We had our final baseball game this past week. While the boys sat lined-up on the concrete wall behind the dugout, inhaling pizza and cookies, Coach Gillett gave a sincere and spot-on little speech of recognition for each player. As might be expected from an attorney coach who directed the late weeknight game in a suit and tie, he had three rules for the season. Rule #1: Listen. Rule #2: Be kind. Rule #3: Work hard. And a mid-season contractual amendment offered up an ice cream novelty to any player that caught a fly ball during a game. My son Nate ate a lot of after-practice, ice cream Drumsticks.
At lunchtime on Wednesday the second, the following day, we lost you. Our biggest baseball fan and dearest Papa. I’m told you were at peace, both physically and mentally and I hope, deep in your heart.
I must have been nineteen when we met. Sometimes they called you Skinny Vinny. I still love that. You have big blue eyes that crinkle at the corners, a wiry build, and a gentle and generous way about you. You drive a big truck with your wrist draped over the wheel, just like your son, James. You hate red pens. You like to tease me and chuckle. Your Spanish is terrible.
My earliest memories are of sheep in your backyard, Mickey Mouse accent tiles in the guest bathroom, and a raucous game of Monopoly at the kitchen table. Years later I’d find out that all of us who have married into your family have a Monopoly story… naively wandering into the competitive world of gaming where you handily dominate the table, no matter the game. I’m quite certain your grandson, Jacob, has been chosen to carry-on your legacy.
After a lifetime of working in the Central Valley heat, you revel in the coastal fog. You enjoy taking your dog, River, to the beach. You like coffee. Thanksgiving. And Motown. And showering your family in donuts. We both are partial to La Nita’s caldo. At restaurants you always give your meal a score between one and ten. You’re a discerning grader. I can’t remember a single score above eight. You love seafood and pasta and sushi and ice cream. When we lived on Shasta, one of our favorite nights of the year was when you’d come to visit on Halloween. We’d hastily eat a big Door Dash sushi feast. Then you’d man the porch while we walked the little Sock Monkey and Lilon around the neighborhood before it got too dark. You’re deeply loyal, a provider, and a protective husband and dad.
We both collect succulents. We love fishing. Some of our best conversations are over concrete quotes, or the years I spent in an engineering department where they built big, expensive things. You can spend hours walking paths and patios telling me about concrete. You have mad math skills.
You’re up for anything. We faced the killer whales of Marine World. We wrestled marlin in Cabo. We sipped piña coladas on the high seas and walked the Vegas strip in August. We sauntered into a cantina and drank blue cocktails on the planet of Tatooine. We napped through Incredibles 2 at the Downtown Centre Cinema.
I’ll never forget the spark in your eye when Nate was just about two. Still unsteady on his feet with the weight of his baby belly in front, and his diaper in back. You two were playing catch in your kitchen. The kid guns that ball at your head like a third baseman throwing an out at first. And your eyes lit up as your heart leapt, revealing your secret inner talent scout.
It seems fitting that you headed home just as our baseball season came to a close. We love you Papa. We miss you so much. I know you and Coach never crossed paths, but you both live by the same rules: Listen. Be kind. Work hard. And most importantly… save room for ice cream.