One of the first things I remember is having a catch with my dad in the front of the house when I was about six years old. I recall that once I started getting better and was able to throw the ball further I would take a few steps back.
“Don’t move too far back I can’t reach,” my dad said.
It didn’t make sense to me. He was in better physical shape than most men in their late 30s and played baseball in his youth, how could he not reach?
“I’m not a lefty,” he said. “I just wanted you to be able to get used to seeing it,” he added.
That was my dad in a nutshell. He went out of his comfort zone to acclimate me to facing lefties. Bear in mind, I wouldn’t be facing an actual pitcher for a couple years. At that age, the batters face a pitching machine.
That was only the beginning.
Everything my dad did was with my career in mind. At age-8, I was taking hitting/pitching lessons twice a week at All-Pro in Bellport. It was there I developed a little rivalry with Marcus Stroman as we were probably the only third graders that could hit the fast cage.
I remember playing a game during recess that year called “safety”. It involved throwing a Spalding ball against the wall and if anyone dropped it, you had to run and if the person who catches it could throw it against the wall before you hit the wall then you were out. It was the best part about elementary school. I remember being devastated when my dad told me not to play because I could hurt my pitching arm. It became a joke when my friends would mockingly say to not hurt “the pitching arm”.
When I did hurt my arm, we did whatever necessary to rectify it. I remember having a game when I was about nine that I was supposed to pitch. I woke up and my arm was sore and I informed him. He had this shocked look on his face and asked where it hurt and how bad it was and all that.
“Let’s go to CVS,” he said. We went and walked to the back to the pain reliever section. We asked the lady at the counter which could be most effective to make general soreness go away.
“How old is he?” she said.
“Nine,” my dad said.
“Well, you’re not really supposed to take it until age 10.”
“C’mon,” he said. “He’s gotta pitch in a couple hours,”
Needless to say, we bought the cream and rubbed it on my shoulder vigorously. I pitched what was, in actuality, a meaningless in-house game in fourth grade.
But nothing was meaningless to him.
When it became clear I had the talent to play this game, I bought into his mantras and never put up a fight when a normal adolescent would’ve rebelled in typical ways like complaining and playing video games.
Driving to the games became just as memorable as the games themselves. I remember vividly waking up at around 8:00 on a Sunday for a double header. I would be woken up by hearing my dad singing in his office to the “Sounds of Sinatra” on 1100 AM radio. He would say “Sing it Frank!” on a particularly good part of the song. We would go to mass and leave after communion to save a few minutes to get to the game on time. I remember driving there with his favorite music playing in the background. Sometimes it would be Stevie Wonder, other times it was Frankie Valli, but usually it was Sinatra. He would say, “he’s the BEST! Best entertainer of all time, nothin’ even close.”
At the time I never cared for it, but now I definitely have grown accustomed to appreciating his greatness.
Once we got to talking about baseball, he always had the best advice. He got my confidence up by telling me everything I needed to hear.
“BEAT these guys, Vin. Drive the ball, I wanna see some knocks today. Get like four, five hits,” he would say. “I’m tired of hearing about these guys…gotta beat ’em. If you wanna be the best, you gotta beat the best,” he added.
Fast forward a decade and I’m a freshman in college. I’m fresh off the best year of my life in 2009. It was the year that I put everything together and made him proud. Undefeated, League MVP, All-State, etc.
Naturally, things changed over the past 10 years. Notably, he had to meet me at the games now. No more driving in his Lexus, listening to his music and having the customary chicken breast wrap.
But at the same time, things were the same. He still spoke to me before every outing, but this time it was on the phone. This game was in New Paltz, I remember talking to him and saying I’ll see him a little while.
The game started and he wasn’t there. I was a little nervous, because he never missed anything. I checked my phone and there was about 10 missed calls, he must’ve been freaking out that he couldn’t find it. I wasn’t supposed to be on the phone in the dugout so I went over to one of the parents who he used to speak on the phone with.
“Yeah, you’re dad got lost he’s on the way, though,” said Fred.
My dad shows up and I see him watching from the top of the hill. Even though he’s about 500 feet away, you couldn’t mistake him–he’s got the bandana on, his leather jacket, leather gloves, sunglasses.
I went over to him after the game. “Where were you,” I said.
“Man, you wouldn’t believe. This ain’t their normal field. I went to the campus and nobody was there. I asked the janitor and he had no idea. I start driving around and I saw an emergency phone, I picked it up and said ‘yeah, I can’t find my son’s field. He’s supposed to be playing Purchase’. The lady told me, ‘uh sir, this phone is supposed to be for emergencies’. I said, ‘yeah this is,’ so finally she told me how to get here.”
That was my dad. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now here I am, seven years after he suddenly passed away and I’m left with memories. He made me the person I am today, and even though I’m not playing baseball, the values he taught me are relevant in any walk of life. I just replay those statements he said on the way to the game and apply them to everyday life.
