The last person I'd see before I'd walk out onto the field was my Dad, for he was always bigger and stronger than me. On game day, my Dad was usually silent. For he'd already done or said everything he needed to say or do at home. In a fearless, confident manner, he took his place amongst the other fathers; never speaking, arms crossed. Dad never looked at me unless the ball came my way, for he never had to. On the field of play, he always knew where where I was and what I was doing.
When my Dad coached, his iron stance struck fear in bullies-turned-pitchers, commanded respect for amongst parents and made himself known to umpires that could see that far.
To many teens, my Dad spoke more by pointing and grunting instructions or technique than than many other coaches did using whole sentences. After games, when I did as I'd been taught and I'd walk to where he was, my Dad's eyes smiled with pride. For he knew that everyone around him knew I was his son.
written in 2011
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