Other events of my sixth-grade year blur into fog. But that spring evening in 1967? Crystal clear. I passed on dessert. No appetite. I needed to focus on the phone—on the call I had expected before the meal. I’m staring at the phone like a dog at a bone hoping a Little League coach will tell me I’ve made his team. In the great scheme of things, not making a baseball team matters little. But twelve-year-olds can’t see the great scheme of things.
Long after my hopes were gone, the doorbell rang. It was the coach. He made it sound as if I were a top choice. Only later did I learn I was the last pick. And save a call from my dad, I might have been left off the team. But dad called, the coach came, and I was glad to play! Dad made the difference!
From Dad Time
