decades. But, I gotta be honest, it pisses me off here recently. And it’s been breaking my heart forever.
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This Sunday is Father’s Day, but that name is bullshit if you ask me.
Pretty much any man can be a father, as long as his fish swim alright. But there’s nothing great about that. There’s nothing all that great about being able to reproduce, really. Lots of living things do it. Hell, they all do. If you think about it, any regular guy can take a sip of wine and unsnap his dirty cutoff Levis and do the deed/become a father and have a cigarette lying back in bed, his head rested on a pillow, all in the course of about five minutes if he’s no real Lothario.
Maybe twenty minutes if he takes his time.
Twenty minutes tops to become a father.
The word “father” means nothing. It’s a biological term, a science book word. It’s like saying, “He’s a meat-eater.”
Oh yeah? Is he?
So what?
Join the freakin’ club.
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I always knew what dads were, even if I didn’t have one.
I wasn’t blind. Or dumb. I saw the guys who came out to coach our ballclubs, regular guys/still in their work uniforms/thin menthols dangling from their mustached lips/their smoke wisping up from their fists as they smoked and hit fly balls at the same time like only dads bother to do. Their sons would be helping them lug the big military bags of clanking bats from the trunks of their cars, down to the field where the rest of us were waiting to practice or play.
The dads I saw weren’t perfect. I knew that much, too.
I got the sense that these guys weren’t indestructible. A lot of them seemed grumpy at times, exhausted from stuff I had no idea about, stuff at home maybe, Or at their jobs. But I didn’t care. I looked up to them. I loved getting big gusts of their cigarette smoke up my nose while we all sat in the dugout and they read out the starting line-ups and told us to have some fun out there/to take our time/to think about what we were doing.
Looking back now, I guess they knew I was one of the dad-less. “He’s got a father,” they probably told each other when they met up at the Beef’n'Beers, “But I ain’t ever seen him.”
Sometimes I wonder what it might have been like if I did have a dad there with me all those years. Would I have been a better hitter? I never did manage to put one over the fence. I never did get to know any of the big thrills like that. Ahhhh, but I can’t pin that on the poor bastard, I know that deep down.
You have to swing your own bat, Buckaroo. Ain’t no daddy can do that for you. But at least he can be there, watching you strike out or whatever. And maybe even drive with you and your brother and Mom to the Dairy Queen when the game is all over.
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Eating an ice cream cone on the warm pinging hood of the car as the last drips of daylight roll down the horizon wall, just sitting there by your kids, on a summer night, that doesn’t sound too bad, huh?
No, sir. Not if you’re a dad it doesn’t.
If you call yourself a dad, then that right there sounds about as good as it’s ever gonna get.
You can also find Serge on his personal blog, Thunder Pie.
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More from Serge:
Come On Up For The Rising: Heading Home After the Fire
Picnic In The Raindrops: A Daddy’s Best Meal Ever
No Neckties, No Cologne: 20 Father’s Day Gifts I Really Want
Luckily he did teach YOU how to be a great dad. You don’t take one minute of your roll as a dad for granted and you can thank him for that
First of all Happy Daddy Day bro! Honestly man you are amazing, at least the way you tell my story. I have said it to you before but we are so much alike that it’s sometimes scary.
I’m so glad you are putting all of this down for us to pick up.
The way you described your mom sitting at the game, that’s my mama too, right down to the store brand soda. But she was ALWAYS there, no matter what.
…”But I didn’t care. I looked up to them. I loved getting big gusts of their cigarette smoke up my nose while we all sat in the dugout and they read out the starting line-ups and told us to have some fun out there/to take our time/to think about what we were doing.”
…yep. Nothing more to say
I could go on and on about this whole post, but I won’t. Just know man, the more I read of your stuff, the more it’s good to know I wasn’t the only lil’ dude in this situation.
I hope you and I can one day get together and “cheers” these poor sons o’ bitches
Always a pleasure Serge, congrats on getting back in the house and have a great Dad’s Day, you deserve it.
Isn’t it too bad for all the fathers out there who miss out on being a dad. And yes, their kids who have broken hearts forever.
I don’t have the same animous towards “father” that you do, but I get your sentiment. And I think it’s worth noting that mere fathers can become dads, especially if they start sooner rather than later. It’s any interesting idea…maybe even to think that the “male parent” role lies on a spectrum from father all the way to dad, and that sometimes we act merely like one who offered some chromosomes, and other times we fulfill the measure of our creation.
http://raisedbymydaughter.blogspot.com/
Out of that crack in your heart, courtesy of your pops, some blooms are exploding: your kids!
Sometimes you get a little flowery for me, Serge – but you totally got me with this one.
I have a great dad. He is the most important guy in my life. Life without him would be… unrecognizable, at a minimum.
Congrtulations for being that kind of dad to your kiddos!
guajolote, I know. Sometimes I get a little flowery for me too. Thanks for digging this one though…
That broke my heart.
You got the tears rolling today–maybe because I have a son playing Little League. I’m fortunate; my husband is one of the guys standing behind the backstop, but your piece made me realize exactly how my son would feel if his dad wasn’t there to cheer him on. My son is lucky, and Henry is too because you’ll be there to watch him when he is a t-baller picking his nose in left field and maybe even hitting one over the fence in majors. And I know you’ll enjoy every minute of the whole ride.
Thanks for this. I didn’t call my father yesterday. Thought about it a few times because it would have been the polite thing to do. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It would have been so fake, so hypocritical, just added another chink in my heart. You know?
My dad had a “father” but not a “dad.” When he had children, he knew he wanted to be a “dad” because he knew what it felt like not to have one. He was always there for softball games, cheerleading events, school plays etc…He always said he thanks his father for showing him what NOT to do as a dad. My dad is the greatest…. <3 Thank you for posting this wonderful essay.
I had a similar situation except I have a “mother” who could have cared less about me or my two sisters. However I have the most amazing DAD in the whole world who loved us through everything. We were the 4 musketeers. It is the same for women anyone can be a mother and carry a baby takes a Mom to love and care for her children.
Oh my… This stopped me cold. Probably because I am raising a son whose father lives 3000 miles away. He is not perfect, but shows up for at least a couple of games a year.for I wish it was more, but it is more than a lot of kids get who’s dad’s live in the same area code. That my boy will never have to say “my dad never saw me play” makes it hurt a little less.
And after reading your beautiful piece, I am even more grateful for my brother, who even with two kids of his own, rarely misses my son’s games.
Sniff…