I grew up in an apartment over a
convenience store in Brooklyn, New York. One of those old buildings where they
had octagonal tiles in the foyer downstairs. Downstairs from us lived an
Italian family. The Balducci’s. They were nice enough. My father seemed to get
along with them. We lived on the third floor. My earliest childhood memories
were of climbing up the stairs to our apartment, saying hi to Mr. Balducci
along the way, and of baseball.
My father was a huge baseball fan.
He watched it religiously. And not just the home teams either. He’d watch any
and every game that he could. He used to set the VCR to tape the games he would
miss on days he had to pick me up from school, or when my mother dragged him to
church. If you heard him tell it, baseball was a religion. But, Mom still made
him go, and he still made me go.
I remember once, when I was still really young, he
went out and bought one of those hand held AM/FM radios. He snuck it in his
church jacket. He sat between me, and my younger sister, Maria, with ear buds
on listening to the game. I don’t know how Mom found out, but she was one very
angry Hispanic woman when we got home from service that day. I never saw my
father so apologetic. Unfortunately, my mother had given him fair warning about
the radio and taking it to church. It didn’t make it past that day. But, we
found out that my mother was lying when she said she didn’t know how to use a
hammer. No one who is inept at using a hammer could do what she did to that
radio. So my dad went back to recording the games instead. He never got my
mother angry again, and in return, his radios stayed in tact.
My first real father son moment with him came while
we were sitting at home watching a Yankee game, though I didn’t realize it
then. In truth, I couldn’t tell you who they played if I tried. All I remember
was that they lost. The late 80’s and early 90’s were not a good time for the
Yankees. My father turned off the game and was quiet for some time. He was deep
in thought, I think. He had these pensive emerald green eyes that seemed to
glow in the dark. It was both intimidating and comforting.
“Life is like baseball,” he said to me. “You got to
work the pitch count. Make 'em work for that final strike. Sometimes you’ll get
a walk... sometimes you’ll get a big hit. But it’s those outs.... those will
define you. You got to remember that you’ll be up in the next inning. You’ll
get another chance to swing that bat and get a big hit.”
I didn’t understand it then. I guess that is the
beauty of wisely spoken words. They follow you through life. As you get older,
there starts to be clarity in them and you can appreciate them correctly. But
at that age, it was all Chinese to me.
I never did get the baseball bug like my father had.
In truth, I despised it. I hated sitting with my father night after night to
watch games he had recorded. But that was the only way of bonding with him, so
I did it without complaining. Well... mostly without complaining. In the mid to
late 90’s when the Yankee’s had that dynasty team, the one with Williams,
Martinez, Jeter and Posada, my father really went crazy. There was a game I
watched where Paul O’Neill, their right fielder, struck out and went into the
dugout behaving like an animal. He had a habit of doing things like this, striking
out and then kicking over the Gatorade container in the dugout. Steinbrenner
used to call him “The Warrior”. But I lost some respect for the game that day.
My father tried to rationalize it.
“You have to understand, son. O’Neill... he has
heart. He expects the best of himself every single at bat, and when he doesn’t
do it, he gets angry. If he didn’t react that way, it would mean he didn’t
care. That it didn’t matter to him if he did well or not. I want you to be like
that. Accept nothing less than your absolute best. And when you reach it, get
better. When you fail, don’t bow your head and move on. Get angry. Get back in
the batters’ box with greater determination.”
As I got older, I started to resent my father’s
baseball riddles.
“Baseball is more then just a game,” he would say.
“There’s lessons in baseball. But you got to watch it with an open heart.”
I didn’t care for the game and I didn’t care for the
baseball-isms. My last three years in high school, I would avoid my father and
baseball as much as possible. And when I graduated, I joined the military to
get away from him. I loved my father, but I hated how everything was baseball
to him. We started growing apart when he didn’t show up to my Marine
graduation. My mom showed up with a card from him. Inside all it said was “Work the pitch count. Love, Dad.” I was
furious. This was important to me. My mother did her best to try to make me
understand but I wasn’t hearing any of it.
I got to visit home for two weeks after basic
training. My dad went on and on about the Subway Series World Series as if I
were supposed to be excited by it. I smiled politely for the most part,
attempting to hide my anger at him. My mother asked me to give him the benefit
of the doubt, but at the time he was nothing more than a crazy old man to me.
He was too in love with baseball and just didn’t care about me. But, I clenched
my teeth and dealt with it because it meant I got to see my mother and younger
sister.
Two days before I was scheduled to leave, my father
and I got into an argument for the first time ever. I couldn’t tell you now
what it was about. In reality, it was probably so insignificant that it didn’t
warrant an argument. It started with my father trying to get me to sit with him
to watch baseball games he recorded while I was at basic training.
