Watching sports with my dad was one of my favorite parts of childhood. His teams were my teams, I knew all the players and plays, and whatever sports he loved, I loved. Except for one:
Baseball.
I remember summer nights seeing him reclining in his green chair watching grown, seemingly out-of-shape men in red jerseys doing a lot of spitting and not much running.
The Reds were his team and those red jerseys were always a part of summer nights on the Ashworth family tv.
My dad (grandfather name Fuzzy) grew up near Cincinnati and his baseball heart bled red through decades of losing seasons. Every summer, he would leave home and venture back for a game with his dad, childhood buddy and brother to cheer on those Reds together.
Poor Dad had three daughters and my tomboy sister joined them a couple times to try to carry on the tradition. But not me. I concluded that baseball was boring.
Must be a boy thing.
And because it is such a boy thing, when Will found out we were having a boy in the ultrasound room back in 2012, he called his best friend. He was so excited, but jokingly said, “I hope this doesn’t mean I have to be a baseball dad.” An athlete his entire life, there was only one sport he never played:
Baseball.
And while he didn’t know much about it, he knew how much a dad mattered to a boy on any field. Having lost his own father at 16, he knew he wasn’t going to miss a minute. “What if he likes it?” he asked his friend.
…
Fast forward to 2023, I think likes would be a strong understatement. I laugh as those familiar Reds jerseys have made their way back into my life, now worn by my two favorite guys and their team.
When you’re 10 years old, your buddy’s dad (who happens to like the Reds) is the Head Coach, your dad is Assistant Coach and your neighborhood best friends pitch to you as catcher, something magical happens at the ballpark. We’ve had many seasons at the park, but this one has turned my heart red for baseball. Play by play, I’ve learned it’s everything but boring. Words like “drop” and “good eye” that once puzzled me are ones we yell all the time. I am still learning the complexity of the game and so appreciate the mental toughness of the players. There is nothing out of shape about a baseball player!
And they are not the only ones that are tough. The younger siblings at the park live on nachos, salty popcorn, and an occasional hotdog for dinner on game nights. With little supervision from their mesmerized parents, gangs are formed, snacks are shared, tears are shed and life is lived under those bleachers.
On top of those bleachers high fives fly and team friendships are forged. The late season air can be as thick as the approaching summer heat because every dad in America believes his son is an All Star. This is baseball.
It’s older men pulling up a chair who don’t even have a kid or grandkid on the team. They remember these days. This is baseball.
It’s muddy pants cloroxed to the point of holes.
It’s…Hey dad, can we throw? Hey dad, can we throw? Hey dad, can we throw?
It’s the cheer from both teams when that kid we all love in the outfield finally catches the pop fly.
It’s Will coming home from work on his phone with that don’t-interrupt-me-this-is-important look. His boss? No. It’s Head Coach David. They are making serious plans and catching up on all the park news. No one interrupts dad when it’s David. This is baseball.
It’s the end of the year party with shirts vs. skins volleyball in our hospitable teammate’s front yard. It’s burgers, beers, cupcakes, bobblehead trophies and neighbors being neighbors. Those moments of sweaty pure fun are helpful when you stand shoulder to shoulder and receive Runner Up medals for a one-run loss in the championship game riddled with umpire controversy. Sit on our side and you’ll know, blue never leans red. How is it possible to have your heart full of hope and then heartbreak 50 times in a single game?
How is it possible the season is over? The team lingered on the field under the lights after the closing ceremony. Hey dad, can we throw? The smell of popcorn faded to green grass. The stands were empty and the cars were gone. Somehow on that quiet field under the bright lights, the cheers and hope rang louder than the all-too-loud loss. The music was over, but you could still hear it…those who missed a pop fly were still watching it fall into their glove…those who struck out were still standing at the plate about to hear that crack…and the Reds were still about to clutch the win in that extra inning. Something about it makes you want to come back.
…
And come back is what my dad got to do this spring. John could pick anywhere to go for his 10th birthday (our family tradition, just for age 10) and after wearing a Reds jersey at the park, there was nowhere on the planet he’d rather go than to see the real Reds in Cincinnati. He loaded the car with his buddy, Coach David, Will and Fuzzy.
The Reds surprised them with a win, and I love this picture Will took of my dad after the game. The kids went down to the field, the fans cleared out, and my dad sat in that familiar place taking it all in, making new memories while old ones lingered. The music still plays for Fuzzy too.
I can’t help but wonder if he was thinking of his dad. Grandaddy F would have been proud of John. He would have loved to see him catch.
When Will sent this picture, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of his own dad when he took it. The sadness of a song cut short echoes with redemption in time. There’s nowhere Will would have rather been than standing on that field beside John.
And while John doesn’t understand nostalgia or missing yet, he’s not missing it. He loves being 10. He loves his dad. He loves his buddies. He loves his grandfather. And he loves baseball. Is there anything better than that?
…
Dear Lord,
Thank you for showing me that what I once thought was simple is actually brilliant, beautifully complex, lasting to generations and full of heart.
Thank you for boys. Thank you for dads. And thank you for baseball.
Long live the Reds ❤️❤️❤️
The First Day of Spring 