I don’t think there can be a more appropriate place to talk about Fathers than a sports blog on Father’s day. Our own Father, who affectionately nicknamed himself “Big Time”, is nearly singlehandedly responsible for our love of sports. Whether it was taking us to Butler games and schooling us in how to scream at the refs, or curb jumping the parking field and screaming across the open space in his truck with us in the back on the way to the 500, Dad always managed to enhance the experience of going to sporting events. And don’t even get me started on the endless hours he spent coaching my teams when I was kid. (His Bobby Knight style of coaching 4th grade basketball just seemed natural to kids growing up in Indiana) If there was a game, Dad was there. If I wanted to shoot hoops, Dad would shoot hoops and deride my two hand set shot (which I embarrassingly still use).
I love my dad for many reasons, but sometimes I wonder if he couldn’t have been just a tad more laid back about sports, I wouldn’t have suffered so much Vanderjagt related misery over my lifetime. Of course, then I wouldn’t be watching my son scamper around in his Griffey shirt while I try to cement his future baseball nickname (Scooter) on his psyche. He’s not even two, and he doesn’t have a prayer.