A poem by Barbara Brabec
written for Her Father's 76th Birthday

My father was crazy about baseball as long as I can remember. He used to watch the White Sox play on television while also listening to the Chicago Cubs game on a portable radio. He meticulously recorded each player's hits and runs in a dog-eared book he kept in his pocket, and nothing got him as excited as a ball game that went into extra innings. Knowing that he thought he had only a short while to live as he approached his 76th birthday, I made a special card for him that he seemed to appreciate a lot. It read:

Life is Like a Baseball Game

If we were to compare our lives to a baseball game, it would mean that for every ten years of our lives we'd be in a new inning.

So it follows that I'm now in the bottom of the fourth and you're in the bottom of the seventh, which means we've both got some good innings left to play, and the final score is anybody's guess.

Nice thought, eh?

Always remember that the last couple of innings of any game are often the most interesting and exciting parts of the game. And don't forget how often the final score surprises both players and audience alike.

So, dear old dad o' mine, have a happy birthday, and keep on swinging. But if you don't get a hit, be satisfied to walk. It's easier . . . and the run scores just the same.

The way I figure it, as long as you can get your dander up and outshout the umpire (mother), you can count on a lot more plays at bat.

As I write this page in late August, 2003, the White Sox are still in first place, and the Cubbies were in first place for awhile, too, before they began to lag behind. A sportscaster commented the other day that it has been a hundred years since both Chicago teams were this high up in the ratings this far along in the season, and if my dad were here now, he would be in 7th heaven rooting for both teams. Curiously, I happened to turn up this photo of him taken the day Harry and I took him to a Cubs game. Memory fails, but this was probably sometime in the 70s. (You can tell it was a long time ago because men were wearing white shirts and ties to ballgames in those days). The hot sun was burning daddy's balding head so I loaned him my golf cap for the afternoon and snapped this picture, never realizing then how precious it would be when rediscovered a few decades later.

ENDNOTE . . . Funny how words and thoughts echo when we reread them years later. Now it's my husband who has just had his 76th birthday, and according to the above reasoning, my life is now in the bottom of the sixth. I hope I was right . . . that Harry and I still have some good innings to play and the final score is anybody's guess.

Related Article: A Father's Memory Box