Growing up, I didn’t spend much time with my biological father. My parents divorced when I was two, and my mother had custody of my sister and me.
Our father would pick us up for holidays, or to swim in our grandparents’ pool on those hot New England summer days. We would occasionally visit his mother in New Hampshire. But my favorite visits were the ones when he would take us to New York to see the Yankees.
A few weeks ago, a friend gifted my son and me tickets to see the Philadelphia Phillies. It was our first game this season, and I’m glad we got at least one in before the season ended.
Since it was just the two of us, it reminded me of the Yankee games with my father. I remember going to the games early and watching the players warm up. I remember running down to the first row next to the field, getting a closer look at them, and catching a ball tossed into the stands as they left the field. But even though I know he was there, I don’t remember my father at those games.
I don’t remember having meaningful father-son conversations. I don’t remember even talking about the game. I don’t remember us joking or celebrating the wins and the dramatic plays, or sharing the misery and disappointment of a defeat. It wasn’t a shared experience.
As I sat there with my son, I wondered how he would look back on this time with me. Will he remember how we bring our gloves to every game in case of a fly ball? Will he remember how I act surprised every time he eats an inhuman amount of hot dogs or a whole pizza? Will he remember how we call out to our favorite players, and will he see me on the other side of the high fives after a big play?
I am not trying to rewrite the past, but I can shape the present. My father’s absence taught me how important it is to be fully present when we are together. Not just sitting in the seat next to my son, but sharing in the joy, the laughter, and the heartbreak that come with the game.
I don’t just want him to remember going to games.
I want him to remember that we went together.