I wasn’t going to post this because it didn’t make sense as I was writing it. I couldn’t (still can’t) come to terms with what is going on. I wanted to honor my dad but what I was writing was missing something. So I took all that I wrote and asked google to help me. What came out nearly broke me. Everything I was trying to say it said it in a way I couldn’t, but yet desperately needed to hear for myself. So please know that what is below is what is in my heart but my heart needed an assist to share it.

There is a unique kind of magic hidden inside a game with no clock. Baseball stretches out, mirroring the long, sunny days of youth. It slows down just enough to let you notice the details: the smell of cut grass, the steady pop of a leather glove, and the voice echoing from the dugout. For me, that voice always belonged to one person.

My dad was my first coach. My love for this beautiful, unpredictable game comes entirely from him.

Right now, as I sit down to type these words, my dad is losing his battle with cancer. The reality of this disease is swift and cruel. In fact, by the time this post is published and reaches your screens, he will likely have already crossed his final home plate and passed away. My heart is heavy, but as I look back on his life, every single major milestone is painted in the colors of a baseball diamond.

Life on the Dirt

Before I ever swung a bat in an official game, my childhood was defined by the rhythm of the sport. I spent countless nights and weekends out at the local softball fields, sitting in the bleachers or running around the stands, watching my dad play. I watched how he competed, how he treated his teammates, and how he respected the game.

When it was my turn to put on a uniform, he was right there. Dad coached me from the very beginning in T-ball all the way until I turned 15. He didn’t just teach me how to square up a fastball or hit the cutoff man; he taught me how to handle failure. In a sport where failing seven out of ten times makes you a Hall of Famer, my dad was the steady anchor who kept me from throwing my helmet (most of the time).

Years later, the roles shifted, but the bond only grew stronger. My very first experience stepping into a coaching role was as an assistant coach right alongside him. Together, we took the reins of my youngest sister’s travelball team. Standing in that dugout with him, not just as his player, but as his peer and collaborator, is a memory I will carry for the rest of my life.

From Little League to the Big Leagues

Baseball wasn’t just something we played; it was the language we used to speak to each other. We chased the game across every level imaginable. We went to local Little League games just to watch the neighborhood kids play. We sat in the bleachers at college games, minor league games, and major league stadiums. It didn’t matter if the stadium held five hundred people or fifty thousand, if there were bases chalked out and a pitcher on the mound, we were happy.

Our ultimate sanctuary, though, was Arizona. Whenever we could manage to make it down to Phoenix, spring training and fall ball became our holy grails. Those trips were pure paradise. There is nothing quite like the relaxed atmosphere of a back-field complex in March, watching prospects work on their game while sharing a hot dog and a scorecard with your old man.

The Final Inning

The hardest part about baseball is knowing that eventually, the ninth inning comes. The lights turn off, the crowds go home, and the field goes quiet.

I’m going to miss him. I’m going to miss our conversations about a spectacular diving catch or a terrible umpire call. I’m going to miss the quiet car rides home from the ballpark.

But as I face a future without him, I take comfort in knowing that he left it all on the field. Every time I pick up a glove, step into a dugout, or look out at a perfectly manicured infield, I will see him. He gave me the game, and through the game, he gave me a piece of himself that cancer can never take away.

Thank you for everything.