My dad, Haynes Knox, never played sports. From what I was told, he had rheumatism as a child and that condition apparently stunted his growth for a few years. As a result, he was a bit smaller than most of the kids his age. That meant he didn't get to play sports like baseball or basketball and had no interest in them.
When I told him I wanted to play baseball, the only stipulation he gave me was that I could not quit if I decided to play. So, when I finally decided to play, during the summer between the 4th and 5th grade, he made sure I went to practice, attended all the games and did his best to find all the ways he could to make me a better player. Dad got an idea from one of my teammates' dads, to put a baseball on a rope and swing it around in a way that I could practice making contact with the ball. I can't count the evenings he would go outside with me, after he got home from work, and swing that ball around and around and let me hit it again and again so I could be a better hitter. In retrospect, it's also pretty amazing that I never accidentally hit the ball back at him while he was swinging it around and round. I'm sure if I had, that exercise would have been over. Eventually, that baseball started coming apart, because of the hole that was drilled through it and it had been hit over and over again. But, it was OK, because by then, my hitting had improved and I didn't need that exercise quite as much. It had served its purpose and Dad was pleased with my progress as a hitter.
About the same time as all this was happening, I became interested in pitching. Dad didn't throw very well and seemed reluctant to play catch with me, probably because he didn't want to get hit by the ball. So, set up an old tire against a shed we had in our back yard that we used to store hay for my pony, Poncho. Dad marked off 45 feet (since I was still in Little League) and set an old board in the ground to act as the pitching rubber. He bought a bunch of baseballs and put them in a 5-gallon bucket and told me to throw at the hole at the center of the tire. I eventually moved the board in the ground back to 60 feet, 6 inches, to mark the distance of the mound in Pony League and high school baseball. I used that old tire as my target and the building as my backstop, until the building had to finally be torn down and removed from our property. During that span of time, I became a starting pitcher at Malakoff High School and made all-district and and all-county teams at that position. I owe whatever success that I achieved to my father and his support of me playing the game - and particularly my practice pitching against that old building.
One of the best memories I have of time I spent with my dad was when he took me, along with Paul Loper and Carl Tapley to see the Texas Rangers at the old Arlington Stadium. We skipped out on church that Sunday and the 4 of us loaded up in Dad's 1972 Ford Maverick and made the drive from Malakoff to Arlington for an afternoon game. It is one of the most vivid memories of my life. We were in the nosebleeds, up behind home plate on the right field side of the stands. We were there early enough for batting practice - for both teams. We all brought our gloves, but there were no foul balls anywhere near us. We didn't care. We spent the afternoon living it up. Dad and I attended several more games together there, including one double-header, on a Saturday afternoon. When the second of the two games were over that night, Dad told me "let's not do another double header again, OK?" Fortunately for Dad, there were no more double-headers at Arlington after that.
I don't remember a time that I went to bat that I didn't hear my dad tell me, from behind the backstop, "watch 'em close!" In fact, I don't recall not having my dad at any baseball game I ever played (except when I tried to play in college. Even then, he would ask me how I did.). In fact, I distinctly remember playing in Blooming Grove, during my junior year of high school (1986), and Dad was the only fan from Malakoff in the stands. For whatever reason, the fans in Blooming Grove were on us particularly hard that day, and were talking a lot of trash. Several high school kids came around and sat in the stands behind our dugout so they could taunt us. I could hear Dad throughout the game, telling me to "watch 'em close" when I was at the plate. The picture of him being in the stands, surrounded by hostile fans from Blooming Grove is still burned in my mind. I don't know if they talked trash to him. They probably did. But, knowing my dad, he wasn't phased by their behavior and didn't care. He was there for me. "Throw strikes!" That image of him being in the stands is what I see in my mind when I'm facing difficult circumstances. I know I have at least one person on my side.
I'm writing this after watching my first baseball game at Olsen Field at Blue Bell Park. I was there with my daughter, Jessica, her boyfriend, Bradley and one of her buddies from A Battery. The Ags played Yale and showed that they were the far better team, winning 12-5. As I sat in the stands, I remembered attending that game in Arlington, with Carl, Paul and Dad. I couldn't help but feel that my dad was there. I said a few times to myself "watch 'em close," and to the pitcher "throw strikes!" We all got to laugh as we enjoyed the game of baseball together and acknowledged that this game was the link that tied it all together.
It really doesn't matter who's playing or where we might be, baseball is still a huge part of my life. I realize it every time I enter the gates of a ballpark or put on a glove to play catch with somebody. And I have my dad to thank for that.
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