My First Post of the 2010 Season

"Dad, are you getting too hot, ya wanna go into the Dugout Club for awhile, get out of the sun?"
"No, I'm fine. I got my hat," he said. He did have his hat. His big straw golf hat, a la Chi Chi Rodriguez.
"Pretty amazing, these seats, huh?"
"Unbelievable," he said, and he gazed out at the field from the second row of my friend Danny's Dugout Club seats. They were amazing seats. Best in the Ravine. Dan had them for years but gave them up a few years back because the Dodgers doubled the cost! They were 60 grand for the season for the two of them, now they wanted 120 grand. But at least he had them long enough for me to take my dad just once, on a Sunday afternoon in mid-summer. All the celebs and luminaries sat around us. Rob Reiner's seats were a few feet to our right, but ours were the best. The first row was too low. The second row was perfect. But mostly, they were the best because I was with my dad. Can't remember if the Dodgers won or lost, but I remember my dad had a great time. He had a Dodger dog or two, a beer, some peanuts. The only thing missing was Vinny's play by play and maybe, me being twelve.

I remember all the games my dad took me to as a kid. An Angel game where we almost caught a foul pop-up but it ended up glancing off something and hitting my dad's bald head. (Yes, I was an Angel's Fan when I was very, very young. Jim Fregosi was my favorite player) Dad was fine. Embarassed, but fine. The stadium staff checked on him. After the game, the Angels arranged for us to wait outside the players exit and have the ball autographed. Jim Fregosi signed that ball. I was floating. But my dad's courageous but failed attempt made it all happen. His bad hands and his bald head gave me the biggest thrill of my young baseball life. The biggest thrill in my later life was being able to take my dad to one Dodger game in the Dugout Club seats.

I played the game. I remember all the games I played in from my first game in little league til my last game at UCLA. There was my dad, sitting there in the heat, the cold, often watching others play as I rode the pine. Then when I played years of semipro ball after that, there, often, was my dad, wondering why that dumb kid was playing and I wasn't. As recently as a few years ago, I was playing third base in a wood bat league in Beverly Hills and as I just made a nifty play on a ball to my left, (a play I seriously doubt I could make anymore - I could barely make it then) I caught a glimpse of dad making it into the bleachers and giving me a thumbs up. Ya know something? I was just as proud to have my dad see me do well as I was after I got my first hit in little league. My dad coached me and my brother one year. We were the Indians of the Westdale Mar Vista Baseball Association. We had green sleeves and hats under grey flannel uniforms and green windbreakers. I still have my dad's windbreaker in my closet. It has a patch on the front that reads, "Manager Lee." My dad was born and raised in the South side of Chicago and moved to LA when he was in college. He never really played the game at an organized level, himself, but my dad knew things. He could break down a swing and a throw. He was an industrial engineer, so he knew movement and efficiency. He was an outdoorsman - a trout and bass fisherman, a hunter, a sailor, a pilot, a golfer. But most importantly, he was a dad. That was credential enough as far as I'm concerned.

My dad, who gave me the stars and the mountains and the trees, who gave me evenings listening to Vin Scully as he tinkered in the garage, and everything I would experience on a daily basis, passed away on March 4th from a rare form of lymphoma. He was 82 and a half to the day. He had only been diagnosed last July. Before that, I would sometimes see him teeing off as I drove past the golf course. I would call on weekends but he'd be gone - out sailing on his friend's boat. I'd call in the evenings, but often he couldn't talk because he was running a HAM radio net. My dad never became an old man and he never stopped being my dad. His youngest son, choosing to be a writer and therefore, a pauper, still needed his dad way too much for a man his age. As recenly as last May, my dad paid for my new engine when my Honda practically exploded. My dad was there for the breakups, the shows that didn't get past the pilot stage, the thrills and the disappointments. My dad was still there whenever I needed his advice, with that authoritative, resonant, but calm and pleasant radio voice I miss more than I can articulate.

I was young and busy the last time the Dodgers won the World Series in 1988. Don't remember where my dad was when they recorded that final out. I just know how nice it would've been to sit with my dad and turn the sound down on the TV and listen to Vin Scully announce the Dodgers are World Champions just one more time. I would have loved to see the smile on his face. And he would have loved to see the smile on mine. I love you, dad. And I miss you.