By: S. Christopher Michaels
I don’t see my dad nearly as often as I would like. But I hear from him almost every day when we text about the Kansas City Royals . I cherish these moments. In truth, I’ve been lucky. For more than forty years, I’ve held baseball dear to my heart. And that all comes from one man.
I remember meeting Dad the first time. Yes, you read that right. I was adopted a month past my third birthday. About a week before I went to live with my forever family, I met my soon-to-be mom and dad. I climbed into this strange man’s lap and asked if he was going to be my new daddy. The memory is beautifully etched into my mind.
We drove to my new home the next day. It was a few hours away, and the frenzy swirled around me. I don’t remember much about that day except wearing a ball cap. As you might expect, my horizons expanded quickly. Gone was a foster child’s life on a Kansas country farm. I was to grow up in Wichita, addicted to sports—something I hadn’t known existed only days before.
The year was 1980 . If you’re not an aficionado of the Kansas City Royals, George Brett and the boys took the American League by storm. Brett flirted with the unfathomable .400 . The Royals made their first World Series . While I have no specific memory of these events, I know my folks were enthralled. Their enthusiasm was infectious.
I got to see my first game at Royals Stadium ( the original name of Kauffman Stadium ) in 1981. It was a blistering hot day as we sat in the upper deck on the third-base side. The orange seats burned my skin, but I didn’t care. I was at the cathedral. Taking in a live Major League game suddenly became the thing I never knew I needed so badly.
Like so many young boys, I played little league baseball when I reached the requisite age. Dad was one of the coaches. I was proud to play baseball for him. Don’t get me wrong; I played it for me . Playing on his team made me feel special, though.
Over a busy childhood, I took in as much baseball as I could consume. I played. I took my glove everywhere. I collected and traded baseball cards. I had a prehistoric baseball video game on my computer. I snuck toys into my bed long after I was supposed to be asleep and pretended they were my heroes ( George Brett , Frank White , and eventually, a man named Bo ), living out my baseball fantasies.
In the middle of all those memories, the Royals returned to the World Series in 1985 . I was allowed to stay up past my bedtime to watch the games with Dad. I remember Saberhagen and King George bear-hugging after the final out . I was grinning from ear to ear. Dad was too.
In 1986, we went to St. Louis with my paternal grandparents. Dad got his love of the game from his father. My grandpa was a dyed-in-the-wool Cardinals fan. Naturally, we went to Busch Stadium . I saw Nolan Ryan and the Astros one night. Two nights later, it was Dale Murphy and the Braves . National League baseball—with no designated hitter—was foreign to an American League kid like me.
The strike of 1994 hurt me deeply. I was seventeen—old enough to not take a business decision personally. Still, it stung. Maybe it was because the Royals were playing decent ball , and we hoped they might make a late-season playoff push.
1998 reaffirmed my commitment to the game . Dad and I would check the newspaper for box scores each morning ( yes, kids, this is how you followed teams from other parts of the country ) to see if McGwire or Sosa got another home run. I was home from college for most of the summer. Baseball was the common language Dad and I shared. It bridged the gap between his need for me to become an adult and my reluctance to do so.
In 2002, I got my first teaching job. I was hired to help coach baseball. Truthfully, it was a dream come true. Tony Peña was the manager of the Royals at the time. He brought an undeniable energy to the clubhouse. I wanted to be a mixture of Tony and Dad come springtime when I finally got the chance to show my mettle. Before that, my only coaching experience was one summer of little league while still in college.
I met my wife and daughter in 2007. I fell in love with both of them, and we officially became a family six months later. My little girl—nearly grown now herself—was my parents’ first grandchild. She has her own memories of time with them. A handful of my most precious recollections with her involve none other than my beloved Kansas City Royals.
We’ve lived in Colorado since 2008. We don’t get home to Wichita but twice a year. We see Kansas City even less. Almost a decade ago, I took my daughter to a Royals’ home game with my folks, my brother, and sister-in-law. Showing my child a place of such importance in shaping who I’ve become was transcendental. Doing it with Dad there was once-in-a-lifetime.
And then the Royals did the unthinkable. They went to back-to-back World Series in 2014 and 2015 . I remember crying then ( I still get choked up ) when I realized that I got to share that time—even from a distance—with Dad and my daughter.
In 2017, my brother came up with a brilliant plan to celebrate my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. We spent a family weekend in Kansas City, hoping to attend a Royals game. It ended up getting rained out as we sat in the car laughing at our luck. The funny thing is that the experience is more crystallized in my brain for how it played out anyway.
And here we are in 2022. I have more memories of baseball and Dad than I have the space to share with you. I’ll offer one final reminiscence from when we were home for a short visit over Memorial Day weekend. Dad and I were watching the Royals play the Twins . I shared some of my recent ( baseball ) data modeling with Dad. He asked if I could turn it into a play-by-play win-probability model. I told him I was happy to try. He grinned ear to ear. So did I.
You see, Dad is getting up in years. I don’t take the time I have left with him for granted. Whenever we discuss the goings-on from that day’s Royals game, my mind swims in a sea of baseball and memories with him.
You probably have your own profound memories of baseball with your father. The game and its intricate details was passed down to us by men who shared something they loved with someone they loved. This cultural transmission goes back generations . We are passing it down to our children. Baseball is in our blood.
At least it’s in my blood. I couldn’t imagine not loving baseball. And I get that from Dad. I will always be thankful to love a game. For that, I extend a grateful wish to my dad and all of yours: Happy Father’s Day.
I can be reached here on Baseball Almanac, via email at christopher.s.michaels@gmail.com , and I’m on the social media ( Facebook , Twitter ). As always, this has been the World According to Chris . Thanks for tuning in.
