Father's Day

I have two memories of my father from the summer of 1964.  Naturally, both involve the White Sox.

We went to a game, maybe around Father’s Day, maybe just a father-son special event.  Anyway, the Sox players had their sons on the field with them before the game.  I distinctly remember Minnie Minoso and his boy.  According to baseballrefernce.com, Minoso was with the Sox from April through the middle of July, so it was most likely sometime in June.  The Minosos were throwing the ball to one another, like the other fathers and sons.  For reasons I can’t explain, my father and I never played catch.

We also went to the last game of the season, the Sox shutting out the A’s 6-0 for their 98^th win of the year.  Too bad it was one less win than the Yankees, who went on to the World Series.  It was an overcast Sunday afternoon in early October, with a feel to it more football than baseball.  My father didn’t say much that day; he spent most of his life hoarding words.  Anyway, what do you say when your team loses ten straight to the Yankees at one point in the season, that they didn’t deserve to go to the Series?  So, we walked back to the car in silence, the 12-year old and his 51-year old father.  People say I tend to hoard my words, too. 

My father was much more talkative around his granddaughter, never more so the day we went over to visit when she was five.  It was summer, and we went out into the backyard, me to pitch, Clare to hit and Grandpa to call balls and strikes.  My mother watched from the porch.  When my father threw the ball back to me, did that count as playing catch?  I wonder.