The Day My Father was a Baseball Fan

Photo by Greg Venuto, Stadium Journey

Today, many fathers and sons will play catch before the game at a ballpark. In the past, I have seen the local baseball team invite fans onto the infield as part of the afternoon promotions. No matter how young or old you are, you have time to share a moment with the person who introduced you to the game of baseball. However, in my case, that wasn’t my father. He hated the game.

It is not his fault; he grew up in Costa Rica, where the game is as niche of a sport as team handball is to the United States. Perhaps, maybe that is a bit too extreme. San Jose boasts a 4,000-seat ballpark constructed in 1955, but that is nothing compared to the popularity of baseball in nearby Panama and Nicaragua. The game trails soccer for the passion of many Ticos.

When he lived in San Francisco, he told me about attending San Francisco Seals games. He said he never understood what was happening but would attend games with friends in high school. He would still ask if the Giants play at Seals Stadium and if the 49ers operate at Kezar Stadium. He was a bit out of date with these teams' home venues.

It would lead to uncomfortable circumstances when you are 10 years old and want your father to take you to the ballgame. When he took my older brother to Yankee Stadium, he called the box office and asked what sport they played. When he arrived at the stadium, he pulled out a copy of The Bible and ignored the action on the field, much to the dismay of my brother.

The same thing happened several years later when he took me to Shea Stadium to see the New York Mets. Instead of The Bible, he brought a book called Russia Imperial Power: 1700-1917. I had taken it out of the library or a book and report that would later get misplaced despite countless letters from the Woodbridge Public Library. Miraculously, it was found a decade later used as a prop for the guest bed downstairs.

My father took me to several ball games on family trips, including the Kingdome in Seattle, the SkyDome in Toronto, and the Astrodome in Houston. When I was older, he would drop me off at the game and pick me up 2-3 hours later in front of the entrance. It was done without cell phones. Unlike most fathers and sons, I had a dad who wasn’t going to sit there watching the game with me or share any stories about it with me.

My father too in his first NBA game in 2021. He enjoyed basketball more than baseball.

During a game in Burlington, Vermont, at Centennial Stadium. He tried to understand what was happening but didn’t understand why play stopped when a foul ball was hit. I earnestly explained that it was not within fair territory, but he kept telling me that the ball was hit and the batter should be running.

However, there was one time my dad enjoyed a baseball game. It was during a Hudson Valley Renegades game at Heritage Financial Park, then known as Dutchesses Park. What I thought was another day of my dad reading a book or asking questions about the game turned into the closest I came to a typical father-and-son day at the ballpark in the United States. 

The game took place on a Tuesday afternoon in July when local area camps brought their kids to the ballpark. Children ran around the concourse throwing water balloons or shooting one another with water guns. My dad was shocked to see it but enjoyed seeing the children having fun. In essence, it reminded him of what he did when he was their age. He kept telling me to look at the kids throwing buckets of water from the second level and how happy they were.

We then made our way to the press box, and this is when his face lit up. I brought my computer to the game, and he jumped on the internet to search for information on the web. He was planning to travel to Buenos Aires, Argentina, later that year and was looking up places to stay.  It was as if he had a digital copy of Russia Imperial Power: 1700-1917 with him again.

Things got better; there was food and drink in the press box. He grabbed cookies, fruit, and pastries. Then, my father began talking to a gentleman next to him who was around his age. The two men in their late 70s reminisced about their youth, getting older, their health, and not much else about baseball. I began to wonder who was having a better time at the game.

Toward the end of the game, my father ventured out to the concession stand to grab a coffee, which was half the price. Once he found out that other items were half-off, he grabbed a pretzel, a hot dog, and then ran with excitement to let me know if I wanted anything. I laugh at this because this is how I react with my wife when there are discounted glasses of wine at a restaurant we are dining out at. 

He then drank his coffee and watched members of the Renegades pour buckets of water from the upper level down on the happy campers on the main concourse. Like many who attend minor league baseball games, he was infatuated with everything else taking place but the baseball game. On the ride home to New Jersey, he told me he had a great time and would like to go back to another game (words I never thought he would utter about a baseball game).

A soccer match was more my father's way to spend an afternoon.

Today, as many of us celebrate Father’s Day, it will be the first time with my father. A few months ago, he passed away at the age of 95. It was sudden, and I had spoken to him three days earlier. We had been talking a lot during the final few weeks due to the sale and transaction of an apartment complex he owned. 

He sounded a bit more tired than usual;  the week before, he answered the phone with an exaggerated hello. His mind was still sound at his age, but his heart gave out quickly. It has been surreal not to have those weekly conversations with him. 

It is never easy losing a parent; my father was close to 100 years old, and I knew that time could be any day in the past few years. He enjoyed life without any health problems of medication for the first 90 years but had a few setbacks this decade: COVID-19 to a broken hip, which was sustained when he stood on a table to change a light bulb.

I have many memories of my father: his views on religion, his ability to speak five languages, traveling around the world with him, his humor, and his love of soccer. It also includes one day in Hudson Valley, New York, where my father was a baseball fan.