A Father to One Thousand Hits
The New York Times
June 15, 2008
By Doug Glanville
I had made the drive so many times that I wasn’t even conscious of it anymore. Philadelphia to Teaneck, N.J., became a “Star Trek” teleporter from Center City to 619 Cadmus Court. All I knew was I ended up home.
But one trip was different. My body stubbornly got involved, and as a result I got lost during my autopilot journey. I was turned around and disoriented, most likely because of worries about my dad’s condition. What was once automatic suddenly seemed impossible.
I suppose I had reasons anyone would understand. My father had experienced yet another major stroke. When my mother spoke to me that morning — my birthday — as she was trying to stabilize him in the Hackensack Medical Center emergency room, she told me that after my father had been declared “non-responsive,” he had recovered consciousness when, during her conversation with me, she said the word “baseball.” So, to me, his condition had gone from grave to horrible — and that was progress. I was optimistic. I sensed he would still be with us when I got there.
He was semi-comatose when I entered the room, but he straightened up, smiled . . . and then went back into his coma. The doctor, a close family friend, spat out unrecognizable (to us) figures to explain my father’s state that, when translated into layman’s terms, basically told us that he was on borrowed time. Yet my father defiantly showed us that numbers were only for the emotionally conservative.
I hugged my mother, she wished me “Happy Birthday,” and I told her I had to get back to Philadelphia, and the Phillies. On the drive back, I felt a renewed strength. I turned up the radio and cruised down the highway. Something told me that my father would be in my life for a little while longer. The numbers hadn’t suggested that, but his spirit did.
The music reached a crescendo and I unwittingly blew past the speed limit. Sirens blared and as I slowly pulled over, I thought, “I have a pretty good excuse.” But I didn’t have time to give it. The officer, a Phillies fan at heart, recognized me and — as he wrote me up — started telling me, “You’re having a tough year, but numbers are not important, your value to our community is priceless.”
I never had been so thankful to receive a speeding ticket. It was a small price to pay for having someone remind me of what amazing blessings and gifts I’d had in my life. I had so much to smile about. After all, my father was still smiling.
From that point on, I proceeded to play the best baseball I had played in years. My paltry .200 batting average rose nearly 5o points, and by season’s end I was two hits away from my 1,000th career hit. Something told me I was going to be fine. When I arrived at Pro Player Stadium, in Miami, my name was penciled in atop the batting order. I wasted no time. I got a hit my first at bat for number 999, and in my next turn, I carved a single into left for my 1,000th. I felt unstoppable that day, as if something bigger than me was swinging the bat on my behalf.
It was the final game of the 2002 season and at 7:15 p.m., it was over: the Phillies fell short, and I had not only my 1,000th but my 1,001st hit in the books. At that precise moment, my father quietly passed away at Hackensack Hospital.
Maybe his work was done here, maybe he felt that peace within that all men long for but are afraid to court. Somehow, deep down, I knew it was a good thing. I also knew that he gave me the confidence and faith that when my turn came, I would embrace it too.
New York Times 06/15/2008
http://topics.nytimes.com/topics/reference/timestopics/people/g/doug_gla...
