4.06.2006

Bluey On Bluey

Did anybody catch the whining and bitching Barry Bonds did about how hard his Dad, Bobby, was on him and that he only succeeded to spite his father? Anybody out there shedding tears for him? It must be nice to dump on the guy once he's dead and try to stir up sympathy from the fans for himself.

Well, while we're on the topic of fathers, shed some for me. My head is not as fat as Barry's and I'd like to think I'm slightly more likeable.

When I was a kid, my Dad was a tyrant. Aside from the random beatings with his belt, he used to come to my baseball games and dish out an even harsher verbal beating. He was the sort of father that when I brought home a 99 on a test, he'd ask why I didn't get a 100. He was a perfectionist and demanded the same from me. When I wasn't feeling well and wanted to take a night off from my part time job, he would berate me and push my ass out the door. Right or wrong, he drove me to always give my best effort. This didn't change on the baseball diamond either. He was ultra competitive and he didn't accept anything less from me. Win at all costs. That was the lesson and what he expected from me at all times.

I was a hell of a baseball player when I was a kid. My Dad spent a fair amount of time teaching me how to play the game and always made time to come to my games. For the most part, I proudly look back at those days because I know he loved watching me kick ass. But every once in a while when I was not at the top of my game, he rode me pretty hard from the stands. He could be unmerciful.

As I walked to the plate, the other kids parents would chant my name and offer encouragement. My Dad would glare in at me and I usually tried to avoid his eye contact.

First pitch: swing and a miss at a low pitch in the dirt.

"What the hell are you swinging at?" comes a yell from the crowd

Second pitch: Called strike 2

"Get the goddamn bat off your shoulders! What are you looking at?" comes another yell.

Third pitch: swing and a miss at a pitch above the letters

"How are you supposed to hit the ball when it's up in your eyes?", comes another rant.

As I walk back to the dugout, he gets off his seat in the stands and follows me back to the fence behind the first base coach. I walk up to him as I have customarily done after strikeouts (fortunately, I rarely struck out).

"What the hell was that?"

Bluey looks down at his spikes. "I don't know Dad"

"Well, let me tell you what I know. I didn't come all the way down here to watch you strike out. Get your head in the game for Christ's sake!"

"Ok, sorry Dad"

"You call that baseball? If you're going to hit like that, your coach should take you right out of the game and sit your ass down on the bench. You have another at bat like that and I'm going to ask him to take you out. Your sisters hit the ball better than that!"

"Then do it goddamn it! I don't even want to play anymore!" (Bluey, now starting to tear up)

"What are you going to do now? Start crying like a big baby? Get your ass back in the dugout and play!"

Of course it wasn't always that bad, but he was not above heckling me a few times each game. The incident above happened when I was 11 years old. I had made the all star team for the first time that year and hit cleanup for my team. I never missed making an all star team again until I stopped playing at 17 years of age. As I got older, I realized that I was destined to be a fastball hitter. I had a big problem with the duece, the uncle charlie or the good old american curveball. That's when I realized that no matter how hard Dad would push, I wasn't going to be drawing paychecks on the merits of my baseball skills. I wish I could tell you that I had Barry Bonds success and started sticking syringes in my ass while collecting 15M a year, but such was not my fate.

I like to think that Dad helped me get where I am today by always riding my ass. Of course I could have done without all the theatrics (and the beatings). But he was who he was. Battling his own demons and doing the best he knew how to do. He's a lot different now. He actually ended up as an awesome human being and a very loving father. It really is a miracle.

That's the happy ending. Of course we still have a good laugh or two about what an ass he was when we get together. When you come full circle and can call your Dad an ass for what he put you through and he finally understands, life is good.

Love ya Dad!

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