A Moment With My Father

Watching my sons playing Little League baseball for the first time this spring, I've been yearning to be able to have just a moment with my father. I'd like to be able to sit across from him at a booth, drinking coffee or beer, so that I could tell him one thing.

"I get it now, Dad. And I forgive you."

My father, like all of us, carried around his fair share of guilt. He had two children whose childhoods he'd essentially missed, due to his choice to move three thousand miles away from where they lived with their mother. I often felt he did his best to make up for how absent he was for the two of them by being as present as he could be for Mike and me. And he always was.

Another helping of guilt was layered onto my father's plate when it came to his relationships with us. Once my brother and I began playing organized sports, Mike showed an ease and coordination that eluded most kids his age -- it most certainly eluded me. (I've since figured out that I'm a pretty good athlete; my younger brother is just on a higher plane than most of us, athletically speaking.)

Hanno's guilt came from -- surprise, surprise -- his mother. She complained to him, sometimes loudly enough for me to hear, that he was spending an inordinate amount of time with his youngest, shagging fly balls, playing tennis, etc.

I was always embarrassed whenever I became aware of the well-meaning attention of my aunts or grandmother. (My mom stayed fairly silent on this matter, I believe.) To me, it felt like pity.

Of course I'll do what I can to learn from the ways of my father -- good and bad; that's what we do, right? I'll cultivate strong relationships with both my boys.

But as I watch Jackson out there on the ball field, grabbing up ground balls and gunning it over to first, my heart does swell with Daddy-Pride, and I want to tell my dad not to worry about all that attention he paid to my brother. He was, like my son Jackson, a sight to see after all.