“Why won’t you just sit with me?”
My father’s eyes looked hurt. My anger wouldn’t
quell.
“Because I hate baseball. I hate everything about it.
And all your stupid life lessons? Really Dad, using baseball to teach me to be a
man? I learned more in basic training then I ever have from you! You were too
caught up with these stupid games to even notice that I was growing up. You
never bothered to teach me a damn thing. Baseball is fucking stupid and
honestly, I’m starting to see why you love it so much. You know what, Dad? Just
don’t even bother speaking to me about baseball or anything ever again. You
couldn’t even be bothered to go to my graduation. That was important to me. It
should have been important to you, too. But you have never cared for anything
outside of a fucking baseball diamond!”
I regretted my words almost as soon as I said them. All
the light in my father’s eyes went out. He nodded shyly and walked away. I
didn’t care. I was angry. I was tried of him and his baseball obsession.
Besides, he missed my graduation for no apparent reason. Why shouldn’t I be
mad? My anger was justified. He didn’t speak to me for the next two days, and
when I left to be stationed half way across the world, my father sat quietly in
the living room watching an old Yankees game.
After that, neither of us acknowledged the other. I
kept my visits back home to a minimum. And I never stayed with my parents. I
opted for hotel rooms and took my mother and sister out for lunch while I was
in town. I never bothered to ask for my father. I never even wrote to him. My
mother and sister would try to bring him up in conversation when I called. They
would tell me how he missed me and couldn’t wait to see me. I would brush it
off and ignore it. My father was never going to change. His life revolved
around baseball. To me, he should have spent some time outside in the park with
me playing baseball instead of sitting in front of the television watching it.
In my eyes, he failed me as a father.
Years went by without me speaking to my father. I got
married. I sent an invitation to my parents. Only my mother showed up. When my
children were born, only my mother came to visit. As time past, I became
angrier and angrier with him. My mother would visit me frequently, even though
we lived in Seattle. My father never came. He just didn’t want to know his
grandchildren. Even if he did mess up with me, he could have made things right
with them. He chose not to. I gave up. Gave up caring, gave up hoping. He
really would never change.
On August twenty third my sister called me.
“Tony? Dad is in the hospital.”
My sister’s voice was shaky. She had been crying.
“What’s wrong, Maria?”
“It’s cancer, Tony. He’s had it for years. Since you
were in basic training. He never wanted us to tell you. Wanted to tell you
himself. But you... You never even called him, Tony.”
My world seemed to come to a complete stop at that
very moment. I let my sisters words sink in. How could it have been possible
that I had let all this time go by and never knew my father was sick? How did I
allow my anger do this to me? And I didn’t even remember what started the
argument in the first place!
“Tony, the doctors say he won’t make it through the
weekend.”
She sounded as shattered as I felt.
“How long, Maria?”
“A few days, tops. Come home. Please.”
I hung up the phone with my sister and quickly made
plans to fly to New York.
My plane landed in La Guardia on a Thursday, August twenty
fifth. I had the cabbie take me straight to Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn. He
had been placed in a room that looked like a small hotel room. His was the only
bed. There was a chair in the corner that turned into a bed for family members
to stay the night and pass vigil. Looking at him, I saw only a ghost of the man
I remember. He spent the last twenty plus years battling cancer and it showed
on his face. His breathing was labored, and although he was asleep, his eyes
were shut tight as if he were trying to fight off some unknown pain. He had a
feeding tube and several IV tubes running from a machine overhead. There was a respiratory
machine over to one side and a crash cart not too far. I looked towards the
table next to his bed. On it stood pictures of my mother and sister. There was
a photo of me, and my father from when I came back from basic training. In
fact, there were several photos of me, I noticed: my wedding photo, photos of
me holding my children when they were first born, the most recent family
portrait that we took. I reached out to pick up a photo of me, and my father
from the one and only baseball game he took me to. It seemed like ages ago.
“I like to think that you liked baseball back then.”
His voice was small, fragile and shy, as if he were
afraid the labor of speaking would break him. I smiled politely and put the
picture back on the table.
“I probably did, Dad.”
He smiled brightly, “I never thought I would see you
again.”
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat.
“I know. I’m sorry, Dad.”
He gave me a slight nod, grabbed my hand and went
back to sleep.
Given my fathers condition, the hospital allowed my
children to enter the room and visit with their grandfather. They were only in
the room for a few hours. He had me put on the Yankee game so that he could
watch with his grandsons. I wanted to roll my eyes at the thought of my father
being the same man I grew up with. My boys sat near their grandfather,
listening him talk about all these old baseball players he admired. They seemed
really interested in it and were upset that the Yankees were losing the first
game they were watching with him.
