I Know Baseball Isn't Real Life, but.....

As Summer slowly makes its way towards the dog days of August, the slow going of the baseball season follows. I haven't followed the daily (or monthly for that matter) progress of the game as my Father would have. While visiting, he would catch me up on the division standings, outstanding players, minor dramas and major plays.  Living a day's drive away,  I had got use to not seeing him for a few months at a stretch, another rotation of the calendar makes it sink in that we would never again celebrate this sport together.  At least not in person.

The last World Series. Baseball.  Cubs and Indians.  My Dad.  Holy Cow. 

Baseball has a unique place in the psyche of my family.  My Grandfather played minor league ball before the first World War and coached it for many years later.  He knew Ty Cobb.  Some of his players roomed under the same roof my Dad was growing-up under.  Harry Caray even quoted him while calling Cubs games.  Holy cow!

My Dad played high school and American Legion baseball.  My brother and I grew up playing Little Leage ball every year we were eligible.  My Dad umpired and coached.  When he said he was going to give coaching a break, he stepped back in to take another team when no one wanted to.  Once it was a team predominatly African-American, because the "officially random" nature by which teams were elected was most always undermined by personal biases (racism).  I was was the only white kid on that team.  My Dad personally saw to it that each kid got his fair share.  We would leave home early and get back late from every game and practice picking up and dropping off any player needing a ride.  I began to see the small world of my small Georgia hometown in regards to people and how they treated each other. It was easy  It was sad. It was self- realizing. It was the best season of my life.