Note: This is Part 2 of a two-part series.  If you desire the full meal, you might want to start with the appetizer first – Part 1.

I grew up in the suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri.  The St. Louis football team, the Cardinals, was awful and the St. Louis basketball team, the Hawks, was decent, but the Boston Celtics of Bill Russell and Bob Cousy won it all back then just about every year.

St. Louis was definitely a baseball town with the St. Louis Cardinals led by Stan The Man Musial and company.  Our family lived and died baseball and the Cardinals, and when the baseball season was over, we simply holed up and waited for spring training to start again.

My dad, Lyman, being an ex-Canadian and growing up in hockey country would take us to games, but never really understood the game.  I remember games at old Sportsman’s Park before Busch Stadium with the huge metal columns that would always seem to be in the way of part of the playing field.  I would pray to have a seat where I could at least have a clear view of my hero, Stan The Man, as he played first base or sometimes left field.

Dad would often sit backwards in his seat and spend the 2-3 hours watching the audience.  The fans and their classic behavior interested him more than the game.  He was a dedicated people watcher.

My dad was also an older dad.  I was born when he was already 45 years old and so his sports playing days were long since past, and anyway, baseball just wasn’t his game.  Neither was basketball for that matter.  He was an accountant and spent most of his time in the office.  His only real relaxation was watching Johnny Carson every night – something he never missed.

He was supportive of our sports endeavors, but often aloof.  I used to think he was just disinterested, but now I’ve come to understand that he just did not understand those queer American sports.  He was even somewhat disgusted with the way hockey had turned so violent and seemed to emphasize the fighting over the game itself just to bring up TV ratings.

So it came to no surprise to either my older brother, Jim, and me that at our Father and Son Boy Scout picnic baseball game, Lyman decided to sit out, not play, and simply watch.  So Jim, 5 years older than me, took Dad’s place on the opposing Father’s team and played against my team – the Sons.

This was neither a surprise nor a problem for me.  It was simply normal.  Dad did not participate in our sports.  He had been a professional hockey player with the Chicago Black Hawks in his own youth and his father had actually owned the Kenora Thistles up in Canada which actually won the Stanley Cup (hockey’s equivalent to the Super Bowl) in 1907, but that was such another lifetime that it really didn’t mean much to this 12-year old boy.

Back to baseball:

The Fathers and Sons game was a close game.  In fact, we were tied 3-3 in the last inning of a seven-inning game.  It was getting late and no one wanted to go into extra innings and the fathers were up last.

I was playing first base and there were already two outs.  It was agreed that if we were tied at the end of this inning we would all just call it a day and go home tied … bummer.

My brother, Jim, was the last hope for the Fathers.  He hit a triple and I was full of mixed emotions as he stood on third representing the potential winning run.

For the sons, this was a serious game – a chance to beat the dads at something.  For the dads, it was just a lark – a chance to have some fun, drink some beer and have a lot of laughs – mostly at each other’s expense.

As the last dad shuffled up to the plate for the final at bat, with Jim on third, one of the wise-guy dads had a crazy idea.  “Hey, let’s let Lyman decide the winner of this great contest!  Lyman, you pinch hit!”  There were a lot of guffaws and gentle ribbing, and after some prodding, Dad agreed to grab a bat and take a few swings.

I stood on first in horror and embarrassment.  Dad hardly knew how to hold the bat, much less hit the pitch.  I knew what was coming.  I had seen him pitifully try to throw the football a couple of years back.  It would be 3 embarrassing strikes, followed by a lot of laughter and then we’d all go home.

After the first two swings and misses, I wanted to run off the field into the night.  My dad had a great sense of humor and was taking all the ribbing he was getting from the other dads quite well.  It was all in fun and he knew it, but I couldn’t see it that way.  I was already ashamed.

And then he knocked the cover off the ball.  He must have reached back to a time gone by and pulled something from his youth – his timing, his grace, his strength – for he hit a gigantic Home Run far over the left fielder’s head driving my brother in from third and winning the game.

Though we had just lost, the Links had just won the game and I was jumping up and down playing first base at the amazement of what Dad had just done.  The crowd had gone wild.  Already all the dads were chanting his name as he began to run. “Lyman, Lyman, LYMAN!”

I watched him with my heart in my throat as he began to run to first.  His eyes were as big as saucers at what he had just done.  I wondered if he would even know that he had to circle the bases.  He had hit it so far that he could have strolled the bases in his own sweet time while the left fielder ran hopelessly after it.

I began to yell, “Run, Dad, Run! C’mon, this way!”  He seemed confused.

And then it happened.

It had rained earlier in the day and there were patches on the field that were still wet.  One of those patches was along the first base line.  When he hit that patch, I saw his legs move out far ahead of the rest of his body and watched his eyes get even wider as he actually fell awkwardly backwards slipping on the wet ground.

He fell very hard and just lay there.  Everyone was laughing and screaming, “Get up, Lyman, get up!  Keep running!  Keep going!”  But he didn’t get up and finally a hush fell over the crowd.

He had broken his shoulder and his arm badly on the fall.  The ambulance came and carted him off to the hospital.  He was in an amazing middle-of-back-and-shoulder to wrist plaster cast that required his arm to stick out in front of him like he was reaching for something for months.  I used to scratch his itches inside the cast with a coat hanger …

Lyman, the jock.  Well … the point is that he did it.  He didn’t exactly make it all the way around the bases – actually he didn’t even make it to first base – but hell, we gave him that.  He hit the homer, he drove Jim in, he quieted the laughter – twice – and he won the game.

I was never more proud of my dad.

Further Note: I just realized that today, Feb. 12, is my dad’s birthday.  Happy Birthday, Dad – wherever you are …