An Honest
Day’s Word
To my catcher, fishing
This column originally was published last year.
buddy and best friendMY catcher never made a million bucks a year or exercised his right to free agency. Shoot, my catcher never even wore cleats when I was pitching. But he put on his mitt, even after he'd worked all day and might not have felt like playing ball.
My catcher wasn't a "rah, rah" guy. If a pitch somehow had movement on it, as opposed to my usual straight ball, he'd just smile and say, "That one had a little wrinkle on it."
My fishing buddy didn't have a fancy boat with a depth finder and live well.
But he had a 9-1/2-horse outboard motor and enough time to take me out to catch walleyes a couple times each summer. And he had friends named Vernon and Baldy who would let us use their boat or take us both with them.
And, if the fish didn't bite, my fishing buddy always made sure there was some orange soda and a couple of summer sausage sandwiches in the cooler.
My adviser never asked if my basketball team won or lost our games.
That I was on the team and got to play was the most important thing.
Once, I was taking a loss particularly hard. I'd stunk up the court and, at least in my mind, cost our team a chance to beat our archrival.
My adviser would have no more sulking in his presence and he quickly explained as much in no uncertain terms. "When two teams play," he finished, "somebody's gotta lose."
He had lived through the Great Depression, killed men and been shot himself in World War II. He knew there were things more important in life than the outcome of any game.
My best friend didn't live close to a major-league stadium and couldn't afford season tickets even if he had.
But he would give me a Twins schedule each February and tell me to pick out a game to go see in "The Cities" that summer.
It would take at least a month to decide. Who did I want to see more, Carl Yastrzemski or Brooks Robinson? Dick Allen or Al Kaline?
My best friend made sure we had good box seats. First-base side, of course. Peanuts, too.
Years later, I got to return the favor. I'd take my best friend to spring training games in Arizona. The ballparks there were a lot nicer than that silly Metrodome. The sun shone brightly, the grass was emerald green and the beer was ice cold.
My dad never wore a pair of sneakers in my lifetime until I bought him a pair of Reeboks for Christmas a few years ago.
As soon as he opened the box, he put them on. I didn't think much about them again for a while, but then I caught Dad with his legs outstretched, peeking at his new shoes.
I never said anything to him, but I will always remember the look on his face. So pleased, almost child-like. He had gotten new sneakers for Christmas.
Praising a 9-year-old when he threw one with a "wrinkle" on it made him feel like a big-leaguer.
Getting the net while he hooked a walleye made a teen-ager feel important.
Sitting next to him at ballgames made a young man feel proud.
Giving the right advice, even if it wasn't immediately understood, gave a son maturity.
Taking time for your family makes us all feel loved.
Happy Fathers Day, Dad.
