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Off the record: Sharing the gift of a Bucco game with dad

By Christopher Buckley 4 min read

There are those moments in our lives which leaving lasting impressions. For a father and his son, one such moment is your first baseball game together.

It was 1967 when my father took me to my first baseball game. I was just 6 at the time. That was a couple parks ago. The Buccos were playing the New York Mets. We sat in straight away center field at Forbes Field.

He taught me to keep score.

“So explain why — going from right to left — third baseman is 5 on the scoring sheet and then you go back to shortstop, who is 6?”

“Um, and dad why is a strikeout a K? Oh, no I never realized how many words in the baseball vocabulary start with an S.”

Actually, it is a bond that lives on and that you carry forward.

When my oldest son, Tom, first started playing baseball, I threw millions of pitches to him and hit as many grounders to him, teaching him to hit and field.

But, when the sun went down, we would sit down together and watch the games together. It was a learning experience.

And a bonding experience.

Each season, me and my sons have at least one father-sons night at PNC Park.

Just us.

But it rare in life when you can take a gift given to you and pay it back. For a son, giving that gift — any gift — back to his father is priceless.

But we — dad and I — found that opportunity this past weekend at PNC Park.

It was a summer night perfectly made for baseball. Norman Rockwell was no doubt jealous.

We — Ruthie and I — had decided dad needed this special night. He was doing his best to carry on since mom’s passing last month. He was busy attending to the multitude of things that had been left unattended while he gave his undivided attentiveness and love to mom during her lingering illness.

He was adjusting as well as possible under the circumstances, as long as he kept busy.

What he needed, we concurred, was a night out.

At the park.

When I told him we were going to the Pirates game together, he had all of the understated joy of a kid at Christmas.

He was waiting on his front porch when we picked him up Saturday night.

He was wearing the new Pirates jersey he bought last summer. He had hoped to wear it when he went to PNC for a game last season. But that never occurred because mom was not able to get out.

The traffic was minimal. We parked and walked to the park with a horde of black and gold smiling faces. PNC Park’s majestic beauty awaited.

We were given a golden “Let’s Go Bucs” T-shirt and a program booklet as we entered PNC Park.

He set a surprisingly quick pace up the ramp to our seats high above home plate.

We talked baseball. (“Why didn’t they bunt there? That double play was huge.”)

We laughed.

We discovered, and sampled, the vast array of food. Clearly we’re not talking just a hot dog and a cold drink any more.

But mostly we shared a moment he had given to me 50 years ago. And now, at this time in his life, I gave it back to him.

Years from now, I doubt either of us will remember the final score. I thought the Pirates won my first game 1-0, but the power of the Internet told me that never occurred that year.

We found our way back to the car and drove home.

I walked him to the door as he fumbled with his keys in the moonlight.

We fumbled for a father-son hug.

“We have to do that again,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, a smile arising.

“Real soon,” I added.

Because baseball, like life, can be endless and boundless. It can stretch across the decades and the generations.

And it can be bonding and healing.

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