My dad quietly announced his retirement about two weeks after Andre Yoraco did.
Andre’s retirement was all over the TV, radio, net.
My dad’s might as well have been a secret.
In Miami they gave Andre JetSkis.
My dad went 0-4, though one ball he hit was a home run, except five feet foul.
In the last May homestand, Andre blooped one just over Jack Loren’s head at third base for his 3000th hit.
The team ran out to congratulate him, my dad the first one out of the dugout.
In Minnesota they gave Andre the nicest barbecue grill I’ve ever seen. My dad used to play in Minnesota. They only put his picture on the Jumbotron when he was batting, didn’t mention that he was retiring.
In Chicago my dad went 0-3 with a walk.
I lost my virginity when my dad played for the White Sox.
The radio crew in Chicago mentioned my dad’s retirement. I didn’t hear it, but one of my friends told me.
The White Sox gave Andre an oversized check, 50K for his charity.
My dad sat out the entire series with the Mariners even though he had played there for three years.
The TV broadcast from Seattle said he had a tight hammy.
I texted him, he texted back “it’s nothing.”
My dad mostly platooned the rest of the way.
Tigers had an older minor leaguer, Zack Wozniak , who they wanted to get some big league looks, make him more attractive as a trade piece. Bait.
Zack was thrilled to be in the show.
In the last home game they pulled Andre in the 7th for a pinch runner.
Standing ovation.
Chants.
Andre was a good guy and a great ballplayer.
Played his whole career with the Tigers.
He deserved the accolades, the love.
My dad played for nine different teams in the majors, five in the minors, and a season in Japan with the Nippon Ham Fighters.
He never hit above .270, never won a Gold Glove. Just contributed. Did his job. The same way he was a dad.
That’s all you can really ask of someone, I thought.
I felt bad for him that they didn’t make a bigger deal out of him.
The game ended and he trotted off the field. No curtain call. No ovation. Invisible.
I went down to the clubhouse after the game.
My dad was being interviewed.
The guys had gotten him a box of fancy cigars and a giant screen TV.
Zack called him Yoda and thanked him for the guidance.
In the car I asked my dad what he wanted to do. I meant that very minute.
I wanted to take him to the Post Bar, where the drunk baseball fans would fawn all over him, or out for ice cream like he did for me after my games.
He reclined his seat as far as it would go and stared at the ceiling.
“I want you to pack your stuff for a trip to Seattle.”
I looked at him though he wasn’t looking back.
“Umm…mom doesn’t live in Seattle anymore.”
He exhaled like he wanted to blow the roof off the car.
“We’re not going to see your mom.”
“What’s in Seattle?”
My dad turned to me.
His eyes looked like someone had pulled dental floss across them.
They were red like his stirrups the year he played in St.Louis.
He exhaled again and said “three siblings you’ve never met.”
***
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Real life below the radar
Well THAT ending came out of …..um….left field…