Dads, Daughters, and Baseball

My Father, Bill H.’s autographed copy of Ted Williams’ “My Turn at Bat.”

It’s Red Sox Opening Day, which means Real Baseball Season is here and it’s time for my annual homage to My Father, Bill H.

“Bill H.?” you ask? Yes. Bill H. That’s how he signed all his cards to me, my brother, and even our mom. Why? We have no blessed idea, we just went with it.

But that’s not the story I’m telling today.

Today, I’m regaling you with the signature story of my father, who instilled in me a love of baseball, along with a love of a good story.

Naturally, his legacy with me combines both.

The hallmark of Bill H's persona was his love of the Boston Red Sox.  Bill H. was an "old school" fan.  Superstitious to a fault, he would only watch a game if he caught it from the beginning.  No tuning in at the third inning; he did that once and they lost.  Naturally, once you started to watch a game, you were in until the bitter end, even if it went on for 15 innings until 2 am.

As is mandatory for all Boston Red Sox fans, Bill H. hated the Yankees.  He hated them so much he didn't call them by their name.  They were simply "The No Good Bastards From New York City," and we were all expected to follow suit in hating them to their very core.

The runner-up to Bill's love of the Boston Red Sox was his penchant for talk radio.  Talk radio was Bill H's source of all information. He was not a big fan of television except for Westerns and baseball games, and the radio was less of a distraction when he engaged in his hobby, model-ship building.  I have many memories of Bill H. stringing together masts on models of ships like "Old Ironsides" while the weather report or evening news droned in the background.  One particular memory revolved around a news announcer who, as Bill H. described, "was clearly a Communist," when he declared the Yankees as "God's Baseball Team."

"This guy is really grating on my nerves," Bill H. sneered as he was gluing cannons on a ship deck.

"Well, he is protected by freedom of speech," my brother replied.

Bill H. just gave him a look.  And by "a look" I mean "a glare that would frighten Charles Manson."

For whatever reason, it took Bill H. a while to really flip his nut about this guy.  My recollection was that it was at most six minutes before he slammed his hand on the table, shaking the model ship, and said, "GODDAMNIT! That's it!  I'm calling the station!"

This announcement was surprising in its own right, but was downright frightening when it came to Bill H., who had long professed that the telephone was "the worst invention of the universe, inviting petty gossip and nonsense into everyone's home!"  That was until he learned that there was a package store that delivered Schlitz to the house.  Then he heralded it as "only good for commerce, but not much else!"

"Much else," had arrived.

Dialing the phone, he motioned to us, saying, "turn down the radio; I don't want interference."  All of the sudden the guy who loathed modern technology wanted to be Walter Cronkite.

"What do you think he's going to say?" I asked.

"I don't know, but I bet we are going to remember it the rest of our lives," said my mother.

"Yeah, hello?  Yeah, this is God."

Boy was my mother right.

"Yes, you heard me!  This is GOD!  I am calling tonight because I want you to know that the Yankees are NOT MY DAMN BASEBALL TEAM you crazy kook!"

Pot, meet Kettle.

"No, the BOSTON RED SOX ARE GOD'S BASEBALL TEAM, YOU HERETIC!!!!"

At this point, my mother ran to the bathroom because she was laughing so hard.  My brother went to the fridge to get some ice cream.  I asked him to get me a bowl.  This show was getting great.

"I want to reward THE FAITHFUL, not the DAMN YANKEES!"

Bill H. looked over at us, pointing to the phone, nodding his head maniacally as if to say, "Yeah, I got them REAL GOOD!"  We just sat there, shoveling ice cream in our mouths.

Then, just when we thought it couldn't get any crazier, Bill H. said, "This isn't the last you've heard of ME!  I'LL CALL AGAIN!"

Thank you for warning us all.

Bill H. became a regular call-in personality.  Every time he decided he'd call, he'd look at all of us, place his finger to his lips and say, "Now keep this between us, okay?"

Oh don't worry, we aren't exactly running around bragging about this.  Secret is safe here!

Finally, after a few weeks of this nonsense, it occurred to me that maybe I had some bragging rights here too.

"Daddy, if you are telling them you are God, does this make me the Daughter of God?"

"Don't be a smartass!"

He's impersonating the Father Almighty and I'm a smartass?

Classic Bill H.