My father was hard on me. Babe Ruth ball was what we had when I was fifteen. Travel didn’t exist. Players had to be good enough to make teams.
After one post game brow beating I told my father if he ever showed up at another game I would walk off the field.
So, there I was six and two-thirds innings into a no-hitter. I had walked two. Before facing the last hitter I looked out towards the outfield and took a deep breath.
Across the highway beyond left field on an access road with binoculars was my father. I couldn’t walk off the field one out from a no hitter. But I was so rattled I walked the next three hitters. We were only up 1-0. The last hitter took a called third on a breaking ball.
My father drove around to the field. Of course he had to be in on the excitement. Despite being a successful businessman he was an alcoholic, arrested adolescent, overgrown frat boy who had to be in on the party.
He came up to me. I told him to go away. Instead of congratulating me he told me I better thank Ricky for his diving catch or I wouldn’t have had a no-hitter.
It got worse starting with soph year in high school. Now I was on varsity teams. This was the beginning of sports mattering to my father.