No one seemed to hate baseball any more than my dad. He never watched sports, didn't care about any of them, scoffed at people who followed them. He watched war movies. The history channel. Documentaries.
He spent his time reading books. Lots and lots of books. When he wasn't reading, he was working, or down in his workshop making swords and leather goods, and whatever we needed. He had no tolerance or time for anything sport related.
And yet.... he always let me ramble on to him about what was going on in baseball. Or pro-wrestling (technically sports entertainment, I know. shut up), or whatever else. But he hated baseball, and still he knew almost all the starters, because I wouldn't shut up about them. He'd humor me and listen, even though he probably wanted to rip his own ears off.
My dad cared enough about me to share in something that he hated, just because it gave him time to spend with his youngest daughter. He always wanted me, my mom, and my sister to be happy, and I can honestly say that he would have done anything for us. So now three years have passed since he's been gone, and though I find it unbelievable that it's been so long, I remember my dad on my baseball blog because well... it's what he'd expect me to do.
And where ever he is, I have to believe he still cares enough to listen. I love you, dad.
1 week ago