The score was 7 – 2 Oakland A’s over the Yankees in
the 5th inning. Then something changed in the team. It was as if
they knew my father was watching with my children. Robinson Cano came up to bat
in the 5th and hit a grand slam. My father and children cheered
louder then I knew was possible for them. While the team was still down, 7 – 6
was a much better score. In the bottom of the 6th inning, Russell
Martin came up to bat with the bases loaded. My father smiled.
Whispering to me he says “Wouldn’t it be amazing if
he gets another grand slam?”
I rolled my eyes, knowing it wasn’t possible. With a
crack of the bat, Martin shut me up. He hit a grand slam, and my jaw hit the
floor. And they just kept scoring after that. In the 8th inning,
Granderson hit the 3rd grand slam of the game, at which point even I
was hooting and hollering my approval. My father smiled. It was probably the
first time he saw me so passionate about the game. The Yankees went on to win
22 – 9 that day. My boys were wired from the excitement of the game.
Smiling, my father looked at them and in a soft voice
said, “See boys, baseball is like life. You got to work the pitch count. Make
'em work for that final strike. Sometimes you’ll get a walk... sometimes you’ll
get a big hit. But it’s those outs.... those will define you. You got to
remember that you’ll be up in the next inning. You’ll get another chance to
swing that bat and get a big hit. Don’t ever give up, there is always another
at bat.”
I looked at my father and regarded him quietly. He
smiled at me and winked. He had spoken those same words to me when I was the
same age and my sons. It seemed like ages ago. A time I couldn’t recall
properly if I tried. I didn’t full understand those words then. I didn’t get
the analogies. My wife picked up our sons soon after the game was finished. I
stayed the night with my father.
“I hope you understand them now,” my father said.
“Understand what, Dad?”
“Everything I ever taught you. Teach your boys. Okay?
Make sure they grow to be wonderful men like you. You make me so proud!”
He let quiet tears roll down his face.
“I will, Dad. I promise!”
“I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
He gave me a small weak smile and went to sleep. I
sat in the chair next to him, just watching him. I hated myself for having
missed so much time with him. My last thought before I fell asleep that night
was of how my father had taught me so much, even if I didn’t understand it
then.
***********************************************************
I looked up from the pulpit in front of the church. I
was swallowing back a lump in my throat. I had made it past most of my eulogy.
I just had to make it a little further. I looked to my left at the closed casket
that sat in front of the altar.
“My father passed away that night. He passed holding
the hand of the son who did him terribly wrong. And even despite that, he loved
me. My father, through all of his crazy, baseball-obsessed talk, taught me more
about life then I could have ever imagined. More about life then I could have
ever wished for. I’ll miss him. I won’t ever get those years without him back,
and though being there at the end won’t make up for the time missed, I felt
more loved in those few hours then I have felt in quite a few years. My sons
learned more from my father in three hours then they learned from me in six
years. I feel blessed to have been there with him. To have been able to bring
him a few minutes of happiness. To watch his last baseball game with him.”
I looked up and met my mother’s eyes. She gave me a
weak smile.
“Don’t ever take for granted the people in your life.
Cherish every moment. Work every pitch count.”
I walked slowly away from the pulpit and back to my
seat next to my mother and sister. My mother grabbed my hand, giving in a weak
reassuring squeeze.
The rest of the day was a blur to me. I barely
remember being a pallbearer. The moments at the cemetery went by quickly. The
drive back to my parents apartment was quiet, everyone somber. When we got in,
I sat in my father’s chair in the living room. I sat there staring at the piles
and piles of VHS baseball games. They were lined up next to his baseball
movies... “Field of Dreams,” “League of Their Own,” “Sandlot”... I quietly
wondered what my mother would do with them now, if she would miss him watching
baseball at night. Would she be pleased to be able to watch her novellas?
I don’t know how long I had been sitting there. When
my mother came into the living room, everyone except my family, mother and
sister had gone. I vaguely heard my boys playing a game with my wife and sister
somewhere in the back of the apartment. My mother placed a gentle hand on my
shoulder.
“What will you do with all this?” I asked quietly,
gesturing towards my father’s baseball collection.
“I don’t know. Most of it is on VHS. Know anyone,
besides us, who owns a VCR?”
“Probably not.”
My mother sat down in the chair next to me. In her
hands was what looked like a shoebox.
“Your father.... He loved you, Tony,” she said
quietly.
“I know, Mom. I feel stupid.”
“Don’t. He understood. Probably better then you do.
He knew why you reacted the way you did. He... he missed you though. It’s why
he always sent me to visit. He wanted to go so badly. But he was always so
sick. The treatments... they made him ill.”
