Springtime 1979 I'm late for my first ever Pee-wees practice. Of course, because everyone else didn't want it, I got stuck at catcher. I almost quit on the spot, but gutted it out and told dad at dinner. "So", glaring at me, "I'm raising a quitter?". Sigh.
Couple months later, doing my 7-year old small part as a roadie on the way to one of dad's shows, in the front seat of the staywag with the radio tuned in to KNBR, San Francisco's THE sports leader, dad hears the news while I'm still clueless. But I do out of the corner of my eye notice his couple of shoulder shudders. I turn and see for the first and one of the only times ever dad crying, silent tears streaming.
"DAD, what the hell ?!" So he tells me story, a couple of them. Later we hear about mom, a transplanted New Yorker, sick to her stomach. Suddenly being a catcher didn't seem so bad. Over a decade later after a junior college all-star career and a cup of coffee pro tryout and sick to my stomach that I wouldn't be moving on there or to USC, it is nevertheless still unquestionably the best and most valued position on the field. Thanx dad. Thanx Thurman.