Cultivating Fatherhood is a space made for the dads among us who love their kids and yet know that the adventure of parenting, with all its joys and beauty, can also be a perilous one. Make no mistake, showing up for your kids is beautiful, rewarding, hard, holy, brave work. My efforts are here intended to provide encouragement and understanding that equips us for our responsibility to the amazing beings who call us “dad.”
I can’t believe I missed it.”
Night began to close in at the ballpark as I flipped through my phone in frustration. I sank back into my seat next to my brother and my dad in our upper deck section just slightly to the right of home plate. A foul ball had shot into our section, but fearing the sting of it on my bare hand, combined with my own lack of coordination, I hesitated for a moment too long and the ball bounced back out of our section and down to the seats below.
My father was very kind about it and said nothing to make me feel bad for missing it, but my mind was hard at work doing that job itself. Oh, how I wished I could have given the ball to my dad as a gift of gratitude. Though I don’t follow the sport that much anymore, the romance of baseball is still in my DNA—a passed-down trait of the love of the game. I know how special it is for my dad to attend a ball game with his sons, and it’s special for us to go to a game with our dad, even, and perhaps especially, as my brother and I approach “midlife.” I thought a game ball would be a great gift, but alas, I hesitated and I lost my chance, watching the ball bounce and slip beyond my reach.
Several innings saw several balls crack off bats and launch backwards into our vicinity, but despite my commitment to “be ready this time,” none flew quite as close as that last one and each was snatched up by those near their points of entry. So in desperation I pulled out my phone and Googled “Can you buy same-day game balls at the stadium?” Turns out you can. This was my chance! My chance to get my father a gift of appreciation! Something meaningful to him! Something that would … fix my mistake. But then, as I was focused on my phone … the crack of the bat … the change in the atmosphere around me … the tension of the surrounding crowd … the movement in the seats … I looked up and saw … a ball was coming right for me.
I dropped my phone.
I leapt to my feet.
I reached out my hand.
The ball hit the tips of my fingers, adjusted course, landed several seats back, and was grabbed by another fan.
I missed the first ball because I was scared. I missed the second because I was on my phone. I was on my phone because I was trying to fix the sadness and feelings of failure that I had for missing the first ball. But I wasn’t sad anymore; I was mad. My dad, however, was far more concerned about my fingers. He knew how there was potential risk in my attempt, having injured his finger badly playing ball years ago. But I missed his words of care because my mind was stinging me more than my fingertips were.
It was the sixth inning and I remembered reading that the same-day game balls were brought to a certain kiosk at the end of the seventh inning. Determined and angry, fingertips still tingling with the impact and with regret, I excused myself and marched out of our section and down the stairs. I marched with purpose and single-minded focus: I was going to get my dad a same-day game ball.
I made it to the kiosk as the seventh inning began, and I waited. The top of the seventh inning played out, then the seventh inning stretch went into full swing. I attempted to sing along to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” as it echoed where I stood under the bleachers, but as I did, it dawned on me that I was missing something more important than a foul ball. The song lyrics “I don’t care if I never get back” stuck in my throat. I wanted another chance to enjoy a game with my family. Especially with my brother living on the other side of the country, these times with the three of us are precious and rare.
I did buy a game-day ball. It came in a case with the date and what type of play it was involved in—I chose a “foul tip” ball, just like the one I had lost. I did give it to my dad, and he beamed at the gift. He wanted my brother and me to sign it as a commemoration of our time together, and we did. But I learned that during my inning-and-a-half absence, he had come looking for me to make sure I was OK. He didn’t know where I had gone, so he didn’t pass me at the kiosk, but he wasn’t concerned about the ball I had missed; he was concerned that I had been hurt. The ball was very cool, but the time mattered more. As the dad with children of my own, I get that, because that’s what matters more to me too.
In the end we all really enjoyed the game and said how we would love to do it again the very next time we could. I joked that we should get the same seats but next time bring our gloves … OK, I wasn’t joking. But next time what I’ll work harder to catch is being present with these two amazing men. I’m 40 years old, and my brother is younger than me, but I still want to be like both of them when I grow up.
There is an unspoken pressure during Christmastime that all things be “merry” and “bright” and, well, “perfect.” As fathers we can struggle to feel like what we were able to provide for our children that year equals the sum total of our value. But, to borrow a cliché, “our children don’t need presents as much as they need our presence.” And being present is not about always giving the perfect gift or even being perfect ourselves. The drive for the “perfect” can often discourage us from being present. And when we aren’t present, we’re going to fail to catch things.
Life, like baseball, is a game with endings. We fathers are called to keep our eye on the ball. And if we strike out—refocus and step back up to the plate next time. For one day it will be the ninth inning. My children are growing up, and one day my earthly time with them will come to an end. I will wish I had received the time I was given when it was near. I will have wished I didn’t let the little things, the fears, the frustrations of life keep me from catching that precious gift.
“For it’s one …
Two …
Three strikes, you’re out …
At the old ball game.”
The featured image, “Brown Ornament with Snowflake,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.
Adam Nettesheim is Director of Fellowship for The Cultivating Project, and a columnist for Cultivating magazine. Through writing and illustrating, Adam seeks to pull on the golden thread that leads us Homeward. Adam is a ‘Multi-Media Specialist’ by day at a municipality in Colorado but his most important (and favorite) work is husband to his wife Sarah and father to his 3 children.
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