Baseball is the most perfect of games, solid, true, pure and precious as diamonds…That’s why they say the game is never over until the last man is out. Colors can change, lives can alter, anything is possible in this gentle, flawless, loving game. – W.P. Kinsella
Doug and my Dad were sick at the same time, and as Doug’s cancer advanced, so did my father’s. There were many nights I feared where their journeys could end, and that is exactly as it happened. Doug died in June, and Dad in August. The bellows of laughter, embracing hugs, reassuring advice, small talk of books and politics and baseball, all suddenly no more.
I treasure indelible memories, in my mind and in my heart, impressions that color my every day. Big hands holding small ones, short steps keeping up with long strides, his deep voice singing hymns in church and cowboy songs at home.
No matter the season, there was always baseball. Spring training, nights with games on the radio, the race to October, counting the days until pitchers and catchers reported again. He taught me to keep score and appreciate a good bunt as much as a dramatic home run. Its rhythms and rituals, its storied history, all gave him a gift in the love of the game, and he freely shared it with all of us.
In our small town, I played summer softball. I will never forget the satisfying feeling of catching a line drive smack in the center of my glove, nor my surprise that I caught it. By high school, I knew my skills were sorely lacking. I was so afraid he would be disappointed in my decision to quit. He picked me up after my last practice and let me know that he knew I would find my path.
His love was solid and true, and his faith in me could move mountains. I remember that on the tough days. God Bless and Give ‘Em Hell, Dad, and Happy 8oth Birthday.
Grief, Reflected 