Baseball binds 3 generations

Michael Vitez

is a staff writer for The Inquirer

It was the fall of 1988, and I was watching the World Series one night when my dad called.

"Are you watching the game?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, amazed. "Are you?"

"Yes. Tell me, why does this fellow Hershiser keep shaking his head at the batter?"

I had to laugh. Here was Dad, at 62, after a lifetime of uninterest, finally becoming a baseball fan, trying to understand the complexities of pitching signals. I explained that Orel Hershiser, the Dodger pitcher, was shaking his head at the catcher, not the batter, indicating he wanted to throw a different kind of pitch, perhaps a curve instead of a fastball.

My father, who died three summers ago, had never been a sports fan. He immigrated to New York in 1939 from Hungary at the age of 13. He spoke no English, waited tables to help pay the bills, and lived in a one-bedroom apartment with his parents and sister in Washington Heights until 1949. Aside from his Army service at the end of World War II, he spent 10 years within a subway ride of three major-league stadiums yet never saw a game. Not one.

"I hadn't the slightest bit of interest," he later recalled.

In 1951, he married my mother and became a revenue agent in Buffalo. In 1957, the Internal Revenue Service moved him to Washington, where my brothers and I grew up. We spent lots of time as kids going to art museums and the Smithsonian, but I can remember only one time we went to RFK Stadium for a baseball game. And that was only because Uncle Cy got tickets. Maybe if we'd gone to a few more games, the Senators never would have left town.

When I became a dad - maybe because I became a dad - my own father developed a sudden interest in baseball. By then, he was working only three days a week, was healthy and financially comfortable. I suspect he wanted to enjoy some of the fruits of fatherhood he never shared with us.

During a visit over the New Year, my dad surprised me.

"I'd like to see a baseball game," he said. "Can I go with you sometime?"

My son Timmy, then almost 5, was still a little young but was developing an interest in the game. He loved to hit whiffle balls in the backyard - although, to tell the truth, he was more interested in just running the bases, and in no particular order.

It seemed only appropriate that, in the spring of 1989, I take my father and my son together to their first baseball game - it was certainly Timmy's first, and I count it as Dad's because he had no recollection of the Senators game. So I got three tickets for the Phillies, excellent seats right behind first base.

Dad was excited. He called Danny, my brother, a few weeks before the game and told him about it.

"We're going to see the Phillies play the 49ers," Dad said.

"No, Dad," said Dan. "Not the 49ers."

"Yes. Mike said we're going to see San Francisco."

"That's the Giants, Dad. The 49ers play football."

"Oh. Don't tell Mike."

Timmy was equally excited. When I got home from work the evening of the game, he was waiting on the front step and wearing his Phillies batting helmet.

"I'm ready, Dad," he said, springing down the steps.

Here I must point out that one of our favorite bedtime stories was about a little boy named Timmy, who was spotted playing baseball one day by Mike Schmidt, the Phillies all-star (and now Hall of Famer) third baseman. Timmy is invited to play with the Phils. When Schmitty gets sick late in the game, Timmy bats for him. The fans moan when they see a 4-year-old boy step to the plate - but erupt when he hits the game-winning home run.

My wife told me Timmy hadn't settled down all day.

"He kept asking me if he would have to hit," she said. "I told him he's only going to watch."

We went by the train station to pick up my dad. I figured I'd give him the full Philly experience, so we stopped by Geno's for a cheesesteak. He finished it by the time we got to the Vet.

Inside, Tim couldn't stop gawking at the ballpark. All that green. All those people. The cotton candy. ("What's that pink stuff, Dad?") He loved the lemonade man with a jet pack on his back. Most of all, he loved the Phillie Phanatic, his huge green feet, enormous belly and long beak, somewhat akin to Big Bird of Sesame Street. The little antics: wiping dirt on the AstroTurf after groundskeepers cleaned it, toying with opposing players, kissing fans. When the Phanatic sped along on his ATV, raced up the pitcher's mound and went airborne, Timmy giggled so much that heads turned.

Dad seemed mildly interested in the game and was honestly surprised at the velocity of the pitches and dexterity of the fielders.

"They never miss, do they?" he said.

The finer points troubled him. Why did the pitcher keep checking the runner at first base? Why did a runner have to tag up on a fly ball? Why didn't a foul ball count as strike three? When a runner scored from third on a passed ball, he asked if that was a home run. He was appalled at the food prices, couldn't see the sense in artificial turf.

He had read of the astronomical salaries, and early in the game asked what players earned. I pointed to Schmidt at third and said he earned $2 million (quite a lot back then). Dad showed a trace of rage.

"It's just not right," he said. "They're just catching ground balls."

Timmy began to fade fast. We took a walk, and I went to buy him a pennant, but he wanted a miniature Phillies bat. By the fifth inning, Timmy wanted to go home, and let it be known, as only a 4-year-old can do. Dad was happy either way. After six innings, we left. I'd told myself we'd be lucky to last five innings; I got one extra.

On the way home, I asked each what he liked best. Timmy said it was the bird on the motorcycle (although he did sleep that night with his new baseball bat). Dad? He liked the cheesesteak.

Contact Michael Vitez at 215-854-5639 or mvitez@phillynews.com.