Time will tell
Father’s Day has come and gone. The sports channels were full of testimonials from male athletes about their fathers’ influence and sacrifices. All those testimonials were from grown men. I wonder what did those grown men feel about their fathers as they were growing up? I would guess they never even considered their dads’ actions as being important. Those are the years where the most sacrifices are made and the most time is spent with their fathers. It’s just something Dad is supposed to do.
I grew up in a much different time. Lifestyles in Clatonia, Nebraska in the late 1950s and 1960s kept us closer to our small community of 220 residents and a large population of small-acreage farmers.
If you were lucky, three television stations would come in clear enough to watch. After Captain Kangaroo, there wasn’t much entertainment for boys in my community. We certainly wouldn’t be caught dead watching “As the World Turns.”
I don’t remember my dad, Bill, ever playing catch with me, although I’m sure he did. If I needed a baseball fix, which was most of my conscious moments, I had to prey on my younger brother, Roger, or one of the neighborhood kids.
The one kid that shared a passion for baseball close to my level was Bobby, who lived up the alley. His dad owned a couple of small pastures in the center of town. He would move five or six head of cattle back and forth between the two. The one that didn’t have cattle was our baseball field. Except for the cow pies, it was perfect for Bobby, me and any other kids we could talk into a game of baseball.
Dad did take us to major league games two or three times. In the days before the interstate system, the drive from Clatonia to Kansas City took about five hours. Dad always picked a Sunday when the Yankees were in town. Almost every Sunday back then, major league teams played doubleheaders.
I loved the Yankees. Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Moose Skowron, Bobby Richardson, Tony Kubek and, of course, Mickey Mantle were my favorites. Roger Maris would join the Yankees a little later.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I have to give my dad credit for my first interaction with an African-American. Of course, the term African-American wasn’t even a thought in a segregated America of the 1950s. A black man had been an army buddy of Dad’s during World War II. He ran a service station near old Municipal Stadium.
Dad had a term for this man that he would say to his face and not be disrespectful. It was like if the black man called my dad “Baldy,” for lack of hair. I really have never heard another person use that term since, so it must have been something special between the two war buddies.
Dad gave his friend a dollar for parking and we would walk to the ticket window to purchase our tickets. Autographs were easier and, at one time, I had a program with many of my Yankee heroes’ autographs. Unfortunately, that program was lost many years ago.
I didn’t realize it, but Dad had helped cultivate my love for baseball and exposed me to cultural diversity, which was in short supply in Clatonia. I just thought Dad was doing it because he enjoyed it and I was just a necessary annoyance.
The World Series wasn’t even broadcast on any of the three channels we received. Dad purchased my brother and me a tiny transistor radio. You could only listen to it with an earpiece. It hardly had any range, but if it was turned just right, the radio station KFAB out of Omaha could be heard with great static interference. It just so happened KFAB carried the World Series games.
Mrs. Runty was my kindergarten, first and second grade teacher. She had no interest in sports of any kind, but she let us listen to our tiny transistors during the Fall Classic. Even Mrs. Hunt, the tyrant I had for the next three grades, allowed our passion for the World Series. My brother and I were about the only two who had the transistors. I didn’t know it, but Dad fed the baseball passion.
One stark memory I have of a World Series game came on October 13, 1960. Game seven between the Pirates and Yankees had outlasted the school day. I was in the Clatonia Post Office, where Dad was the postmaster, when Pittsburgh came to bat in the bottom of the ninth and the game tied, 9-9.
Yogi Berra had hit two home runs and Mickey Mantle had two runs batted in, but the pitching had not been good for the Bronx Bombers. As I listened to the radio with Dad, Bill Mazeroski, the number eight batter, hit a 1-0 pitch off Ralph Terry over the ivy-covered left-field wall to win the World Series in an unbelievable 10-9 game. It’s still considered the most dramatic World Series home run of all-time and I heard it behind the counter in the Clatonia Post Office.
After Dad retired and had limited mobility with severe arthritis, one of his favorite things to do was watch the Cubs on WGN. Cable television had made its way to Clatonia. The Cubs played all their home games during the day. The lead broadcaster was the late, great Harry Caray.
Harry was legendary for messing up names, singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and maybe being a little tipsy on the air. I’m not sure who Dad loved more, the Cubs or Harry. After every Cub win, Harry would yell on the air, “Cubs win! Cubs win!”
About 30 seconds after Harry had proclaimed a rare Cubs victory, Dad would call me at work and simply say, “Cubs win! Cubs win!” Sometimes I thought Dad was interrupting my hard work, but now I realize he was feeding my baseball fix and just staying in touch with his son.
Dad died in 2002. When I was a kid, we never played catch and only saw a couple of major league games. I’m not even sure he watched many of my little league baseball games.
I finally realized as an adult the influence he did have on me. It’s a good lesson for anyone with a young son or daughter that you are absolutely sure is taking you for granted. Be patient, time will tell.
