Six and a half years into this labor of love called fatherhood, I’m struck by how often I pause to look both forward and backward. Forward to the many milestones my son will reach. Backward to my own childhood, post-university days, and adulthood. And, in spite of myself, I find that I have a newfound respect for my parents.
As Mark Twain said, “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be about 21, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”
Children, of course, aren’t capable of fully understanding the love and care of their parents. But even into adulthood, we sometimes forget how much our parents did for us. Parents love, teach, and guide. Some lessons are daily and obvious. Say “please” and “thank you.” Clean up after yourself. Don’t hit your sister. But other lessons are subtle, gifts that don’t make themselves known until later in life.
When *I* was a boy of fourteen, I walked into our family room and saw a somewhat unusual sight. My father, a serious and disciplined man much of the time, was sitting in his TV chair, smiling and laughing.
He waved me in. “Watch this,” he said, “this scene is great.”
I looked at the TV to see Robert Redford wearing an old-fashioned baseball uniform with Knights written across the shirt. The “NY” on his cap was of a different, unfamiliar font. The manager of the Knights yells out to Redford, “Alright, Hobbs, knock the cover off the ball!”
The scene that unfolds is pure magic. Roy Hobbs walks up to the plate slowly, methodically. The announcer’s voice, barely audible, echoes across the stadium, “Now batting for Bump Bailey, number nine, Roy Hobbs.” We know nothing about Roy Hobbs other than that he’s a mid-season call-up.
The film score starts to bring goosebumps as Hobbs takes his place at the plate. He’s a Lefty. Slowly, Hobbs sweeps his right foot across the batter’s box chalk, taking most of the white line away. The music is still soft but building ever so slowly. Hobbs stands ready. The pitcher delivers the first pitch.
“Stee-rike one!” yells the umpire.
“Fastball, inside corner, strike one,” the radio man announces. “Hobbs didn’t like the call. Well, welcome to the Majors, Mr. Hobbs.”
Next pitch. The pitcher holds the ball behind his back. He turns it in his hand several times. Hobbs stands ready, again. The music is still building. The pitcher nods at the catcher and delivers… Hobbs swings, and, crack! The camera quickly pans above the right field bleachers. Lightning strikes above the stadium! The cover of the ball flops helplessly to the pitcher’s mound, while the rest of the ball sails to the right field alley, the string of the ball unwinding in slow motion during the flight.
“He knocked the cover off the ball!” my dad laughed.
I smiled, sat down, and watched the rest of the movie with my dad. The next hour and a half was a powerful father-son bonding experience.
I’ve come to realize that sharing stories, especially those in which the hero beats the odds, was a form of love my dad understood and knew how to express.
Later in the movie, the Knights are in Chicago playing the Cubs. By this time, Roy has gone from an unknown, aging rookie to a phenom. He is swatting home runs almost at will and his story has traveled well beyond New York. Before the game, he pays a visit to Iris, his high school girlfriend, whom he once intended to marry. When Roy sees a baseball glove on her sofa, Iris tells him it’s her son’s. “He means the world to me,” she says, “He’s a great kid.”
Roy is taken aback, but then smiles, and says, “I bet he is.”
When Roy asks if the boy is with his father, Iris responds, “No, his father lives in New York.” Iris then looks at Roy, earnest, nearly pleading, “But I’ve been thinking he needs his father now. He’s at that age.”
Iris sees the pain in Roy’s expression and understands. When they were kids, Roy’s father passed away, suddenly. He says, “Sure, a father makes all the difference.”
The look on Roy’s face tells Iris what she must do. (Spoiler alert) Iris later finds the courage, and the right moment, to tell Roy that her son is also his. This revelation comes at the perfect, climactic moment near the film’s end.
The Natural is a small gift my dad gave to me. Each time I watch the film, it fills me with the same joy and wonder. I’ve come to realize that sharing stories, especially those in which the hero beats the odds, was a form of love my dad understood and knew how to express. In my mind’s eye, I can see the excitement in his eyes when he taught me about the improbable success of the American Revolution. Or the story of how Jackie Robinson broke Major League Baseball’s color barrier. My dad loved stories like these and instilled the same wonder and joy into me. I can trace my love of stories and storytelling to those moments with him.
Parenthood provides us with an opportunity pass on lessons like this. Each night, I tell my son a bedtime story. They’re mostly ad hoc stories of adventure, good kings and bad kings, and battles in which a little boy and his friends help win the day. But recently, I’ve acquired a co-storyteller. My little man is adding to the stories.
When I see the joy in my son’s eyes during bedtime stories, I see that my dad’s gift stays with me today. I love good stories, stories that bring goosebumps and make me root for the underdog.
This past Father’s Day, the first since my dad’s passing, I thought about The Natural and that night many years ago. And I got goosebumps.
My father made all the difference.
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