For such a beautiful town, the San Diego sports scene is incredibly depressing. It is a town that hasn’t won a major championship since 1963 (pre-Super Bowl), lost two NBA teams, with both the Padres and Chargers seemingly destined for mediocrity. Despite all of melancholy doldrums, the San Diego sports scene has been my passion, my hobby. The sports scene has always been my sanctuary through loss, depression, anxiety and at times, utter hopelessness. It has been that one constant positive activity within my life. It all started with my father.
I am not sure of the exact point, that one defining moment where I became the cliché fanatic that non-sports fans stereotype, but it was definitely during the beginning of 1994 - when I was nine-years-old. My parents were divorced, so I spent weekends with my dad – a man who spent his youth playing baseball. He would spend hours in front of the television, looking the Chargers and Padres, or any other type of sporting event he could find on television. At first, I was bored out of my mind. The games are too long, no one has been smashed by an anvil, and there are no giant turtles fighting crime. Then my dad talked to me about Tony Gwynn.
For many San Diego sports fans, there is no bigger icon that Mr. Padre himself. The Padres were horrendous that year, as they went 47-70, in the strike-shortened 1994 season. However, Tony Gwynn was the only reason to bother looking the pitiful Padres. Every game he seemed to have a couple of hits and he never struck out. He’d slap singles through his now-famed “5.5 hole, “or pound doubles into the right center gap. The guy was a machine, and I studied him intently. I was simply enthralled by his mastery of hitting a baseball. Every night, I would try to look every game I could, even without my dad present. I went to bed listening to Padres baseball on my Walkman. After looking Gwynn every day, I made my mind up: I wanted to devote my life to being just like him.
My dad was ecstatic when I told him about my new-found aspiration. He immediately took me to a sporting goods store to stock up on gear. I bought a brown Rawlings glove that had a replica Tony Gwynn autograph. If Tony Gwynn puts his name on it, it is good enough for me. He bought me a Louisville Slugger aluminum bat to match.
A few nights a week my dad would take me to a local park to work on my craft. He started by showing me how to properly field a ground ball. I took a few grounders to the shin, a couple to the chest and one to the face. The pain and bruises were well worth it. I was in heaven.
After dozens of grounders, my dad taught me how to catch a pop-up. I was scared to death of taking a baseball to the noggin, so I tried to basket-catch every pop-up. Naturally, the results were embarrassing, and I missed about 20 consecutive balls. My dad continued to show me the proper way: “Get your glove up and use the other hand to make sure the ball doesn’t pop out.” Finally, after an hour I caught one. At that point of my life, it was the single greatest achievement of my life. I was on my way to the show.
Batting practice came next. I might as well have been a windmill. I struggled to make contact and swung at dozens of balls before making solid contact. My dad would pull me aside, teach me the right way with a few encouraging words. “Keep your hands back, drive with your legs, and follow through.” Those were the times where my dad was incredible.
I missed the Little League season, but my dad was able to find a winter league for me to play in. The season coincided with the start of the San Diego Chargers season. My dad still took me to nearly every baseball game, while taping each Chargers game.
Quickly, our Sunday ritual became baseball in the morning, with Chargers football and burgers in the evening. Sunday’s were easily the best part of my week, and with passing school day, I knew I was trying closer to another sports-filled Sunday with my dad.
The Chargers 1994 season was positively magical. The season began with a huge Sunday night game against John Elway and the arch-rival Denver Broncos. The Chargers had Stan Humphries and Natrone Means on offense and All-Pro linebacker Junior Seau on defense.
The game was wild, with San Diego overcoming a 17-point deficit, on a way to a surprising 37-34 win over Denver. The Broncos appeared to be on the move to a game-winning score, but Elway had a pass slip out of his hand, and into the awaiting arms of Junior Seau. I was hooked.
That year was truly special. Between learning the game of baseball, and looking the Chargers make an improbable run towards the Super Bowl, sports became the center of my life. I would read the sports section of the newspaper every day and check out any sports-related book in the library. I studied about Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, and my dad’s boyhood hero: Roberto Clemente. Our time together always revolved around sports. We witnessed some amazing things together.
I remember the 1995 AFC Championship game fondly. The San Diego Chargers were the massive underdogs against the mighty Pittsburgh Steelers. San Diego’s road to glory was supposed to end on a cold, rainy Sunday in the steel city.
For most of the game, the Chargers were manhandled. The Steelers had a 13-3 lead in the third quarter, when San Diego fought back.
Chargers quarterback Stan Humphries hit a wide-open Alfred Pupunu for a 43-yard touchdown pass. Both of us jumped up, yelled, and hoped this was the beginning of the comeback. Later in the fourth quarter, Humphries found Tony Martin on another 43-yard pass to put the Chargers ahead late. The team was minutes away from the first Super Bowl appearance in team history.
Of course, the Steelers were not going to go away without a fight. With less than two minutes in the game, Pittsburgh had worked the ball inside the San Diego, hoping to crush the dreams of a nine-year-old and his dad.
Both of us sat on the couch, silent and tense. The Steelers walked towards the line of scrimmage. It was 4th and goal, the game was on the line. Pittsburgh quarterback Neil O’Donnell dropped back to pass, had running back Barry Foster for the touchdown when Chargers linebacker Dennis Gibson deflects the pass. Incomplete! Chargers win! My dad jumped to his feet, pumped his fist and grabbed me by the shoulder. Our team just won the AFC Championship and was going to the Super Bowl.
