Life Lessons in a Baseball Bat
A few years ago, I wrote this short Father’s Day story on my old website. I got all kinds of messages back from people who said it struck a nerve, so I thought I’d share it here, on the new site.
When I was 10 years old, I asked my father for a new aluminum baseball bat that I’d been eyeing for weeks at the local sporting goods store. Since this was obviously a long time ago—depressingly long ago, in fact—it would be reasonable to wonder why I would remember this bat. It was royal blue with white stars down the barrel and the words “All-Star” in large white, stenciled letters. Trust me, this bat was sexy.
As dashing as it was, the bat was too big and too heavy for me at the time. My father told me so each time we went into the store, while also pointing out the rather excessive price tag attached to it, as dads often do. Nevertheless, I was enamored with how cool it looked as well as the potential damage I could do with it on the diamond….but mostly how cool it looked. Given my father’s repeated protests in the weeks before, I was stunned to find the bat leaning on the coffee table on Easter Sunday morning. There it was, right next to my Easter basket with my annual allotment of Hershey’s Kisses and Peeps, the latter of which I still don’t like and always gave to my younger brother.
Excited about my marquee Easter gift, and with Little League baseball season getting into full swing, I convinced my father to take us to a local baseball diamond later that morning. Following our post-church trip to Dunkin Donuts (the reward for good church behavior), Chris and I quickly changed out of what was likely some sort of Easter Sunday matching blue blazers and khaki slacks into something sportier, including our bright white turf shoes. (Turf shoes were pretty cool in those days.)
While mom fixed another delectable Easter dinner, the three of us trekked off to the local field, hopped the fence by the locked gate and took batting practice for an hour. I managed to connect on a few of Dad’s pitches thanks to him aiming for the barrel of my new bat. In the outfield, Chris was busy chasing baseballs in all directions on a sunny, but brisk morning. Despite a few swings, it was evident that the bat was too heavy for me, just as my father told me it would be. The lesson, as I would learn much later (after fervently disagreeing with it during my teenage years): Dad is always right.
Somewhat frustrated that my new toy—the one I was so in love with just minutes earlier—was too big and heavy for me, I traded places with my brother and shagged balls for him for a while. I didn’t want to admit it, but I stood in the outfield realizing that I’d fallen in love with the look of the bat, not what I could do with it. When I should have been concerned with function, I’d been blinded by form. And with dad, the choice between style and substance was always an easy one.
Reluctantly, I put the bat in the closet and it didn’t become my “gamer” for another year, when I was strong enough to swing it. Then, when other players on the team wanted to use it, my father (who was also the coach) made me share it. We were a team, he told me. Reluctantly, I learned to deal with the white blemishes that appeared on my blue bat every time someone used it. Over time, I even felt some pride when it played a role their success.
When I angrily threw the bat because I struck out, he told me in no uncertain terms not to do it ever again. Judging by our on-course golf demeanors, this is was more of a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do type of lesson.
A couple of years later, when the bat became too small and too light for me and my brother, my father drilled a hole in the bottom of it, filled it with sand, then plugged the hole. It was now my weighted warm-up bat to help me quicken my swing. There was still value to be found in something if you looked for it.
When I consulted with my parents about moving to California, then to Australia, and then to France, they encouraged me to take advantage of every opportunity I had. That can’t be easy for parents to do, but it was enormously appreciated. My dad (like my mother) beat cancer thanks to the marvels of modern medicine, some great doctors and because he was just stubborn and tough enough to do it. His lawn has always been the best in the neighborhood and he and has long been the best source I know for advice and counsel.
Normally, he would be the first set of eyes on anything I write because of some very capable editing skills and his willingness to deliver honest feedback. Because I live so far away and because he always says, “Tim, I don’t need any gifts,” all he got this Father’s Day was this old tale about a blue baseball bat. Thanks, dad, for the sexy blue bat, the teachings (intentional and unintentional) that came with it, and the countless others I probably never noticed along the way.
My dad passed away in 2018. In this hidden post, I shared the words I wrote and said about him at that time. If you came this far, maybe you’d like to hear about who he was to me.