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!”