It’s the most ridiculous and unnecessary sports season I have ever witnessed, so why do I miss it already — and why does it especially make me miss my dad?
If you have ever watched a soccer league game involving 3- and 4-year-olds, you know why I consider such a sports season ridiculous and unnecessary. Tiny children in oversized jerseys — that make them look even smaller — running up, falling down and tripping over each other, converging on a ball at the same time, like competing swarms of bees and ants on a dropped popsicle.
And yet, as the grandfather of one of those 4-year-old athletes, that league gave me so many reasons to smile, including some scenes that I have never seen before in sports.
In what other sports league, in the middle of a game, would two players suddenly decide to start playing in the dirt in the middle of the field, drawing other players to stop and join in the magical lure of dirt?
In what other sports league would a spectator, a fellow grandfather, run onto the field, pick up his granddaughter who hadn’t kicked the ball once in the first six games, and swing her back and forth when the ball comes her way, making contact, leaving the crowd cheering, and grandfather and granddaughter smiling?
And in what other sports league do all the fans from both teams line up at the end of the game and form a tunnel so the players from both teams can run through it to the cheers of everyone?
None of the players worry about the final score, just that the parent in charge of the post-game snacks has fulfilled this awesome responsibility.
There was a time when I scorned such leagues for what I considered too-young players. I come from a generation when neighborhood children gathered on open diamonds, grass fields and asphalt courts and made our own games, kept our own rules — playing football in the street, faking a defender into a parked Chevy before racing to the telephone pole that marked a goal line.
Those days also came with their own ridiculous moments, like the time the cops were called in response to one of our baseball games on an empty grass lot. It made no sense to my group of then-10-year-old boys that the police — surely there was something more important for them to do — came rushing down the street with sirens blaring and lights flashing just because one of us had hit a baseball into a lady’s vegetable garden.
OK, so the lady had warned us she was going to call the cops if it happened again. And it didn’t help that Jimmy had knocked down part of her fence chasing the ball. Or that in his haste to stop the winning run from scoring, Jimmy lost his glasses and desperately began picking up anything resembling a baseball to throw home — which explained the splattered tomatoes and scattered heads of lettuce.
So, when we heard the sirens, we picked up Jimmy, found his glasses and raced to our homes where we hid under beds or in closets until the coast was clear.
It was a different world from the childhoods of today, one I look back on with wonder. But I also realize that things change, including our society’s approach to sports.
We now live in a world where it apparently takes five former coaches and players to analyze a pro football game, where a college athlete can sometimes make more money in college than the pros and where professional leagues promote gambling.
I could long for the bygone era of my youth, but I’ve learned to embrace the joy and beauty that life gives you during its different seasons. And I found joy and beauty this past spring watching 3- and 4-year-olds playing a game that makes the parents and grandparents of opposing teams cheer everyone.
Besides, what I really long for struck me when I watched these tiny kids interacting with their dads. I miss the shared sports moments I had long ago with my three now-grown children.
Included in those long-ago moments were walks to a nearby football field with my two sons, who are separated by 19 months of age. I was the steady quarterback, the Joe Montana ’79 wannabe who had less than one percent of his ability. And the boys challenged each other in ways only brothers so close in age can, taking turns as two other Notre Dame greats, wide receiver Raghib “Rocket” Ismail ’94 and cornerback Todd Lyght ’91.
It helped form a deep bond between them that has lasted through the years, including as high school teammates and forever-close friends. I had a front-row seat during that journey, coaching them, pushing them, encouraging them, cheering them and most of all, enjoying being with them on that memorable ride. And I like to think it says something about our bond that one of my sons still calls me “Joe” on the rare times I drop back these days to throw an even more wobbly pass.
I strived for that same kind of connection with our daughter, born 10 years after the younger of her two brothers. My relationship with her inspired my book, When God Cheers. Since the story involves a dad who is overbearing at times, I contend it is a work of fiction based very loosely on our relationship when she played basketball in high school. My daughter rolls her eyes and smiles when she hears me call it “a work of fiction.”
One of my favorite moments between us occurred one summer evening when she played in a recreational softball league. She often dragged me into our backyard to practice her pitching or to get some extra batting practice. She took great glee in thumping my pitches against the back of our house. This was especially true when the extra-soft, practice softball rattled the kitchen window, which then led her suddenly rattled mother to open the back door to chastise her suddenly sheepish father about the wisdom of practicing in the backyard.
Such are the moments that bond a dad and a daughter.
As much as I miss those shared times with my children, I also miss the countless times I shared with my father when I was a boy and a ball connected us in so many ways beyond sports.
I grew up hearing the stories of my father growing up. He’d tell me about the old neighborhood, the old gang, the Saturday matinees, the games of stickball on a narrow city street, the races around a cinder track, the way he got the nickname “Shaggert” because of his ability to race across a baseball field and “shag” long, deep drives. All parts of a childhood different from mine.
At times, the stories were hard to believe. But when I was in the fourth grade at my Catholic school, a new parish priest came into our room, and after we each told him our names, he asked me if my father was the “Shaggert” Shaughnessy and reminisced about my dad’s outfield skills.
And so it all became part of my appreciation for my dad, along with his love of Notre Dame and animals, along with the memory of the first time I saw him cry, on the day his father died.
Five years ago, in the early morning hours of May 29, surrounded by his family, my dad died. That day always sparks memories of him.
One of the most enduring memories recalls our time together sharing a baseball dream. It started in sessions with a bat and a ball, when any connection of bat and ball brought smiles to both of us.
That bond stayed constant as I grew older and he kept challenging me to expand my skills. He never hit fly balls straight to me, instead spraying them in front of me, over me or far to my left and my right, testing my range, testing my reflexes, testing me. And I loved it.
I also loved walking off the field side by side with him — and the feel of his arm around my shoulders.
That feeling, that sharing, that desire to be there with me, and for me — they were all expressions of love.
The love between a father and his child.
Some things never change.
John Shaughnessy’s four books include The Irish Way of Life: Stories of Family, Faith and Friendship. He is assistant editor of The Criterion, the newspaper of the Archdiocese of Indianapolis.