I'll Bring the Seeds

My father was a very hardworking and humble man.

As his son, I had the opportunity to share many conversations with him. Many conversations that dealt with his work, conversations that dealt with family members, conversations that dealt with his often incredibly disturbing dreams.

Yet the conversations we always seemed to mutually enjoy typically dealt with one topic, and that topic was baseball.

My parents moved from Montana to Alaska (by car) when my mother was pregnant just twenty-one short years ago. I was born shortly after their move up north and lived in the snow-covered, daylight-rich city of Anchorage for most of the first six years of my life (in retrospect, the daylight part would have been great for sports: who wouldn't want to toss a ball around all day and rarely have to worry about nightfall spoiling everything?).

But the snow, the snow that was all over everything all the time, that snow kept my father from showing me the game he loved when he lived back home in Oakland, CA.

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After working on the Exxon Valdez oil spill for a little less than a year, my father landed a position with a large scale (and now worldwide) company. Over the six years we lived in Anchorage, my father moved up the corporate ladder with three different promotions, working his way from the absolute bottom up to a transfer back to California. A transfer back home. A transfer to an office not even ten minutes away from the beloved Coliseum.

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As a district manager for both the company's Oakland and Hayward offices with at any given time anywhere between five to two-hundred people under him, my father was an extremely busy man. Often working eighteen hour days without breaks, rarely did my mother and myself (and in later years, my sister) spend much prolonged amounts of time with my father. After nearly twelve years of marriage and several years of various stresses, my parents divorced.

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But before the divorce even became a discussion piece, my father made sure to jump right into the grassy fields and warm sun of California and teach me how to throw a ball. He bought footballs, basketballs, tennis balls, racket balls, you name it (and I'm sure many of you know many more kinds of balls, so have fun with that).

But there was one ball, the one with the red stitching? That ball felt so damn right in my hand. The things I knew I could learn to do with it, the things I saw my father throw from time to time (mainly a small curve that he claimed had "big break" but couldn't shatter a window on a good day), it all just felt so damn right, and it feels that way to this day.

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I learned to love the Oakland A's and I was taught to love them at just the right time. I've watched the A's rise and fall (and rise and fall, and rise and fall...) as a team dating back to 1997, about a year after our initial move.

And it didn't take long for me to get my first glove. And my first bat. And my first pair of cleats. And my first bag. And my first uniform. And my first dirty uniform.

And it didn't take long for me to experience my first at-bat. And my first strikeout. And my first base hit. And my first stolen base. And my first double play. And my first time arguing a call. And my first bruise from a liner at second. And my first bruise from a fastball at my shin. And my first sprained thumb, index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky, ankle, wrist.

And my first sunflower seed. And my first cheek-full of sunflower seeds. And my first mouth-full of Big League Chew. And my first sip of Gatorade in the dugout. And my first ball park dog, soda, peanut, bag of Cracker Jack. And my first ball park beer.

And my first time booing an opposing team's fan. And my first time getting a beer poured on me by an opposing team's fan. And my first Bill King call. And my first twenty game win streak. And my first rally cap. And my first walk-off experience. And my first playoff run. And my first ALCS. And my first perfect game call in the back room at work.

And my first time telling an ump to "go home!" And my first time telling a player, both home and away, to "go home!" And my first sign I hung in Left Field. And my first "Lets Go Oak-Land!" chant. And my first A's colored vuvuzela chant (BZZZZ!).

There were a lot of firsts when it came to baseball and me, many of which I had the privilege of sharing with my father. And there was one thing that started it all, against one of the most hated of them all, and I keep part of that night in my wallet to this day:

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This story could have been longer. It could have been much longer. It could have had more detail. It could have been written in a more typical manner.

But this story was about my father, the hardworking humble man from Oakland, CA who didn't have many long, detailed conversations. The very same man that taught his son to love the sport of baseball, to cherish what it is and what it isn't, and to love the game just because it is.

Baseball is baseball, and there's really not much else more to it than that.

Wherever you're at Dad, and no matter how long it takes me to get there, hopefully you'll still be up for a game of catch with my name on it.

I'll bring the seeds.

Please don't hesitate to share any stories you may have about baseball (or any other sport) and what it means to you or your family. That's what really makes topics like these something special.