‘Dad? Wanna have a catch?’

By Robert Patrick Jr.

It probably doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone that knows me that I’m one of those guys that gets choked up at the end of Field of Dreams. Ray Kinsella gets one more chance to play catch with his dad.

Though it may not include the added poignancy of Ray’s estrangement from his dad up to John’s death, anyone that has ever played catch with their dad can relate to that simple joy.

I’m getting dewy just thinking about it.

Such a sap!

Some of the fondest memories of my life involved throwing the ball around with my dad, whether it was a baseball or a football.[more]

I’m so blessed that my dad’s still around. I know today is bittersweet for many. My wife, Jan, lost her father in a plane crash when she was in her early teens and there's not a day that's gone by since that she hasn't thought about him and missed him. I wish I had known him because I know there's a lot of him in her, and she's my best friend.

Dad and I don’t play catch anymore. I don’t even know where my old glove is and the catcher’s mitt Dad invariably wound up using is certainly long gone.

But we share a love of sports and no matter what else is going on, when we visit we discuss the latest about our favorite teams, mostly the Hogs and the Cards. We’ve even made trips to St. Louis with my brothers and my son to catch some games, often on Father's Day weekend. Great times. I hope we have a few more of those trips to make.

He still roots for the Fayetteville Bulldogs. I have some other team I like better now.

Because Bob Patrick worked so hard for so long as a pharmacist, building up his own business and patiently dealing with sick folks of one sort or another day after day, I was able to become a sportswriter.

I can never thank him enough. And the only way I can ever come close to repaying him is to be as dedicated, hard-working, patient and kind as I can be, following his example.

I’m proud to be Robert Junior.

I’ve written some good stuff over the last 20-some years and I’ve stunk it up pretty good too. But the following column may have been my finest moment. I wrote it for dad’s birthday in late October of 1987 and it was published in the Northwest Arkansas Times, the newspaper in the town he grew up in, and me too.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

I love you.

From one fan to another 

Northwest Arkansas Times

October, 1987

The routine was the same in our house as it was in millions of others all over the country. After dinner when the table was cleaned off and the kitchen was put straight, the family sat down in front of the old black and white and watched The Donna Reed Show or Leave It To Beaver or some such.

It was early summer. School had been let out and my little brother Mike and I got to stay up late: nine o’clock. We would lie down in front of the set, spread-eagle, Mike on his side, me on mine with an invisible barrier set up by Mom keeping each to himself, cutting down on the fights.

For some reason — maybe an embarrassing, lovey-dovey scene in one of Mom’s favorite Doris Day movies — I looked away from the TV, a rare occurrence.

Dad wasn’t in his recliner. Where was he, I wondered. Somehow, I pulled free of the senses-sucking tube and started a search. He wasn’t in the kitchen; not in the bedroom or bath. The living room?

Like so many others, our living room was never used. It looked nice, it looked uncomfortable. Why would Dad be in there? Warily, I crept into the darkened room.

There were voices, radio voices. The only light in the room shone through the large picture window from the street lamp in front of the house. Dad was sitting in a high-back chair with his eyes closed.

“Dad?” I whispered. “What’re you doin’?”

“Listening to the ball game,” he answered.

And I listened, too. The sounds were mesmerizing, the words magical.

Someone with the crazy name of Hooly-on Hauvy-air hit a home run and the sound of the wild cheering came through Dad’s little transistor’s speaker. I remember:

“There’s a long one . . . way back . . . it could be … it could be … IT IS . . . a home run from Julian Javier.”

It was, of course, Harry Caray. Jack Buck was with him. And they were both talking just to us. It was 1964 and a new Cardinal fan was born, a seven-year old boy in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Dad and I stole away to listen many nights that summer and in others to follow. In July of ’64, he took the family to St. Louis and I saw my first big league game at old Busch Stadium. Curt Simmons, the lefty with the funny glove flip in his windup, pitched that first one. Ray Sadecki pitched that weekend, too, against the old Houston Colt .45s.

It’s still with me: the thrill that rushed through me as I caught my first glimpse of the stadium, then, the green grass of the outfield, the red and white uniforms. I still get goosebumps when I walk through the entrance into the open expanse of the park, the green field hitting me in the eyes contrasting with the gray concrete of the ramps and walks outside the stadium.

We had seats in the upper deck, way down the left field line. I remember being swallowed up by the crowd when a foul ball soared in our direction. Dad made a lunge and got a finger or two on it just like several other brave fathers around us. Someone three rows down snatched it on the rebound. I’ve never come that close to a foul ball since.

It was a golden year, 1964. The Cardinals finished with a flurry and the Philadelphia Phillies blew a big lead. The Redbirds won the pennant and the World Series over the dreaded Yankees.

In 1967, when the Cards tangled with the Red Sox, I actually got to take the transistor to school. That radio and I got to be real popular that week.

St. Louis became our annual vacation spot. Every summer, we’d head north and catch the Cards. Mom had such patience.

My love of the Cards and the game of baseball grew. I became an avid follower, not only of the Redbirds, but of the game. Dad taught me how to play, taught me how to appreciate the little things. We’ve had so many delightful, animated discussions.

Last Sunday, the 1987 Cardinals finished the baseball season with the Minnesota Twins in one of the most exciting seventh games of the World Series I can remember. I liked the Twins. I like a lot of teams now, but still none as much as the Cardinals.

Along about the middle of the game, after Vince Coleman had thrown out Gary Gaetti at home plate, when Todd Worrell was in and the bases were loaded for the Twins and things were really tense, I looked at my wife whom I’ve recruited into the Cardinal fold. “This is just great,” I told her, “just great.”

She smiled, and agreed, “Isn’t it, though?”

And we both looked at Ben, our four year old, eyes riveted to the TV. “Go, Cardinals, go,” he hollered.

We giggled.

The warmth inside was the same. Just for a moment, I was listening to the transistor with Dad in the living room back in ’64.

Thanks, Dad.

And happy birthday.