On Sunday, I will dutifully call my dad and wish him a happy Father’s Day.
I’ll ask him how the weather is, and ask if the deer, squirrels and blue jays have visited the picture window in the living room where apples, peanuts and seeds have been waiting since dawn.
Later in the day, I’ll wonder if he remembers I called and if he knows the new American flag flying on the front porch was a Father’s Day gift from me.
My dad still teases my mom and still reads the paper every day. But he is getting older, slowing down, losing his hearing (please, put those hearing aids in, Dad). He is no longer as trim as he looks in those old Marine photos, and he has stopped driving.
But most noticeable as he ages: My dad is starting to forget things. The doctor says he is showing early signs of dementia.
He is forgetting more and more. But I remember. I remember a lot.
I remember telling him I wanted to learn how to play tennis after watching Wimbledon. That day, we were in Kmart, buying a can of Wilson tennis balls and two black-and-orange MacGregor tennis rackets. I’ve loved tennis ever since.
I remember the nearly two-hour trips from our house in western Maryland to Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh. Just me and him, keeping score in the $1 program — he showed me how — cheering on the Pirates and hoping, wishing for a foul ball that we could snag with the gloves we brought in. Countless trips, no foul balls. On one trip, I had to have a hot dog and when we returned to our seats, the guy behind us held aloft a baseball, beamed, and said it landed in our seats.
I remember him calling balls and strikes as the catcher/umpire in our backyard when I practiced throwing knuckleballs and curveballs. I seemed to always get the outside-corner strike. I don’t think I ever walked a batter.
I remember asking if we could have a basketball hoop in the driveway. The next day, a gleaming hoop stood straight at exactly 10 feet — homemade with a bleach-white wooden backboard, perfect orange square in the middle and an old rim re-painted bright orange. I was undefeated against him; somehow he always seemed to miss the game-winning shot.
I remember looking up during an away tennis match, or basketball game, or baseball game, and he’d be there. He’d hurried from work to see me play, no matter how far.
I remember him as a forgiving and positive Little League baseball coach who stopped at the local store for 1-cent strands of red licorice I could stuff into my jaw to imitate the tobacco-chewing big-leaguers I watched on TV. There was no error or loss that couldn’t be forgotten with a postgame stop at Scottie’s for a vanilla milkshake on the way home.
I remember him working on my grandfather’s truck as I shifted the gears one day pretending to drive. I shifted one too many times, felt it start to drift and jumped out into his arms. We both watched as the truck slowly rolled into a ditch. He laughed and hugged me. I cried.
I remember Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame. We oo’d and ahh’d for hours.
I remember the bright-yellow Wiffle-Ball bats he’d buy religiously every summer to replace the one from last season that I bashed with dents while launching rocks and pebbles into the field by our house. He was usually working nearby and never seemed bothered by my play-by-play and crowd noise.
I remember hearing the lawnmower early one morning and waking up to a freshly cut baseball diamond for me and my friends.
I remember on visits after he became “Pap”, he’d bring a football or baseball and gloves to have a catch with his grandsons.
We hadn’t had a catch in years, but I took some gloves and a baseball on a recent visit, and he kept alive his streak of never turning down a request to play catch. His fastball has lost some of its zip, but I still got the outside-corner strike.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You may not remember all these things. But I remember, and I hope I always will.
Jami frankenberry, [email protected]. Twitter @JamiVP