That night, my dad took me to Jack Murphy Stadium (now Qualcomm Stadium) to welcome the Chargers back home. The place was an absolute mob scene. Thousands of fans packed the stadium to cheer on the Bolts. My dad grabbed me and put me on his shoulders so I could look Seau and the gang hype up San Diego. I will never forget the chants, the euphoria and the comradery that my hometown displayed on that January night. Nothing brings a community together like sports, and that night was a prime example.
Ultimately, the Chargers were pummeled by the 49ers in one of the worst Super Bowls ever played. That defeat was painful, but that year was one of the best of my life.
The years passed, and my dad and I continued to spend our time together looking and playing sports. We witnessed the Padres 1998 run to the World Series. However, as I moved towards adulthood, the visits became infrequent, and eventually they were rare.
I became an adult who worked and attended school full-time. My dad and I would talk here and there, but I chose to avoid the drama of a blended family. We saw each other once every few months. Neither of us put much effort into the relationship and I started to resent him. That bond seemed permanently fractured, with no hope for repair. Those perfect Sunday’s seemed like a memory from a world I left long ago.
It seemed strange not seeing my dad, but neither of us did anything about it. We never lived more than a few miles away, so it wasn’t an issue of distance; it was an issue of apathy. We’d call each other here and there still talk sports, but it wasn’t the same. Perhaps it was because I was a young adult with a busy life, or maybe he better things to do. I felt like a constant disappointment to myself and those around me. In those days, I worked a crummy job and dropped out of college. The potential I exhibited as a child seemed to be wasted. My confidence was at an all-time low, and I really didn’t think he wanted to spend time with me.
In 2008, my dad faced the toughest opponent he ever matched against: multiple myeloma. Multiple Myeloma is a devastating form of leukemia that causes cancer cells to accumulate in the bone marrow. It crowds out healthy blood cells, causing bone pain. Eventually, it causes the marrow to weaken, leading to organ failure and eventually death. It is a nasty, incurable disease that generally affects those 65 and older. My dad was only 55.
The next five years, I spent a little more time with my dad, never really understanding the opponent that faced him. I thought to myself: “he is playing golf and doing yard work, surely he isn’t that sick. People beat cancer every day, I am sure he will be fine.”
If I had actually bothered to read up on the disease, I would have known that 45% of people don’t survive five years with the disease. I would have known that the disease was incurable. I would have known that each day is precious. Instead, I wallowed in past grievances, and allowed a few bad experiences with my dad to sour our adult relationship. It is the greatest regret of my life.
In August of 2014, my dad was admitted to the hospital. The doctors told us that his bone marrow was failing. He was nearing the end of his life. My dad remained stoic, but I knew he was crumbling inside. As I sat with him alone in his hospital room, he cried and exclaimed “I fought so hard.” The hospital staff immediately recommended hospice care. My dad, ever the competitor declined, because he wanted to beat this horrid disease. He wanted to smack his cancer through the 5.5 hole, just like Tony Gwynn did thousands of times. The doctor said he could pass within a week.
I had no way of knowing how much time he had, but I was determined to spend as much time with him as possible. He celebrated his 61st birthday in September, surrounded by family. He continued to beat the odds and continued to fight like a champion. I was over at his house as much as possible. We looked ballgames, talked sports just like no time had passed. Sometimes we just didn’t speak, we didn’t have to. It was all about enjoying the ballgame together.
As the weeks progressed, my dad’s condition continued to worsen. Simply sitting up became a daunting chore. His time was nearing the end. My dad passed away on November 4th, 2014, at the age of 61, after a five-year battle with cancer.
A week before he passed I sat in my dad’s bedroom and we looked the San Diego State v. Hawaii football game. It was getting late and I was ready to head home. I walked over to my dad to pat him on the back and say goodbye.
In one rapid motion, my dad grabbed my hand with both of his and we locked eyes. I am not a spiritual or religious but I will never forget that moment. I felt a very brief, but intense energy radiate throughout my entire body. My dad smiled and I immediately felt a calm come over my body. All of the regret, bitterness, angst and unhappiness with our relationship left my body. The unpleasant feelings went away. At that moment, I knew my dad loved me and was happy and proud of the man that I had become. I was at peace. I knew he was going to a better place.
Last week, I had the honor and the daunting task of giving the eulogy at my dad’s funeral service. I talked about all of the great times we had. I talked of the lessons he taught me: you won’t ever be good at anything without preparation, life is a competition, and you have to fight for what you have. My dad wasn’t a perfect man, but he was a good man. I continued about how my dad came to me to ask me questions about trades and costless agency acquisitions. I loved knowing that my dad trusted and respected my opinions.
My dad truly was my biggest fan. He read every single blog or article I ever wrote. He would read my articles about a roster move, not the local newspaper. I guess I never realized how proud my dad was of me until he was gone.
I ended the eulogy with a thought, and a hope for the afterlife. I know my dad is out there somewhere, checking out a baseball game in the most beautiful ballpark anyone could imagine. There’s an empty seat next to him. Hopefully, someday, I will be there looking a ballgame with my old man.
Life is too short for regret. No matter what you feel or think about a relationship, sometimes you have to be the person to reach out. I learned that lesson over these trying few months. After battling my inner demons, I have finally become the man I was supposed to be. It all started with my father.