Two years ago, I went to a Houston Astros game on Father’s Day by myself.
To this day, I don’t remember the reasoning. My dad and I were in some argument — one so meaningless I forgot it weeks later.
I sat in the upper level down the left-field line, hoping he would forgive me. He never showed, and in the moment, I thought I missed an opportunity at a final baseball game with him.
When I got home, he embraced me. We forgave each other, even though the blame should’ve only fallen on me.
Four months later, I was in my third year of college at Missouri, not thinking of what troubles lied at home. My mom flew me back to Houston mid-semester. Dad was in the hospital, fighting the same blood disorder that took him two years later. And the man who looked immortal in my eyes — through everything he suffered — was hooked to a ventilator, having no idea I was sitting next to him.
As he fought for strength, finding himself in a different mindset than what he fronted my whole life, he was a new man, one realizing how fragile life is. From his hospital room, we watched the Astros drop Game 2 of the ALCS, bringing us to the thought we wouldn’t make it back to Minute Maid Park this year.
I flew back to Missouri the following day with the affirmation dad would be fine, waking up from fear that engulfed me days prior. And the Astros woke up, too.
We all know what followed.
Sadness turned into excitement, and with dad in better shape, I couldn’t pass on the opportunity of what could have been one last Fall Classic together. It wasn’t our first trip to a World Series game, but it felt more meaningful than Game 3 in 2017. Dad beat the odds and made it up the towering stairs down the left-field line to seats near the ones I found myself alone in months earlier.
From Jose Siri’s three-RBI performance to dad telling strangers to follow me on Twitter, Game 2 of the 2021 World Series will never be beat. I had no idea if it would or would not be our last baseball game together, but at the time, I felt content.
And to the kid who begged his mom for tickets to the 2011 World Series in Arlington, the kid who believed the Astros were stuck in the depths of losing forever, you probably feel stupid now. You made it to three World Series games with your dad — something many can’t say.
The following season, the Astros found themselves in a similar position. And so did I.
I flew home from school again. We spent Game 1 of the World Series in right field, watching the Astros take an early lead. But this night ended differently. The Phillies stormed back, and we left alongside an angry mob of tired fans.
In the back of my mind, I knew he said goodbye.
Dad said goodbye to Minute Maid Park, to the Astros and to the sport that connected us. I finally accepted it, when I answered a call from mom on March 23.
Two months before I graduated from college, he was gone. Nothing ever prepared me for the abrupt loss of my hero.
Anger, confusion, sadness and grief have filled my head every day since. I’m not one to share my thoughts or feelings, because that’s just not who I am. And I know I’m not the first person to suffer a loss in this manner, but I thought I’d finally share who my dad was.
From the many tournaments at Baseball USA to the countless hours and dollars sacrificed for me to chase a dream I fell miles short of, he centered his life around mine. He put me before anything, and even though I find myself believing I took it for granted, I know I wouldn’t be writing about baseball if it weren’t for him.
He always told me I would miss him more than I would ever know. I scoffed at that, never wanting to think of a goodbye.
I wish I did.
Because dammit, he was right again.
It’s been three months since he left. It sometimes feels like an hour, and other days, it feels like eternity.
But it was never a goodbye though; it was just a see you later.
To the man who never let me miss a practice, who helped me center life around baseball and who taught me what a dad should look like, happy Father’s Day.
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