My dad recently passed away, after many years of battling various health issues. I try not to think about those years or at least not to recall them as my lone memories of him. What makes his passing especially difficult is the timing. Not that there is a good time for one to lose a parent; however, my dad and I shared a common love of baseball, and this will be my first baseball season without him. Over the past few weeks there have been several moments that I have wanted to call him to talk about something baseball related, but obviously could not. The vast amount of time that he and I spent on baseball will be the memories that I most cherish. That will be the vessel through which I recall my dad's life, or at least, his life with me.
I remember the first baseball game my dad took me to see. It was at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. The Phillies were hosting the Reds. The Phillies lost, which crushed me, but made my dad (a Pittsburgh Pirates fan) feel pretty good. I remember walking out of the breeze way of the 700 level and feeling closer to God than to the players on the field. At that time, the players on the field were like Gods to me. I wanted to hit like Michael Jack Schmidt and pitch like Steve Carlton. I idolized them, even tried to throw left handed, but was cursed with an orthodox throwing arm. Those guys were my heroes, Schmidt, Lefty, Boone, Bowa, Luzinski, Maddox, Tugger..........My dad would get furious with me when I cried because the Phillies lost, but what did he know, he was a Pirates fan, losing was common place for them.
My dad taught me to play baseball. We would play catch in the yard and I always had to use two hands to catch the ball, always. When I did something wrong or appeared to be afraid of the ball, which I was, he would throw it harder. My hand would hurt, I would cry, and he would say, "your never gonna be a ball player if you can't catch the hard ones." When I eventually started to play organized baseball, he was always there. He worked, at that time, seven days a week and never missed a game or practice. As I progressed through little league, junior high, and eventually high school and legion ball, he still never missed a game. He was my biggest fan, and my biggest critic. He had a magical way of letting me know he was proud of me, at the same time letting me know I had to get better. He pushed, gently, but pushed none the less for perfection. I remember after my first no-hitter in high school talking to the local newspaper reporter after the game, a voice off in the distance saying, "it's a good thing they didn't get any hits, he walked five guys." That may sound a little tough, but at my next game he showed up in a bright yellow t-shirt with black print that said, "I'M RODD KIPP'S DAD." Enough said.......
One of the hardest things I had to do during my baseball career, was pitch my first college game. Not because of the level of competition, not because it was in Florida, but because my dad wasn't there. I always looked for my dad before I threw my first pitch. There was a peacefulness that I felt when he was there. Kind of like, no matter what happened, good or bad, it was going to be ok.... He used to tell me all the time, "no one is better than you, no one can beat you until they do it." It was his way of telling me to not get caught up in the hype of the opponent, but make them earn whatever they were gonna get that day. I didn't tell him about the looking for him before I threw my first pitch thing, until we were both old enough not to think it was corny. I think he appreciated it.
Ironically, the last Phillies game that my dad and I saw together was dramatically opposite of the first. What was the same was that it was my now ten year old sons first professional baseball game. My dad was with me for my first game and his grandson's first game, a great memory in itself. The opposite part is that Kevin Millwood threw a no-hitter, which was the first live no-hitter that any of us had ever seen. It was also our last visit to Veterans Stadium, which was demolished at the end of that season.
I grew up a baseball fan, idolizing it's players for their vast array of talents. My dad couldn't hit like Michael Jack and he couldn't pitch like Lefty. But what my dad did better than any of those guys was much more important, he was my dad. All the times I was sitting up in my seat to get a better look at those guys, the biggest hero of them all was sitting right next to me. He taught me to play baseball, but he taught me an even greater skill, he taught me to be a dad. Not by what he said, but by what he did, and how he did it. My four boys all have various sports heroes, players that they idolize for their different skills. I am good with that, my only hope is that I can one day be a hero to them, the way my dad was to me. I no longer want to hit or pitch like anyone, I just want to be a dad like Arthur Kipp Jr. was. This will be my toughest baseball season ever, and I may find myself secretly rooting for the Pirates.
Thanks, DAD.....
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