It was right at this moment, 19 years ago. My wife and I were sitting in the latest Lamaze childbirth class, soon to be new parents. I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. I had to ask the question. Raise your hand. The nurse, her name was Dorinda, pointed to me and said, “Yes, she has a question.” Did you have a question? She knew that ALL dads were wondering the same thing… “You’ve given us a lot of information, almost too much. I’m afraid I’m going to forget all of this… what then?” I could feel the other dad’s nod. She smiled; she was very wise and patient. She had taught thousands of new dads. “That’s a great question,” pausing for effect, she continued, “That little baby doesn’t know that you don’t know. Just give him lots of love, you’ll be fine.” It turned out to be the best parenting advice I’ve ever received.

As a child, maybe five years old, I have a clear memory of my father holding my hand on Matthews Beach in Seattle. My head came up to his waist. He was a big man, 6′-4″ and 240 pounds. In his day, he was an extraordinary athlete, a three-sport All-State. He once scored 34 points in a Regional Basketball Finals. He started playing baseball at age 16 , pitching, his junior year in high school.

He told me the following story one night in Seattle. We were sitting in the new Safeco Field watching the Seattle Mariners beat up the Cleveland Indians.

By the time I was a senior in high school; professional scouts were at every game. This was in 1947 in Ravenna, Ohio. The Indians had the best pitching staff in baseball. One scout in particular had a crush on my dad. He signed a huge $500 bonus to play for the Dayton Mud Hens, AA team.

His second summer, my dad got the call. He showed up with the scout to find the team’s general manager, owner, a catcher and an empty Cleveland Stadium. He told me in a serious tone, “Mark, I threw the best baseball of my young life. I was 19 years old and I was fast. I guess I hit about 85 miles an hour. I felt good about myself. I was fired up. I hit it.” everything I had. I knew they were impressed.”

After 20 minutes, the owner stood up and yelled at me, “Okay Bob, we’re done heating up. Go ahead and show us what you’ve got!” Until now, while telling me this story, he was looking straight ahead. To finish the story, he turned his head, looked directly at me, and said, “I knew right then and there that I would never play in the Big Show.”

I was 42 years old when he told me that story. I heard a lot of stories growing up, but that wasn’t one of them. This one was special. He was trusting me. He trusted me. It was time to bare some of his soul.

My father was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Everything is changing now. The more I learn about this insidious and horrible disease, the sadder I become. Other than this great man dies a little every day. The burden is carried by my mom. She’s hauling a massive load. (For a special story on Alzheimer’s disease, go to http://www.mattesonavenue.com and click on the “What’s New!!!” tab to read the story “When the Box is Empty.”)

I cherish the moments I have with my dad now. I know for him, it’s the ninth inning and the manager could be making that call to the bullpen at any moment. Grief is a form of energy and it must be dissipated somehow in a healthy way or it turns inward in the form of depression or self-destruction. Writing is how I process that grievance.

I have captured many memories of my father in my journal over the past year. I cry tears of regret, pain, heartache, heartbreak, sadness, anger, and grief. Every once in a while, when I think of my dad in that empty stadium giving everything he had, I cry a tear of joy. I love my dad.

Now my son Colin has grown up. He will be leaving for college in the fall. 19 years later, that little baby got all the love I had. He is 6′-8″, 210 lbs. He is on his way to the University of Alaska at Fairbanks in August to play basketball on a scholarship, a great athlete, much like his grandfather. It is bittersweet. My father and son are Me I’ll be going almost at the same time for different reasons. I think I’m going to give everyone a lot of love before they leave. I’ll be fine.