My love for baseball truly manifested sometime in October 2006, but there were building blocks set in place long before that time.
Before that time, there was someone who bought me my first glove, and taught me how to play catch.
Before that time, there was someone who signed me up for tee-ball.
Before that time, there was someone who took me to every practice and watched every game.
Before that time, there was someone who coached me, some seasons directly, others indirectly.
Before that time, there was someone who threw a wicked curveball at a 11-year-old kid who couldn’t quite catch it, and instead caught a temporary tattoo of the seams of the baseball on my knee.
When I decided I wanted to be a pitcher, he helped set up a makeshift backstop and taught me how to throw. It was short-lived, but we tried.
When I started to get serious about the game, he bought a batting cage, a pitching machine, and netting, and we swung the bat for hours on end as he fed me pitch after pitch.
He drove me out to Detroit countless times to see the Tigers, first to Tiger Stadium, then to Comerica Park, along with Progressive Field, Great American Ballpark, Rogers Centre, Wrigley Field, Cooley Law School Stadium, Dow Diamond, and many other places, I’m sure.
When I told him I wanted to work in a MLB front office, he never once told me I couldn’t do it. When I was offered an internship in Milwaukee in baseball ops, he never criticized the hours or the pay. He helped make it happen.
When I was adjusting to life as an adult, on my own in a big city, he came out to Wisconsin on his own to catch a game at Miller Park and keep me company.
I owe an awful lot of who I am to him, but without him, I most definitely would not be writing in a baseball blog right now, or building a baseball portfolio for a second time, eager to get back into the industry. I owe all of my passion of the game to him.
Thank you, Dad. For everything. Happy Father’s Day.
Basebald Guy 