The One Last Game

The 1988 season was special for Dodger fans for a host of individual reasons. Most celebrated is of course Kirk Gibson hobbling through his game-winning home run on October 15 to end game one of the World Series. It would be Gibson’s last at-bat of the series. The Dodgers’ last game would not be until four games later when they wrapped up the championship, this was just the beginning of their tale.

That moment is the ending of this story. A moment that was preceded by a season of struggles and with one’s own body breaking down. For the next 7 months of highs and lows, there are two memories forever with me. Gibson’s home run comes in second.

A Father’s Influence

My father, priding himself from youth to epitomizing “Big Bad John”, was a football fan and boxing fan. Spending his fair share of leisure time vocalizing his pleasure, or momentary heartbreak, with the performance of the professionals he followed. However, when baseball became his oldest son’s game, the game became his as well.

He encouraged me into sports and supported all my efforts, watching every game he could around his six-day work week. Despite losing a leg at eighteen and spending his adult life hobbling on one leg and a wooden prosthesis, he was always involved in his son’s life.

The neighborhood kids knew him as the one who would play two-against-one basketball games. Quarterback of both teams in our neighborhood football games held at what we called “the old shoe park”. My dad was the father who treated all the kids equally and made certain to involve everyone. Not at all what one would expect from one big, bad John.

My childhood was filled with Sunday football memories. Mostly on my stomach with my elbows tucked and hands under my chin watching football intently from in front of my father’s chair. He watched boxing matches and I learned not to ask him who was playing, as he would always answer with his firm “they aren’t playing”.

A Shared Game

That 1988 Dodger season was to become our last “next year”.

March 4, 1988, Thursday. The Dodgers’ spring training schedule gets underway. When Vin Scully verified on air that Gibson, the free agent signed away from the Tigers, had indeed walked off the field and refused to play in the team’s opening spring training game two afternoons prior. My father was ecstatic.

Gibson was the victim of a prank, but the prankster didn’t realize Gibson prepared for baseball like it was football and had no capacity to be any team’s clown.

It was the first Sunday in March that I visited my father at his behest, and he insisted on watching a spring training Dodgers game on television. He had heard about the former receiver from Michigan walking off and chewing out his new team over their focus. My father now had a favorite ball player, and he was Kirk Gibson, the football player, with the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Later that month John went in for a medical check-up for stomach discomfort. Tests revealed that he had stomach cancer and he was told he had 6 months of life left. It was understood that my father would not survive this challenge, just to live his life the best he could, he had, and he would.

There were many landmarks during the baseball season in which a tough-as-nails Gibson made a play. A key hit, a big catch, or scoring the winning run from second on a wild pitch. The latter of those against the Montreal Expos in late August was my favorite play of that season.

By the time Gibson dashed on that wild pitch my father was deteriorating. His strength was leaving him, and his time was short. He would pass away on October 1, 1988, during the Dodgers playoff run at the age of fourth-five. I went into a haze, took a couple of days off, and then continued with my life. But I of course, still longed for just one more moment in his company.

Meanwhile, the Dodgers beat the heavily favored New York Mets and were moving on into the World Series. I was invited by my best friend to watch game one of the 1988 World Series at his home. Though I can’t remember all the names of those in the house that evening, there were at least eight of us watching the game in the TV room. For eight and one-half innings.

After 8 1/2 innings with the Dodgers down 4-2 heading into the bottom of the 9th, I suddenly realized I was the only one left watching the game. Everyone else had left the room. The A’s had brought closer Dennis Eckersley in to pitch the final three outs. Their future Hall of Fame pitcher was the best in the game so one could find no fault in their reasoning. I now sat quietly viewing the action alone.

As hope slipped away the television camera scanned the Dodger dugout with Vin noting that there was no sign of Gibson, my thoughts went back to my father’s excitement for the Dodger outfielder, and that now they both were missing.

My spirit was lifted albeit only slightly when with two out, “Gibby” grabbed a bat and slowly approached the batter’s box. He could barely walk, if one bad leg causes a limp it is hard to describe what trying to move on two bad legs looks like.

Gibson fouled off a couple of pitches and looked helplessly overmatched. He battled himself into a full count before hitting a back door slider from Eckersley into the right field seats. Thus causing a sea of brake lights in the Dodger Stadium parking lot, and me to turn to look about the empty room.

As Gibson limped around the bases pumping his fists in victory my thoughts went immediately to my father and my wish that he could be there at that moment with me. I could envision him jumping out of his chair at home and shouting out his approval. Feel his contentment and see his smile, relishing that the man he had singled out on day one was the hero.

Just as quickly, before Gibson could reach home plate to be hugged by Tommy LaSorda, I realized that my dad was with me.  As I sat alone in that room and realized that he always would be. The moment I needed was bestowed on me, and I have been thankful for that whenever my dad or the Dodgers come to mind.

Thank you for your faith and everything you gave to me. Love, your son.

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