That's Neat

My first sports memory, unfortunately, is of soccer.

Running around, golden hair bouncing in the summer sun, fun and fancy free. My brother Kyle, Jake Garrison, Jimmy Grace, Joey Mathis...all the favorites were there.

But I remember one time especially when the coach was really riding me, and mid-way through the game he pulled me aside as I was huffing and puffing something fierce.

He crouched down like a catcher and spoke to me. "Jacob, take the ball upfield and score," he said.

I was understandably confused. Shouldn't I pass the ball? Shouldn't I incorporate my teammates?

Coach had been on my case all game and my seven-year-old self couldn't take it anymore. Breathing heavily and starting to whimper, I somehow managed to eek out a "Why?"

And I'll never forget what you told me, Dad.

You pointed at my chest, stared me straight in the eyes and said:

"Because I know you can do it."

As the years fly by, it's become obvious that I'm more like you than I ever realized. Why just yesterday I let out a huge yawn followed by bellowing, "Oh, s%*^!"

I've also started falling asleep in my recliner on Saturday afternoons.

Heck, I even chuckle just like your Dad does, that high-pitched, staccato hee hee hee. I had no idea giggles were genetic.

I also remember the first time I made you laugh, a seminal moment involving swim goggles and a bunch of clothes pins on my face. My life-long attempt at humor can likely be traced to that day.

Basically, this is all your fault.

LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE.

During my senior year of high school, the local newspaper wrote an article about how jaw-droppingly incredible I was at sports and learning and books and stuff.

(No, seriously...it happened. You have to believe me)

Anyway, the reporter asked me who the biggest influence on my life had been. I told him it was you, Pops. I meant it then and I mean it now.

Whenever I struggle out of bed in the morning, I think to myself:

Dad worked from 4am to noon for years, came home, did Dad Things and still found time to coach your baseball team without complaining. Get up and quit whining.

And of course, you introduced me to baseball.

You were in the dugout or stands for all of my biggest triumphs, of which there are a few. If memory serves, I have six career homeruns.

Two of which came in the same game...Hank Aaron Who?

Anyway, I hit one against Millville which was especially satisfying.

I rounded third base and saw the crowd, and among the clapping hands and screaming heads was one set of arms, raised straight up in the air, fists clenched in excitement, clearly happier than everyone else in attendance.

It was you, and it was awesome.

But you were also there for all of my failures, of which there are considerably more.

I've had my fair share of game-ending strikeouts. I've been known to hit into an inning-ending double play or two. I've botched a few fly balls in my day.

But you were always there, telling me to pick my head up, promising me I'll get 'em next time, assuring me that you cannot, in fact, win them all.

Everything I know about baseball I learned from you, Dad. You taught me all of the game's important lessons: Don't swing 3-0, always run out a grounder and never, ever give up.

You're the one who pushed me to try harder, run faster, do better.

You're the one who believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself.

You're the reason I get a little misty at the end of Field of Dreams.

What? No, I just have something in both of my eyes.

Still, it's not humanly possible to thank you enough for everything you've done for me, tell you how much I love you or let you know that you're the man I aspire to be like every day.

I don't know where I'll be in five years and I don't know what I want to do with my life.

But someday when I have questions of my own on how to be a good father or how to fix Future Son's batting stance, I do know who I'm calling first.

You're the best, Dad. Don't ever change.