Being Brave: A Father, a Son, and Dale Murphy
Being Brave: A Father, a Son, and Dale Murphy
By Jonathan Shipley
My favorite photo of my dad is of him in his little league uniform when he was a kid. It’s a black-and-white photo. He’s posing (I like to think that maybe it was for his dad). He’s got a glove on. The word PORTLAND is patched across his chest. Ball in hand, he’s eager to throw a strike.
My dad kept to himself as I grew up. He hid himself in the den, grading papers. He was a high school history teacher for decades. That’s what he’d say to us – that he was in his den doing schoolwork. But, mostly, I bet, he just wanted to be alone. He must have been stressed and depressed and anxious; angry and worried; all the things that a parent is much of the time. It must have been hard to support six kids on one teacher’s salary. But in that photo, taken in Oregon decades ago, he looks happy, or, at least, could see himself happy.
In the den there was a black-and-white TV and sometimes he’d let me enter that solitary place. We’d tune into TBS and watch the Atlanta Braves. He would tell me the rules and strategies—why this player did this or that. He’d tell me how, as a kid, he didn’t get to play many sports because his parents couldn’t afford it and his health. We’d sit on an uncomfortable sofa and watch a TV with poor reception and we’d be happy. He told me that his favorite player, when he was a kid, was Eddie Matthews.
My dad just told me that he’s dying of kidney cancer.
My all-time favorite baseball player is Dale Murphy. He could bash home runs like the best of them; snag a fly ball like the All-Star he was. He was a terror to opposing pitchers. He was also, off the field, a good human. He, like my dad, grew up in Portland.
I was no baseball player. I was too scrawny to be much other than a kid who had dreams that he was Dale Murphy, too. I copied his batting stance. I would occasionally hit home runs over the fence to my mom’s garden. My brothers were upset, gloves in hand, for having to fetch the ball in the enormous blooming rhododendrons.
As life would have it, I live in Atlanta now. The first week I was here I went to a Braves game with my wife. “You should have seen your delight,” she said, as I walked the concourse. There was a giant poster of Dale Murphy on the wall. And, there, a Murphy game-used bat. And, there, a Murphy jersey! I took photos of all of it and texted them to my dad. I was a kid again, in my dad’s arms though I was thousands of miles away from his arms, his heart, his kidneys.
He had a birthday recently. I sent him a card—an Eddie Matthews baseball card. It’s from the early 1950s, the time my dad was in that little league uniform and cheering for the celebrated third baseman. I think it could be the last thing I ever get for him.
Dale Murphy was born in 1956. My dad was a teenager then. By the time Murphy was a teenager he was playing American Legion Baseball in Portland. My dad was in school at nearby Lewis and Clark College. He was the sports editor of their college newspaper, the Pioneer Log. I wonder if my dad ever happened upon a local park and watched a little kid named Dale on the field; a kid with dreams of being a big league player.
He certainly became a big league player. Big enough to make an impression on a kid with thoughts on being some sort of hero like Murphy was. He wasn’t sure what kind of hero he’d be but maybe one day he’d be able to inspire someone else. He likes to think that maybe he has – his own children, maybe even his dad.
Murphy’s career deteriorated because of knee problems and surgeries. He retired at 37 playing for the Colorado Rockies, two home runs shy of 400.
My dad had his entire right kidney removed the other day.
Kids grow up and then they die. But, also true, kids never grow up. Watch a baseball game to discover that truth. Being alone and being lonely are coins in the same pocket. My dad has always been distant, withholding, quiet, upset, depressed, and, admittedly, I’ve been all of those things too. Things change though. My dad told me he loved me for the first time I can ever remember recently. I told him the same. We both meant it. I don’t know how much Dale Murphy helped us reach this point, but he did. It seems as though Murphy can hit home runs still, even if they don’t fly over outfield walls or are counted in the official stat books.
At St. Peter’s Hospital in Olympia, Washington, where my dad got his kidney removed, he texted me saying that the Braves were playing on his hospital room TV. Dad was only an hour’s drive from the Mariners game, but the Braves were on and he wanted – actually, maybe needed – to let me know. Yes, my dad told me he loved me for the first time I can remember recently. But, there are another three words that also say “I love you” and they are these: the Atlanta Braves.
My dad is going to die of cancer not far from the place that old photo of him was taken. I’ll be in Atlanta when I get that call. I’ll get the call and I’ll immediately pick up a baseball and grip it like it was his hand. I’ll immediately be sitting on an uncomfortable sofa watching Dale Murphy step up to the plate on a clunky TV in my dad’s embrace. Life always gives you another day until it doesn’t. But, also true, days always come. If the Braves lose today, they’ll take the field tomorrow. Every day I am a kid, and my dad is a kid, and his dad is a kid and, yes, kids grow up and die and also never die.
I’ll hold that ball in my hand and then ask my kids if they want to go to a game during the next homestand. And then I’ll stand up, the first time fatherless, and go out back onto the grass and be at home knowing my dad is at home, too, his little jersey fitting him just right.
Jonathan Shipley is a freelance writer living in Atlanta. His work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, National Parks Magazine, Seattle Magazine, and other publications.