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My Father is October Baseball
by Rodrigo
It's been 3 years since my father died. Three short years on the calendar that stretch for lifetimes in my memory. There are days where I forget what it's like to have him around. It's one of the cruelties of losing someone that no one can warn you of. But there are times when I remember what I've lost. Something will trigger a sensation, then a memory, and slow time as I try to hold onto the moment. When they capped their first playoff birth in years, I was there, with my father, as Steve Finely sent the Giants home with a grand slam. It was good year. The defense of Alexa Cora and Cesar Izturis, the murderous sinker of Odalis Perez, the untouchable bullpen, a team of bats, minds, and hearts. I was there to cheer against the Giants, crying as the stadium erupted and watched happily as Giants fans were booted from the celebration. But that team faded and gave way to years of foundering. When I heard Jose Lima, who recorded the only playoff win for the Dodgers that year, didn't even receive phone call from the Dodgers, it was the first letdown baseball ever delivered. In that hot summer of 2010, staring out over the field as the Giants defeated the Reds that night, I found again the pieces of that team I loved (that my father taught me were the finest qualities in baseball) in the team I was supposed to hate. When they won the World Series that year, it was vindication. They won because of their chemistry and soundness. I was saddened only to know that the Dodgers could have easily been the same team, and that I couldn't tell my father how I cheered for them because of him. And so a few weeks ago I noticed the Giants playing the Cardinals. I had lost track of the season while busily trying to finish school and was startled to see the season already at the League Championship Series. I was reminded that it was October baseball. The night I crumbled on top of my father as he lay on the ground was a baseball night. The Angels were playing the Yankees in October. The thought ran through my mind to join him and watch the game. I knew there would be no distractions. "No one talk to me in October," he would say, warning all of us not to bother him with anything short of who's hitting well or who's pitching that night. I decided to wait until mid-game to drive down and visit. It was a wait I will always regret. Every day since then has been easier to live. I'm now Dodgers and Giants fan, and am proud the Giants ran the table again after the Dodgers lost momentum (despite big ticket acquisitions). They're easier because everyday I forget a little more of what it's like to have him around. I forget the stats sheet, walking into the stadium to save on parking, listening to Vin Scully with a radio tucked under our bleacher seats--gathering peanut shells--, and watching the game be won with mastery over the little things. But there are times when I remember. That immeasurable draw of October baseball, where the world stops to gaze and forget their own trials of life, is enough to bring me a happiness that I cannot express to justice. That ring of terrific sport comes with it the great sadness when all is settled, however, and I look to the long winter ahead, bereft of it's counsel with tremendous longing. October baseball is where my father lives, it's what he is now. In eleven months, after I've bored through the misgivings of my own life, I'll return to it, hoping again to remember. Rick commented: Rodrigo, thank you for sharing your story with everyone at theoleballgame. I enjoyed reading it! Baseball touches our lives in so many ways. The memories are forever. Yours in baseball, Rick
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