By Mark La Monica
Thanks, Dad.
For that night you brought home my first Little League jersey when I was 7 years old. It was a blue No. 8 jersey, which by the way, is still in your attic somewhere. I never forgot that day. It started my love of sports.
For that Saturday a few days later when you took me to Herman's Sporting Goods at Roosevelt Field to buy a new baseball glove. A Ron Guidry signature lefty mitt that was bigger than my head at the time. (By the way, that glove is likely in your basement, somewhere at the bottom of the toy chest you built for us.)
For teaching me how to pitch. For putting those garbage cans in harm's way so I could simulate seeing the plate with an actual batter there. Sure, the mound at the end of the driveway was flat and I was pitching slightly uphill, but that's what makes me smile when I think about those days. (And sorry to Mom for drilling the side door with a few, um, non-strikes. I like to think of them as nasty Mariano Rivera-esque cutters, but the truth is I had John Rocker control back then.)
For coaching me in Little League, Summer League, Babe Ruth and Senior League.
For making me the No. 1 draft pick in Little League when I was 12. That was pretty cool.
For all those NERF toys each Christmas, which led to all those indoor soccer and floor hockey games after dinner in the basement.
For the basketball hoop and teaching me "The Move" and all those games to 3. (By the way, "The Move" still works after all these years. Except, I never actually hit the shot because when I see the defender go for the fake, I just start laughing.)
For driving me to all the baseball games, soccer games, football games, hockey games, CYO basketball games and the second round of the Knights of Columbus free-throw shooting contest.
For coaching my 0-4 flag football team that one week when the other coaches couldn't be there and making us a 1-4 flag football team.
For giving our indoor soccer team some advice and direction that one season when we had no coach. You knew nothing about soccer. We knew even less. Somehow, your "Just kick the ball and hope it goes in" strategy worked. In life, as much in soccer.
For being there to see my one and only soccer goal in the Great Neck tournament when I was a little kid.
For not getting mad when we spray painted a foul line on the street for Wiffle Ball.
For always managing to find a way to get good seats to Yankee games on my birthday.
For helping Christian and I collect the Dellwood coupons for free Yankee tickets.
For your theory that baseball cards are constantly changing until we actually open the pack.
For Wall Ball and Roof Ball, the two greatest backyard pool games ever invented.
For the duct tape strike zone on the back fence. No umpire in their right mind would have that big a strike zone, but it did wonders for my confidence.
For the ski lesson when I was 16. "To turn, put all your weight on one foot," you said. "Some people say put all your weight on one foot to turn; Well, lift up one leg, are you turning?" the instructor said. What did he know?
For the set of King Cobra golf clubs when I graduated from college. Sure, they were your old set and that allowed you to buy a new set for yourself. Come to think of it, you should thank me for that one.
For the Big Bertha driver you gave me as a birthday gift in Las Vegas a few years ago . . . and for laughing instead of yelling when I shattered your 8-iron teeing off in the 117-degree heat, a few holes after destroying your 6-iron in the 117-degree heat.
For rolling the ball back to me during the 1998 Father-Son World Series in Arizona with a runner on second base just like we were back in the front yard. Every other curveball you called for after that was thrown where you wanted it.
For letting me go behind the plate to catch for you in the last three innings of that game after you caught me for the first six. I got the win, you got the save and we caught for one another. Neither you nor I were ever catchers. Best day of my sports career.
For everything.
Thanks, Dad.