No one appreciates baseball league young boys and old men.
The year Iām referencing here is the year that Henry āHankā Louis Aaron eclipse the Babe Ruth all-time home run leader.
My father and I are a proof of theory and concept.
In 1974 at 10 years old, being a little league gold glove second baseman and .430 hitter, I had only spent a few days with one African-American in my life. A fellow naval aviator of my uncles. Commander Robert āSpotā Colville USN. Do you to my parents sending my sister and I all over the country on an airplane by ourselves and just the opportunities we had as children, I never gave the tone of anyoneās skin a second thought. I was flabbergasted that people were freaking out about people caring that Hammering Hank wasnāt white.
You see, in my mind, Hank Aaron was not a black man.
Hank Aaron wasnāt a black ball player.
To me, Henry āHankā Louis Aaron was just a ball player. A damn good one! Like me. š
In reference to my father, his respiratory system was so bad the last four years of his life he couldnāt really leave the couch. For Farmer, used to spending his days outside and loving it that way, thatās imprisonment. That being the case, he followed the Royals intensely. Watched every game, new every stat by every player and all pertinent minutia concerning the team. I kept up with it in the newspaper allowing us a true connection and commonality.
As fate would have it, they made it to the World Series. Being only an hour and a half away from the stadium and once in a lifetime chance at least for my father for sure, my childhood best friend and I took him to the game. Itās the only time he would acquiesce in his life to be in a wheelchair. He left it in the corridor, walked up the stairs with us to our seats. Excited and beaming like a 12 year old kid.
We win that game and then later next week they won in New York and the World Series champs. My dad thinks me for that little field trip on his deathbed and many times in between.
'Help rarely wears the clothes we imagine', this is so true! I remember reading somewhere that as soon as our children are born we are in a process of letting go of them and never does it seem quite so intense as the first time they do the things! This is a great story Julie, thanks for sharing!
This brought tears to my eyes--what a lucky son to have you as his mom! Letting go is one of the hardest things about parenting, and we learn it over and over again. The thing we don't realize is how much we grow in the doing, because we are so focused on our kids' growth. Thank you!
āIn Three Uses of the Knife, David Mamet writes about Act Three, that point near the end of the story, where All is Lost. The hero has tried everything. Heās at the end of the line. But then, when things are bleakest, help shows up from some unexpected quarter.ā I need to put this on a sticky note over my monitor.
No one appreciates baseball league young boys and old men.
The year Iām referencing here is the year that Henry āHankā Louis Aaron eclipse the Babe Ruth all-time home run leader.
My father and I are a proof of theory and concept.
In 1974 at 10 years old, being a little league gold glove second baseman and .430 hitter, I had only spent a few days with one African-American in my life. A fellow naval aviator of my uncles. Commander Robert āSpotā Colville USN. Do you to my parents sending my sister and I all over the country on an airplane by ourselves and just the opportunities we had as children, I never gave the tone of anyoneās skin a second thought. I was flabbergasted that people were freaking out about people caring that Hammering Hank wasnāt white.
You see, in my mind, Hank Aaron was not a black man.
Hank Aaron wasnāt a black ball player.
To me, Henry āHankā Louis Aaron was just a ball player. A damn good one! Like me. š
In reference to my father, his respiratory system was so bad the last four years of his life he couldnāt really leave the couch. For Farmer, used to spending his days outside and loving it that way, thatās imprisonment. That being the case, he followed the Royals intensely. Watched every game, new every stat by every player and all pertinent minutia concerning the team. I kept up with it in the newspaper allowing us a true connection and commonality.
As fate would have it, they made it to the World Series. Being only an hour and a half away from the stadium and once in a lifetime chance at least for my father for sure, my childhood best friend and I took him to the game. Itās the only time he would acquiesce in his life to be in a wheelchair. He left it in the corridor, walked up the stairs with us to our seats. Excited and beaming like a 12 year old kid.
We win that game and then later next week they won in New York and the World Series champs. My dad thinks me for that little field trip on his deathbed and many times in between.
Baseball is specialā¦.
Thank you, Julie! I love where you took me in this piece. Beautiful!
Beautiful story.
'Help rarely wears the clothes we imagine', this is so true! I remember reading somewhere that as soon as our children are born we are in a process of letting go of them and never does it seem quite so intense as the first time they do the things! This is a great story Julie, thanks for sharing!
This brought tears to my eyes--what a lucky son to have you as his mom! Letting go is one of the hardest things about parenting, and we learn it over and over again. The thing we don't realize is how much we grow in the doing, because we are so focused on our kids' growth. Thank you!
Such a lovely memory, Julie! Showing up and letting go make up the theme song of parenting!
O! *GULP* This brought tears, Julie. Love it. Thanks for writing and sharing it.
āIn Three Uses of the Knife, David Mamet writes about Act Three, that point near the end of the story, where All is Lost. The hero has tried everything. Heās at the end of the line. But then, when things are bleakest, help shows up from some unexpected quarter.ā I need to put this on a sticky note over my monitor.
Thank you, Julie! I love where you took me in this piece. Beautiful!!