A Life Of Sports With Dad

I really don't know how to intro this. It's kind of an incoherent rambling of sports memories and stories I had with my dad over the years. When sports is a big part of your life, your dad is usually the one responsible. And Father's Day seems like the appropriate time to reminisce and thank him for all those good times and all the little things that are actually really big.

• We used to have weekly games of baseball or running bases at my Grandma's house every Sunday, and dad ran the show with about 20 of my cousins scurrying around. Once, I slid into third base, out by a good 10 feet. So, naturally, I threw the base as far as I could and screamed in protest. Some might call me a 9-year old cry baby. I'd say I was competitive. Dad threw me out of the game. I deserved it.
• In the District Round of the Little League World Series, dad was coaching first. One of our best hitters, Gregg, got hit on the ankle with a fastball, and had to be carried to the bench. The home plate ump called him out because he never made it to first, and dad was the first person to see the signal. "THAT'S BULLS***! WE'RE CALLING WILLIAMSPORT RIGHT NOW!" It took 11 years, but I finally heard the man curse. And everyone heard it. Aunt Bethany from Christmas Vacation could've heard it. My teammates loved it - "Your dad is AWESOME!", one of them exclaimed. My mom, who was sitting with my three little sisters, was not as thrilled.
• He never liked to play tennis, but did make good use of the racket, always hitting me pop-ups in the backyard or when we'd be vacationing at Lake St. Catherine in Vermont. On one occasion when a couple of hotties were laying out in the sun nearby, dad was purposely hitting the balls in their vicinity, allowing me to make spectacular diving catches to impress them. If I'd hit puberty by then, I SO would've had a chance with the brunette.
• You saw how Stanford scored 11 runs in the 9th inning against FSU the other day? That's nothin'. Trailing by a run heading into the last inning of a semifinal Little League game one year, dad - always the coach - told us all to take a strike before swinging. We did. There weren't many strikes to take. We put up a 29 spot. Seriously.
• Sunday mornings when we were young, he'd throw BP for an hour, and still have enough gas left for about 15 innings of a simulated game. 95% strikes. And of course, he and Mr. Genova would take us to brunch at Murph's afterwards.
• Was lucky enough to get tickets to Mike Piazza's final home game at Shea, sitting front row. Let's just say it got a little dusty when he came out for all those standing ovations. (That idiot wearing a Pennington jersey - don't ask - is yours truly; Dad is to my left).