Though my wife Katie and I split up last year, we remain good friends. So when she asked if she could write an Opening Day guest post here in tribute to her late father Steve — a massive Braves fan who passed away in September 2020, a year before his team won their first World Series in 26 seasons — I was happy to oblige...
For better or worse, the Atlanta Braves occupied a large part of the relationship I had with my dad. He rarely went a phone call or visit without an update on the current season, most of which were grim. The older I got, the more I spaced out during these "Braves du jour" talks. I always tried to throw in enough mmmhmms to seem like I was listening, but got called out every damn time. My dad would have been a great umpire, now that I think about it.
No question my dad was a loyal man — to the Braves and, more importantly, to me. My parents split when I was two, so the only life I remember is the one where he lived apart from me and my brothers. It was complicated, to say the least — much like being a Braves fan I suppose. It would take me decades to understand the difficulties of either situation. But there were two things I never doubted: My dad would always be there for me, and our summer vacations would always be to Atlanta for the annual worship of Braves baseball. (There was one summer he threw me a curveball and took us to Tampa Bay for the away game experience).
Before our pilgrimages to Fulton County Stadium and Turner Field began, my dad taught me and my brothers how to play baseball in the yard on weekends. He took us to many a minor league game, and even coached local little league teams well past my brother's tenure. And from the time my memory began until his memory ended there was a Braves game on the TV every visit. Baseball was and is a big part of my life because of him. It was a big part of my marriage, too, and I have him to thank for that. I wish I had told him that before he died. I wish I had told him a lot of things.
I wish so much had been different about it all. I wish he had seen the Braves take it all one more time. By the time I was permitted to visit him for what would be the last time, he didn't recognize the baseball game in front of him. But he recognized me and I am grateful for that. He died a few weeks later, leaving me with so many questions. One of them being why he talked so much about baseball and the Braves above so much else.
But I know now how difficult his life was, and I understand why it might have been easier to connect with me and those he loved over baseball instead of the pain and hurt I know he carried. The Atlanta Braves were my dad’s love language. Or Glove Language, if you will.
Losing him in what became a personal World Series of losses has led me back to the sport where it all began. And these days I don’t often have the words to share with those I love, either. But I found my way back to baseball and the Braves, both of which have become a comfort to me. I’ll carry the loves and losses always, glove in hand just like my Dad taught me. And while I strayed over the years and began a pretty heavy relationship with the Detroit Tigers along the way, I’ll still be pulling for the Braves to win it all. For Steve, forever.