Hey Dad

If I could talk to my Dad tomorrow on my way into work, we'd talk about the Royals. How we took a trip when I was in high school to see them play two games at the K versus the Yanks. My brother Clint loved Ricky Henderson, and in the first game he stole just about every base, and he may have stolen my Big League Chew now that I think about it. At the end of the game I was crushed. Crushed like a boy leaving the cineplex after seeing The Empire Strikes Back. What, you mean Han is frozen? Henderson can't be thrown out? Vader is Luke's dad? Brett can strike out? The world sucked.

But then, something miraculous happened. God granted us a new day. On that day, Brett hit back to back home runs, one down the left field fence, and the other down the right. He took a curtain call, waved to the crowd, and energized them so much a busty blonde several rows in front of us decided to flash everyone around her doing her best Morgana impersonation. Dad tried hiding his sons from the terror of the sagging breasts, but to no avail. They were too glorious to miss to a teenage boy in the 1980s.

And then things really stunk. The Royals were an embarrassment. Occasionally there was something to hang your hat on. Greinke won a Cy Young. We had an up and coming farm league. There was always next year.

And then this year happened. My Dad passed away in January. Months later his favorite baseball team, the Commodores won the NCAA World Series. He would have beamed. Just beamed. For himself, and for his father, Irvin Wilson. Baseball miracles continued. The Royals were decent. Then they were good in an unconventional way. The only team that didn't hit 100 home runs. Last in the league in walks. Yet somehow, through defense, base running, and an incredible bull pen they went on two tears, winning ten games in a row. They had a chance. And there was no one to share it with. No one there who understood the game as well as my Dad, or who had watched me wear Royals gear each spring, only to be mocked by Nashvillians.

Well Dad, it's 29 years later. The boys in blue are in the post season. I know you know that. I just wish I could share it with you. Tell me it was worth it. The wait. The pain. Our relationship was like that at times. Painful. Waiting. But in the end, there were no true regrets. I know how you felt about me, and that you loved me more than I probably ever knew. While I don't have any of your baseball cards, your memorabilia from the 1988 state championship game, or your awards for coaching, I do have the memory of a dad taking his son to see his hero play a game at Kauffman Stadium. I know you know how happy I am with the Royals less than 24 hours away from a post-season game. And I know more than anything that you know I would love to sit with you, just one more time, to see tomorrow's game. I love you Dad. I miss you Dad. I hope you found peace, and happiness, and possibly a Vandy National championship hat to wear up there. And if you have any pull, if you could help us get a lead with Shields through the six, I have faith in our bullpen to squeak one out.

Love you Dad.

Our Dad

Coach was a father figure to many of you,

But he was our dad, and for a while, Gilbert's too.

He would often save Clint from scary TV shows.

He once spanked Monty for an errant baseball throw.

We loved to look at his old baseball cards,

And were amused at his players when they'd roll our front yard.

Bowling was the sport we most liked to play,

At Melrose or Madison, he'd beat us most days.

One summer to Kansas City a trip we would take,

To see the Royals and Yanks play. Two boys. Their dad. Boy, was it great.

Dad would always disappear at a certain season,

And although we were sad, we knew the reason.

His focus would be on Xs and Os,

In search of a trip to the Clinic Bowl.

We'd look forward every year to each season's end,

Because we knew we'd have our Dad back home once again.

We shared many moments together, some happy, some sad.

We will always remember him as not our Coach, but our Dad.

We love you Dad - Monty and Clint