My old man had no business coaching baseball. With five children, a pet German Shepherd, two cats, a horse, a full-time gig as English Department chair, and a part-time job as the town’s mayor, he had to be out-of-his-head busy. Plus, my dad had never played baseball or coached the game or followed it on any level.
But somehow, someway, my dad became my little league coach the summer I was eight or nine. To this day, I’m not sure how that came to pass. My best guess? The league was desperate for coaches, and my old man hemmed and hawed and finally muttered, “Um, well, gee, sure, okay.”
I don’t remember much about that season. My dad wore jeans and boots to practice—I do recall that—and that some of the kids were intimated by the 6-foot tall cowboy professor with the deep voice and the bushy beard.
I also remember my father scolding me for throwing my glove in the dirt when our team gave up a game-winning run. A few minutes later, he saw me with my head down. “I’m proud of you, Boy,” he told me. “Your old dad is always proud of you.” And I felt better.
My dad often told me that, that he was proud of me, boy. I’d hear it at dinner and after orchestra concerts and before basketball games and when I went to bed.
And I never doubted his sincerity, even if I played my violin poorly, even if I sat on the bench the whole basketball game.
***
It’s not just in little league that I remember my dad. He stands and looks around and talks almost everywhere in my childhood.
He’s pushing my bike while I pedal for the first time in the yard. He’s explaining the J stroke as we float down the Jack’s Fork river in our canoe. He’s watching wistfully as I drive off with my teenage friends on Saturday night. He’s telling me I’m a fine, fine boy even when I come home with auburn hair and bleached bangs that hang all the way to my chin.
As a middle schooler, I was embarrassed by my dad’s strange words and appearance, but by high school, I stopped caring much.
“Why does your dad call you ‘Craiggertly’?” friends would ask after meeting my dad.
“Who knows.” I’d shrug. “My old man’s different.”
Sometimes friends would smirk and imitate my dad and call me Craigger or Craiggertly, but I never much minded. In my head, those were terms of endearment.
***
Last Saturday, I finished my second stint as coach of Eli’s basketball team. The season proved time intensive, frustrating on occasion, and stressful here and there. But it was worth it, to see the kids dribble and try and smile when they swished the ball through the net. And I’d absolutely sign up again.
At our end-of-the-season party, I called the players up one by one and shared their successes as I handed them their trophies. When Eli walked to the front, I said, “I’m very proud of this boy.” I hadn’t intended to utter that, but that’s what slipped out.
That night in bed, lying awake in the dark, it came to me that it could have been my dad talking about Eli. I’d professed my pride in my son, just like my old man would have, and I’d meant every word, just like he would have.
It struck me then that I probably didn’t learn much about batting and base running and fielding that season my dad coached my baseball team. But what I did learn, even if it wouldn’t seep in for another 30 years, was how to be a father.
Fathers adore their children, no matter if they misbehave in the ball game or shave their heads or get arrested, I learned. Fathers show up at the baseball game and dinner table and sometimes the county jail. I internalized that lesson as well.
***
My father’s legacy isn’t his thin frame or his straight hair, which were passed to me and then to Eli. It isn’t his blue eyes that became mine and became Slade’s. It isn’t land or money or anything I can touch.
His legacy is a language.
It’s a shared way of looking at dirt and the night sky.
It’s a love that will carry on long after I’m burned and scattered and forgotten.