“He lasted a long time. Why didn’t you ever tell me,
Mom?”
“Would that have changed anything? If I told you
after your basic training, would you have reacted differently? You were a
different kind of man then, Tony. You made up your mind about your father so
young.”
I silently digested her words. She was right. And
that hurt the most.
“He never called. Why didn’t he ever call?” I asked.
“Oh baby... Your father spent a better part of the
last twenty years hospitalized. Taking experimental treatments after
experimental treatment. Even if he wanted to call, there wasn’t much he could
tell you beyond what his last treatment was and it’s side effects.
“This,” she said holding out the shoebox, “is for
you.”
“What is it?”
“Your father made me promise not to give these to you
until... well, until now. He didn’t know how long he would have. He wrote one
every other day at first. Then every week.”
I lifted the lid off the box and inside were letters;
letters written by my father and addressed to me.
“He figured even if he couldn’t speak to you, he
could write. Leave you a little bit of himself. He knew you won’t be ready for
it until now,” she smiled weakly. “Your father knew you better then even I do.”
With that she got up. Giving me a soft kiss on the
cheek she turned to walk out of the room.
“You know, your father never watched another baseball
game after you left here. He didn’t have the heart to. He kept saying that he
would watch the game again when he next saw you. He waited for you to watch
that game.” And with that, she was gone.
I picked up the envelope on top. It was dated two
days after our argument. I slowly ripped it open. And began reading.
Dear
Antonio, Jr.
I know you
asked me not to speak to you again. You did not, however, tell me not to write.
As your father, I will take it upon myself to leave you a little bit of wisdom,
even if you do not receive this for some time.
This
argument that we had, it was probably building for a very long time. I noticed
your interest for the game slipping a while ago. But, baseball is all I had.
All I knew. It’s how my father bonded with me and it’s how I wanted to bond
with you. I now realize that I tried too hard. I pushed the issue too much.
Maybe... maybe if I had taken you to more games, or even taken you to Prospect
Park to play the game instead of just watching it, but, I didn’t know how to do
that. My father never did it with me. I always thought if it was good enough
for me, it should be good enough for you. I realize now that you are a far
greater man then I am. I should have done more. And for that, I apologize. I
failed you in that.
As you now
know, my illness has made me miss you graduation. Believe me, no one could have
possibly been more proud of their son then I am. I did not tell you because I
knew that your knowledge of it would keep you close to home. That is not what I
wanted for you. Your resentment towards me would have grown if I allowed it.
You would have miss incredible opportunities to explore the world, to grow and
to learn. What kind of a father would I be if I allowed that? I never got out
of Brooklyn, and now, with my illness, I fear I never will. But you... you have
this incredible chance to serve our country, and to see things that I could
only read about. Embrace those moments. Live in them and really feel them. I
couldn’t keep you here. I won’t.
I want you
to remember, son, you are my pride and joy. I know, though you believe I have
taught you nothing, that you have absorbed my lessons. I see this in you. You
have never given up on anything. I have watched you stumble and get back up.
You are a warrior! You have more heart then Paul O’Neill ever did. You absorb
your failures and got back on the horse stronger then the last time. If someone
or something is attempting to knock you down, you make damn sure they have a
hard time doing it. You work your pitch count better then any baseball player I
have ever seen. Maybe, my methods of teaching you were unconventional, but they
were effective.
When I am
gone, I do not want you to feel as if you messed up in any way. You were simply
not ready to realize what it was that I was trying to teach you. It will come
to you. I can pray that it is sooner rather then later, but either way, it will
come to you. And when it does, know that my heart will swell with pride for
you. The life you make for yourself now... I know it will be a great one. You
will always have my love, son. Even if we do not speak. My heart will always be
with you. When you get older and have your own children, I hope you find a way
to teach them the lessons I taught you. A way that will work for both you and
them. I hope you are better at communicating with them then I was with you. Love
them. Cherish them. Do not take a single day with them for granted.
I will miss
you every day that you are gone. I will miss you every day that we do not
speak. I will miss you until you are near me again. My son. Until we meet
again...
With Love
Forever,
Your father
Antonio
Martinez, Sr.
I don’t know when the tears started. I just felt that
wracking pain in my chest, that tell tale lump in my throat. I was sobbing. My
father, and I took for granted the time we had.
“Daddy?” my oldest son called.
I quickly wiped my tears and turned toward his voice.
He walked to me slowly. He had the same pensive green eyes as my father. He
handed me a book.
“I don’t want this anymore. I can’t read it!” he
pouted.
I scooped him up and put him in my lap.
“You’ve got to work your pitch count, Little Tony.”
This Dark Road