There Is Baseball

I wrote this about a year ago. I was on my way home to Austin from San Diego on the 4th of July. My dad wasn't doing well and I knew we were facing down some major changes. Fast-forward one year... My dad is doing much, much better. At 90, he seems more vibrant and alive than he has in a long time. He's still here and I am exceptionally thankful. 

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In this life I’ve lived, there has been baseball and my dad.

I suppose the sound is appropriate enough. Baseball blaring a little too loudly from the TV. I’m too worn out to get up, grab the remote, and lower the volume. Everything seems like too much today. Driving, thinking, writing this even. But these words – they are important. Because I may want to remember. I may need to remember. One day. Right now, though, I don’t want to think about that day.

My dad falls in the middle of the night. I’m not strong enough to help him up. We call 9-1-1. Cute paramedics, who are male and far too young for me, show up. They check him out, get him back in bed. He’s ok, they say. My daughter is leaving in the morning, my dad tells them. He hates that this had to happen on my last night. His pride is shattered. This is what he’s been hiding from me for a week. His body is failing. I can see that now. His white, skinny legs can’t support his weight, can’t steady him. He has become a child, someone who needs help getting up.

Afterward, I can’t sleep. I mindlessly check my email, surf Facebook. It’s time for a new profile picture. I choose one of me and my dad. He’s younger than I am now; I’m not yet a year old. My dad kneels; I stand. You can’t tell from the picture, but I’m unsteady. If my dad lets go, I fall. It doesn’t occur to me until hours later, in a hotel room near Tucson, while writing this, that we have changed places, my dad and I.

Baseball is still on the TV. I don’t know who is playing. Ah, the Phillies and the Pirates. It’s my first memory, you know. Baseball and my dad. Probably Dodger baseball. The voice of Vin Scully. The Padres (and Jerry Coleman) will come later after we move to San Diego. I should be a Dodger fan and maybe I will be. One day. You can hang a star on that one.

My dad cries this morning when I leave. He’s never done that before. I drive away. Later when I tell my sister – I text her because well, talking – tears burn my eyes and eventually roll down my cheeks. I don’t know what to do. I should go back. I should be there. I can’t do much – I can’t pick him up if he falls; I can’t fix his pride – but I can watch Fox News and old movies with him. Or baseball. We could watch baseball together. Once more.

And yet, here I sit in a hotel room not quite halfway between San Diego and Austin, drinking Angry Orchard Hard Cider from a can. I’m sure my dad is sitting in his chair at home on what will probably be his last Fourth of July. Yeah, I’m a dumbass. Home and work could have waited. Because in this life, there may always be baseball, but there won’t always be my dad.