Father’s Day and Baseball

Fathers, Baseball, and Growing Up

by Michael Dittelman

June, 1998--Although Father's Day is not a Jewish holiday, no doubt many Jews do celebrate the day by honoring their fathers with gifts, hugs, and phone calls. In fact, Judaism instructs us to "honor thy mother and father" every day of our lives, always thanking them for their guidance, love, and support.

Unfortunately, with the coming and going of Father's Day (June 21st), I'm forced to remember, as opposed to celebrate. On January 11th, 1995, my dad passed away. But remembering him does not mean I have to be sad. Nor do I need a specific day devoted to fathers in order to remember him. In fact, many of the trivial things that I do each day make me recall special times and experiences I shared with either my family or my father. Granted, it has not always been easy for me to think this way. At first, his passing was a very difficult and traumatic event for me to deal with. Although I have yet to really accept his loss, I do think of him often, and with much love.

One of the many ways in which I remember my dad is through sports. He wasn't exactly a sports renaissance man like Jim Thorpe, having great ability in many sports. He was not a jock, nor even a casual golfer or tennis player. Rather, my father was a spectator of sports. He watched many little league games -- even sacrificed his time to be the head of our town's little league -- he attended countless soccer games, swim meets, wrestling matches, basketball games, and lacrosse tournaments. Always, he stood, with camera in hand, separate from the other dads. For my dad was never vocal or obtrusive while the games were going on. He didn't like that some of the fathers at the games yelled or instructed their children, as opposed to allowing them to have fun.

When my brothers, only two years apart in age, were in on opposing teams, he was pleased that they both played catcher for their teams. This way, he was able to take countless snapshots of his boys; one at bat, the other catching. Years later, when I played, he was again able to make use of his camera when my brothers served as umpires behind home plate, enjoying calling strikes while I batted. And strike out a lot did I.

In fact, I always struggled in little league. For many years I was the worst player on my team, seldom getting on base, and making many errors in the field. But in the first game of my final season in little league, at age 12, I was on the team sponsored by a local union workers' chapter, "Parker Bale." We played "Town Police" in the season opener, and I was playing first base, and batting seventh in the lineup. With players on first and third and two outs, I came to bat in the third inning. The thing about little league baseball in our town is that everyone -- the players, the parents, the coaches, even the umpires -- knows everyone else. So, here I am, with a friend from school, Todd, pitching -- and wanting to strike me out -- and another friend, Jeff, catching -- knowing I'm not very good with a baseball bat. As well, my two teammates on base were also friends from school. I was in a no-win situation; if I strike out, I'm the butt of all the jokes; if I hit the ball, I'm the hero. Needless to say the pressure was insurmountable. Or so I thought.

I laced a pitch from Todd's right hand into right-center-field, that went all the way to the fence. By the time the right fielder, Devin, had gotten to the ball, the two runners had scored, and I was at second base, on my way to third. Not having the gift of speed, I was caught by surprise when the third base coach motioned for me to continue on to home, which I did.

After sliding into home, safe with my first ever home run, I was mobbed by my teammates. Richie hugged me. Angelo and Carey slapped my back. Suraj screamed "YEAH DITTEL!!" Of course, I was overjoyed; I had hit the ball, a major accomplishment. The fact that I had hit an inside the park home run was just icing on the cake. (It turned out to be my only home run in 6 years of organized baseball.)

Back at the dugout, my dad, with camera in hand, was there to greet me. I was unable to refrain from diving into his outstretched arms, hug him ferociously, and bury my face in his chest. Tears flowed from my eyes, and sobs were heard from underneath my father's arms. I don't remember if I was crying because I was happy, or simply because all the hard work, attention, and love my dad had given me in trying to help me become a better athlete and better person had finally paid off.

I have many memories of my dad's face -- often looking at his boys, taking pride in who they were and what they did. At my bar mitzvah, he stood beside me as I read from the Torah, keeping his hand on my back because he could see I was nervous. At my high school graduation, he video taped my singing of the national anthem, and replayed it countless times -- even though I sang off key and my voiced had cracked. On Monday, January 9th, 1995, he gave me a kiss as I headed off to school. The last time I saw him.

In Mitch Albom's book, Tuesday's With Morrie, the main subject of the book, Morrie Schwartz, preaches that without love, a person has nothing. I know that my dad loved me. He showed it every time he came to see me play a ball game.

One of the many reasons I love baseball is because of my dad, and the memory I have of my only home run. My father may never have been a great althete; more importantly, he was a great husband, father, and friend, as well as coach. I don't need a "Father's Day" to honor him with gifts or a phone call. I think about my father every day, making every day his.