Captain Clutch The Automatic

"The box score is the catechism of baseball, 

ready to surrender its truth to the knowing eye." 

- Stanley Cohen 

The Man in the Crowd (1981)

September, 1996 was the first time I ever saw Derek Jeter play baseball live and in person.  On a Saturday afternoon in late September, I accompanied Rob on his maiden voyage to Yankee Stadium. Rob was ten years old.  He had just really started watching a lot of baseball that season, especially over the summer.  So much so in fact that he knew the stats of most of the Yankees, including their rookie shortstop, much better than the old man.  True statement:  a quarter-century later, he still does. 

His maiden voyage to the Stadium included an actual voyage.  OK, it was a ride on the ferry from Weehawken up the East River.  It was Fan Appreciation Day.  September 21, 1996.  We went with Dave Rubino, Diego Navas, and an all-star cast of characters.  The Yankees played the Boston Red Sox.  The game went extra innings.  In the bottom of the twelfth, the Yankees won it on a "walk-off" single (although if memory serves correctly that inane phrase had not yet seeped into the American lexicon).  Who drove in the game-winning run?  Derek Jeter, of course.   

Yesterday, the Baseball Writers Association of America announced its 2020 Hall of Fame Class.  To the surprise of absolutely no one, this summer Mr. Jeter shall join the company of the immortals in Cooperstown.  

As a father, whenever you find a "thing" that enables you to connect with your child - particularly your son - you cherish it. It is priceless.  I know that my own father and I struggled mightily, and with nothing more than middling success I would say, to find any such thing.  To his credit, whether he meant to or not, my dad taught me a lot about fatherhood - even those lessons that fell under the "do as I say, not as I do" umbrella.  I consider myself fortunate that while Rob was still a young boy, we found a connection through a number of interests, including Springsteen and, of course, the New York Yankees.  

I rarely if ever think of Derek Jeter without thinking of Rob.  The seemingly inextricable link I have created between them is one that neither they, nor history, would create.  Its origin story has its foundation in an otherwise forgettable game played on a long-ago Saturday afternoon, the outcome of which had no impact whatsoever on the fortunes on either team.  

Derek Jeter shall soon call Cooperstown, New York home.  Rob and his branch of the family tree call Colorado home.  Geography being what it is, I see significantly less of him than I might like.  Yet, this past year we did something we had not done in ten years.  We went to Yankee Stadium to watch the Yankees play the Oakland A's on a steamy Friday night at the end of August.  It was Gleyber Torres Bobblehead Night.  We have indeed come a long way, baby.  

The Yankees lost.  It mattered not.  Rob and I spent the evening with Dan Byrnes and Joe Byrnes, enjoying the company if not the result on the field.  

Fathers and sons, bonding over baseball.  

Priceless. 

-AK