Skip to main content

Dads Gift

On January 24, 2015, at 1:08 p.m. Donald Lee Ball, my Dad, made the transition to heaven. He was a devoted husband, father of four, grandfather to seven, and yes, a great-grandfather to four healthy babies. He loved his family and nature’s bounty. He was always active, an athlete, and an outdoorsman. A mans-man who taught his children to work hard, be honest, and treasure family values. His spirit (our gift) lives in all the people he touched. 

My best memory of my father was his love of baseball. Not spring training or a visit to a major league ballpark, nor was it meeting a famous ballplayer. For me, it was learning to catch lightning and field line drives with my Dad. My attention was not on major league baseball (see, A Budding Cubs Fan) as a youngster. The game, at that level, was always background noise from an old transistor radio tuned to WGN Chicago. In Cuba, Illinois baseball fans chewed on one another every season over the battle between the Chicago Cubs and the St. Louis Cardinals.

For our family, baseball was always something we participated in, not something we paid to watch. My father (everyone called him Doc) was an exceptional underhanded fast-pitch softball hurler for the Cuba Merchants, an obscure team in Central Illinois. Back then, every small town had a team, and the local ball field was where families gathered on weeknights and the weekends.

After he enlisted in the Army, Dad was stationed at Fort Lee, Virginia. His commanding officer gave him two choices: tour (pitch) with the Army’s Pro softball team or deploy overseas. Luckily for me, he chose overseas deployment and was stationed in La Gord, France. There he met Mauricette Bontemps, my mother; they were married, and in 1959, after his tour of duty, he moved the young family back to Cuba, Illinois.

Once again, my father resumed his craft as a pitcher for the local softball team. In 1960, my brother Ronnie was born, in 1962, Rodger, and in 1965, my sister Michele completed our family. Being the oldest son, my job was to help Dad warm up for a game. We called it burnout; he threw the ball fast, hard, and with pinpoint control. He would say to me, “You ready - this one is going to curve, stay in front of the ball." It would completely drop off the table, spin away to the left or right; sometimes, the ball would approach in slow motion. He could even make the ball rise. It fooled batters every time. I could hear the ball whiz, then a loud clap of thunder as I felt it smack my glove. "Boy, that one stung," shaking off the pain between pitches. The local teams always wanted Doc to pitch for them. We attended ballgames, including home games, city games, and county games. I believe it was in 1966 when his team, the Cuba Merchants, won the state championship.

However, it was not just my Dad who played ball, my two brothers and I also played daily in the summer. We played ball with the local kids from our neighborhood. During our scrappy yard games, the Heller boys tuned their portable transistor radio to the Cubs on WGN. We imitated Cubs players at bat. Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, and Billy Williams were always favorites.

We joined the Little League. And yes, Dad tried to teach us to pitch with absolutely no repeatable results. Strong arms but no control. We were horrible. However, we could catch and field the ball like pros because of our daily burnout sessions. There was no fear; when you’re used to having a ball hurled at you between 60-70 miles an hour, you learn to catch it - or watch out! During Little League, my position was shortstop; I could stab a line drive with the best of them. There were games the coach played me at first base. I would dive for the wild throws; Dad always said, "Stay in front of the ball." Nothing got by me.

So, baseball was our pastime, not as couch potatoes but as excited participants in the game. As kids, we never made it to a Major League Ballpark.

My father’s first visit to a major league park was Busch Stadium in 1998. It was the Mark McGuire, Sammy Sosa home run chase to catch Roger Maris. We were there during that historic season; we cheered when McGuire hit number 64 that night. My youngest brother was absent from his seat for most of the game. When he finally returned, “Where have you been?” asked Dad. “Hanging out in Big Mac Land, trying to catch a home run ball,” but that’s another story.

My Dad was a devoted Cubs fan. Is it a coincidence he passed just hours after the great Cubs shortstop Ernie Banks? Sadly, he never did visit Wrigley Field. God's speed, Dad. I’m sure you will make the trip to that great ballpark in the heavens to strike out Ron Santo and Ernie Banks whenever you choose.

Dad, you lived a richly rewarding life. Your influence was profound, your lessons, the sparkle in your eyes, your smile, the laughter, and the gifts you shared will always be a part of me.

 My last words to him were, “I love you, Dad!”
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...
Post a Comment
Read more

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Dog, a Beer . . . and the Ghost of 1912

Whenever you step into an American cathedral of our National Pastime built before modern ergonomics, municipal zoning, or crowd-flow dynamics, an unspoken understanding forms, creating a welcoming, timeless atmosphere. You trade legroom, sensible corridors, and personal space for the privilege of communing with ghosts. Last week, Lori and I made our pilgrimage to Fenway Park to watch our Chicago Cubs take on the Boston Red Sox (a taut 0–2 contest that felt spiritually tied to their 1918 World Series meeting). Staying just across the Charles River at the Courtyard Marriott in Cambridge gave us one immeasurable tactical advantage: we walked. While the automotive gridlock around Kenmore Square took on the character of the Siege of Yorktown—horns echoing across the asphalt like musket fire—we simply strolled across the Boston University Bridge, enjoying the river breeze and feeling smugly superior to everyone trapped behind a steering wheel. Fenway, built in the spring of 1912, holds rough...
Post a Comment
Read more

Paris – the End of Silence

✈️  In this special episode: Paris – the End of Silence Sometimes, connection arrives in the most unexpected form—not through grand gestures, but through a quiet voice carried by technology. In a Paris apartment, I finally understood my family’s words . . . and felt my mother’s presence in every sentence. Since I was a little boy, France has been both a beautiful and frustrating paradox in my life. Every six to nine years, my mother, Mauricette, would take my brothers and me back to La Rochelle to visit our French family. The moment we arrived, the air would fill with a sound I loved but couldn’t share in—the rapid-fire, musical rhythm of French. My aunts, uncles, and cousins would warmly sweep me into hugs and kisses, their words flowing like a lovely melody I couldn’t quite catch. I’d smile brightly, trying to communicate with my eyes and hands. But as soon as we stepped off the plane, my mother and her sister-in-law, Joséan, started talking animatedly. They were gone, chatting h...
2 comments
Read more