Of Homers and Humility
A Classic Father-Son Confrontation: Would Michael Learn?
By Michael Andrew
I grew up the son of a big leaguer, so for me baseball was more than a summer pastime, it was a way of life. My father played professional ball back in the 40's and 50's then continued playing in the Sandlot and Twilight leagues until the time I was born when he was 42 years old. We lived in a part of Ohio known as a hotbed for professional ballplayers. Hall of Fame second baseman Bill Mazoroski is from my hometown, and used to come to my dad for hitting advice. Hall of Fame pitcher Phil Niekro and his brother Joe hailed from the next town down. But in the presence of such luminaries, my dad did more than teach me the intricacies of the game, he used baseball to mold me into a man.
My earliest memory is of me standing in the backyard, no more than three or four, with an enormous glove dangling from my tiny hand and dad playing catch with me.
"Look it all the way in," he'd say as the ball bounced off my chest. He'd smile and say, "Catching a baseball is a lot like life. You've got to keep your eye on what you want if you ever expect to get it."
As little league approached, dad drilled hitting maxims into my head. So much so that every time I stepped into the batters box, I heard his words echo in my ears.
"Hit the ball out in front."
"Watch the ball hit the bat."
"Hit it where it's pitched."
I distinctly remember after one particularly disappointing day at the plate, dad put his arm around me and said, "Hitting a baseball is like anything else in life, if you want to be good, it takes concentration and a lot of practice."
But the most profound lesson he taught me came as I entered my defiant teenage years. My dad introduced me to a friend of his who pitched in the minors, John Cockran, but dad called him "Spinner." I spent most of the spring with Spinner mastering the art of the breaking ball - not the typical "round house" most teens throw - but the sharp breaking, "heavy" curve; the kind that sawed off bats. By the time I took the mound for the season opener I was as cocky as a peacock on parade. I surrendered three hits that day: a bunt, a broken-bat single, and a humpback liner that I still believe our shortstop should've caught. I fanned 13 in that complete game shutout, tipping my hat and smirking at each victim as they retreated to their dugout.
After the game I thought my dad would be proud. Instead, he looked disappointed, almost angry. We drove home in uncomfortable silence, then dad did an odd thing; he sent me in the house to get his bat and a bucket of balls. When I came out we returned to the field.
"Take the mound," he said. "I want to show you something."
I walked out to the hill not knowing exactly what to expect. My 57-year-old dad dug in on the left-hand side of the plate, twisting his work boots in the loose dirt, his thinning white hair tasseling in the breeze.
"Pitch me one," he said.
He took a couple practice cuts, and I heard his keys jingling in his pocket. I must say I felt sorry for the old guy, 30 years past his prime. I didn't want to embarrass him, after all, I idolized the man. So I went through a half-hearted windup and lobbed one in there. To my amazement, he belted a high fly ball that landed just over the center field wall.
"Is that all you got?" he asked with a distorted smile, then tipped an imaginary hat to me.
My teenaged pride reared up. How dare he challenge me? The time had come to put Mr. Big Leaguer in his place. I went into my full windup and threw a two-seam running fastball inside, up under his hands.
Crack!
That awful sound, when a hitter gets all of it, reverberated in my ears. The majestic blast continued rising as it left the yard, sailed over the bleachers, then bounced on the basketball court well beyond the field. I looked back at the plate to see my dad defiantly tapping the dirt off his boots with the bat.
"You can do better than that," he said.
Now I was steamed and decided to come back with my wicked off speed stuff. I gave an extra high leg kick, shielding the ball until the last possible instant, and let it fly.
Thwack!
He jerked a frozen-rope down the right field line and into the seats. I dropped my head.
"Go get the balls, son."
I trudged across the field then climbed the fence feeling like a fool. By the time I got back, dad was sitting in the truck with the engine running. I slouched down in the seat beside him. He touched my arm and looked me in the eyes.
"Just remember, son, there's always somebody better than you, and nobody likes a showoff. A real man is confident but humble."
Ouch. Lessons of homers and humility learned.
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