This morning, over my third cup of coffee, a stray thought wandered into my head: What would I give Dad if he were still alive? Somehow I hoped that given the years of experience I’ve had being the celebrant on Father’s Day and the supposed wisdom that comes with advanced age, I’d do better and be more thoughtful that I was in those years when he was around to receive the presents.

So far as gifts were concerned Dad “came from a place of scarcity” (to steal a phrase from sociologists who make things sound more complicated than they are). Birthdays and even Christmas were not big gift-giving occasions for Dad and his nine brothers and sisters. He once mentioned getting an orange for Christmas.  I don’t think I ever heard him mention getting a birthday present.

When he grew up and started a family of his own, his situation didn’t get much better. He and Mother were married on June 10, his birthday was June 13, and Father’s Day usually came the same week. I don’t recall Dad and Mother exchanging anniversary presents, and he usually got one present from me for the combined birthday and Father’s Day. When I got old enough to work, it was usually a shirt.

This morning I was feeling a little guilty that I hadn’t done more, especially since my parents did so much for me, but I had some trouble figuring out what I would do. Then it hit me, tickets to the baseball game.

I hardly ever think of baseball without thinking of Dad. It was his passion, and he was good at it. He played for the Benson Bulls until he and his back decided that he was no longer able. Then he played softball as long as he could, and after he could no longer do that, he watched baseball games on television.

I’ve always thought it was a mark of the greatness of his character that he bore his disappointment that none of his three sons had inherited either his passion for or his skills at baseball without letting it affect us. I’m sure he looked at my classmates who were better players and wished that I had gotten just a little of that. But he kept it to himself.

If I had it to do over, I’d buy a couple of tickets to a baseball game, not a major league game, but perhaps to the Raleigh Capitals (if they were still around) or to the Dunn-Erwin Twins (if they were still around), and I’d take him to the game. I’d generally keep my mouth shut except to cheer something good or to question the umpire’s eyesight. To Dad, you went to a ballgame to watch a ballgame, not to socialize.

I wouldn’t have to worry about buying him a beer since he didn’t drink, and I doubt he would have even taken a hot dog. But he would have watched the game and understood its nuances. We would have spent a companionable three hours or so, him because of his love of the game, me because of my love for my father.

But that’s another one of those things I didn’t do, even though it was one way of expressing my recognition and appreciation for all he did for me that he would have understood. Dad didn’t live long enough for me to get wise enough to celebrate him as I should have. That is, I suppose, a chance that we all take.