Today was supposed to be Opening Day for the 2020 Major League Baseball season. Rather than feel cheated of the absence of my first true love, I’m actually having a much better time reliving all my baseball memories, great and grand they are.
Favorite baseball memory of all time: Kent Hrbek blasted a grand slam home run in Game 6 of the 1987 World Series. It put the Twins on top for good in that game and catapulted the team into overwhelming momentum going into Game 7. “Herbie” unleashed and slashed across the strike zone and launched the ball to dead center field.
As he rounded first base, his arms were extended out, flaps-style, like he were some gigantic 747, lifting all of Minnesota nation into orbit with him. His mile-wide grin was nuclear and priceless. He crossed home plate and straight into the arms of Kirby Puckett, and the two bear-crushed each other into pure joy. I’ve loved sports all my life and in all the winning celebrations I’ve ever witnessed, I’ve never seen a hug between teammates like that. The game’s battle had hung in the balance, the outcome still in doubt…and with one swing, a man proved himself and his teammates worthy in war. Puckett’s homecoming hug to Herbie was a moving, tear-provoking mixture of relief and love and gratitude and fun and finally, an unquestioned belief in all things good.
So as it goes with baseball, I’m also reliving the first time I understood the power and significance of hugs when I give them.
My grandfather (my dad’s dad) died in August of 1981. I was 17. I sang “The Lord’s Prayer” at his funeral. I had never done that before, so I was not only saddened at the loss of my grandfather, I was nearly overwhelmed by a ‘pants-filling fear’ at getting up and singing in front of a large crowd. I shouldn’t have worried. I nailed it.
My Dad and I hadn’t gotten along for some time. I was 17 and everyone to me was an idiot. Dad didn’t help by having to be right 100% of the time and being supremely sanctimonious when he did it. So, the state of things between us wasn’t on firm footing.
After the funeral, Dad came up to me, hesitatingly, reluctantly. He had tears in his eyes, which from behind his glasses looked like sad little creeks roaming around, lost. That was my Dad, at that moment… he was lost. He squared his shoulders, looked at me wistfully and put out his big right hand. He called me by my favorite nickname. “Jackson…you have no idea what your singing meant to me and your mother”. He started to falter. “I (sniff) just want you to know (sniff) how proud I am of you”.
I took his hand with the strong, purposeful grip he had taught me and started to say something like “Hey…I’m really sorry you don’t have your dad anymore, Dad…”, and suddenly it jolted me, and I understood what was needed.
I grabbed my Dad as hard as a 17-year old could manage and pulled him into a massive, clenching embrace. The hell with bad feelings and impetuous teenagers and self-righteous dads. That hug sent a waterfall of cleansing sympathy and empathy and forgiveness and admiration over the two of us. I felt my Dad’s big frame literally release a truckload of tension and grief. For the first time in my life, I understood. Hugs really can heal. Dad and I finished our hug and pulled back and looked into each other’s eyes. We were going to be fine. I was a good son. He was a good Dad.
The next time I realized the power of hugs? I was in college, on a date. At the end of the night, I was hugging a short, impossibly cute, sassy girl with crazily green eyes and truly large, magnificent breasts. And she was hugging back, hard.
That was pretty nice, too.
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