The changing soundtrack of summer
Going into the game on Sunday, September 16, 2018, the Royals were 52-96 and on their way to finishing an abysmal 58-104, the first of the franchise’s consecutive 100-loss seasons since the team did it three times in a row from 2004 through 2006.
The lean years were back, baby!
Of course, the horrible finish ended with the Royals obtaining the No. 2 draft pick in 2019, which they used to select a young shortstop out of Colleyville, Texas.
In hindsight, then, not so bad.
But back to the game. It wasn’t much of a game. I attended it and became slightly frustrated as I checked my phone to see that the Kansas City Chiefs young new quarterback was slicing up the Pittsburgh Steelers’ defense to the tune of six touchdown passes. Instead of watching that game, I was at Kauffman watching the Royals lose yet another game, this time 9-6 to the visiting Minnesota Twins.
Lindsey Wasson-Imagn Images
Looking up that game, I can tell you that Jakob Junis started but lasted only three innings while someone named Jerry Vasto took the loss out of the bullpen. I see that Adalberto Mondesi had himself a fine day at the plate, going 3 for 5 with a home run, two RBIs, and a stolen base. I can tell you Kyle Gibson, a Mizzou alum, started for the Twins and picked up the win despite giving up five earned on 11 hits in under seven innings. It helped that the Twins knocked out four homers of their own.
Again, I can’t tell you any of that without looking it up.
But I can tell you that I clearly remember attending that game with my wife, my son, and my dad. It was the only the baseball game I ever attended with both my son and my father.
That’s what I remember about September 16, 2018.
***
My dad died on April 12.
He was tired and sick and had been in pain for a very, very long time. I remember talking to him on the phone back in 2008 from my home in Columbia, Mo., the night before he went into surgery in which he wasn’t guaranteed to exit. He made it through, but the next 17 years on him were hard.
I’m so glad he hung on as long as he did.
Baseball, more than any other game, is a game between fathers and sons. The soundtrack of my youthful summer days involved the pop of the glove as my dad and I played catch in the backyard for hours upon hours, day after day, year after year.
Sure, there were other sports. My dad, who played soccer briefly in college, coached my soccer team every year that I played, from kindergarten through the end of fifth grade. He always took me to the batting cages to get ready for the baseball season. He stayed back and allowed my football coaches to guide me, but he was there, watching, encouraging me after practice or a game. We often golfed together.
The sport we most attended together, though, by far, was baseball.
We went to the Wood Bat tournament held in Blue Springs; we attended Royals games and St. Louis Cardinals games. We hit up minor league games in Huntsville, Alabama; Austin, Texas; and Bentonville, Arkansas.
Together, we watched a ton of baseball on TV: the Cubs on WGN, the Braves on TBS, whomever on ESPN, the Royals and Cardinals on Fox Sports Midwest. It didn’t matter who was playing—if it was on, and we were home together, we were watching it together.
My dad grew up in St. Louis and lived there until he and my family moved to Illinois, where I was born. He remained a Cardinals fan until the very end, but he eventually came around on the Royals, probably because he lived in Kansas City for such a long period of time. It also helped that I was a Royals fan, and so are my sons.
I didn’t watch the Royals win the World Series in 2015 with my dad, but he was the first person I called.
When the Cardinals won it all in 2006, I called him from Mizzou so we could be on the phone when they recorded the final out.
In 2011, I left the party I was at so I could race to my parents’ house to watch the Cardinals win it all while by his side.
Together, we saw Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa both homer during the 1998 Home Run Chase. We watched Barry Bonds send one deep into orbit as he churned to 73. Brian Jordan, a two-sport star, hit a grand slam in the first game I ever attended, with my dad right next to me. Twice, in different Busch Stadiums, we witnessed Albert Pujols send Cardinals fans home with a win.
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All of it was wonderful. We’d talk baseball history, baseball strategy, baseball, baseball, baseball.
These days, I watch, play, and talk baseball with my sons, and it feels just as good, possibly even better.
The soundtrack of my summer has changed, but not for the worse.
***
I last saw my dad on Opening Day this year. I had tickets to the Royals game, but instead my son went with my father-in-law and one of his brothers as I drove across the state to attend funeral services for my uncle, one of my dad’s younger brothers.
For the last couple of years, my dad faced mobility issues, but he was determined to say goodbye to his little brother. One of my sisters picked him up from his assisted living facility and brought him to Kutis Funeral Home. After he went and kneeled and prayed beside his departed brother, he sat in a chair and closed his eyes.
Most people thought he was asleep. I knew he wasn’t.
We talked. We talked as much as he could. We talked about my sons, about his health, about my wife.
We talked baseball.
I mentioned Opening Day, and he asked for my thoughts on the Royals and Cardinals. I gave them to him while he sat and rested. He looked so very tired.
Eventually, I helped him back to my sister’s car, boosted him into his seat, buckled him up, and kissed him goodbye.
***
One hour after I received news of his passing, I packed up the car, tied my youngest son’s soccer cleats, and headed for the fields.
I had a soccer game to coach.