Four years ago today, I lost my dad.
He loved the Dodgers more than anyone I’ve ever known. Every season, every inning, every argument about lineups or bullpen moves — baseball was our bond. And this October, for a few hours, it felt like he was right there again.
Letter to My Dad in Heaven
Hey Dad,
Four years today. I still can’t wrap my head around it. Some days it feels like you just stepped outside for a bit, and other days it hits like a line drive — you’re really gone.
You’d have loved this October. The Dodgers gave us one for the ages.
Game 3 — Dodgers versus Blue Jays — the kind of marathon that tests your faith. Eighteen innings. Six hours and thirty-nine minutes. Six hundred and nine pitches. The longest World Series game ever played.
It was the kind of stubborn, beautiful, gritty baseball you always said was “the good kind.” The kind that rewards the ones who hang in there. I could see you so clearly — pacing the living room, beer in hand, laughing between grumbles about the ump.
And then Freeman stepped in. Bottom of the 18th. One too many pitches from Toronto. Crack. A 406-foot missile to straightaway center field. Walk-off. Ballgame.
Dodgers win.
For a second, I didn’t move. Didn’t cheer. I just sat there, because it felt like you were right there beside me. Like the sound of that bat carried your laugh straight through the screen.
I wanted that Dodgers–Mariners World Series so bad, Dad. I could already hear you — “How ’bout them Mariners, bud?” You’d be grinning, pretending you were pulling for Seattle just to mess with me. That would’ve been our dream matchup. You’d have talked so much shit, and I’d have loved every second of it.
That ache for that matchup hit hard. Brought me back to the yard — to those nights of you catching my wild pitches, telling me to stay tall, “get on top of it.” The glove popping, the porch light flickering, the air turning cold while we just kept throwing. That’s where it all started.
Then came Game 7. Series tied. Everything on the line. And you’d have gone crazy for what happened. Muncy, who’d been 4-for-34 since the championship series, stepped up and launched a moonshot solo to start the spark. The kind of home run you can feel in your chest.
And then Will Smith — steady, fearless — came up clutch again and again. That game was won by inches. A line drive barely fair, a tag barely held, a heartbeat between heartbreak and history.
And they did it. Back-to-back champions. The first team in 25 years to do it.
You’d have been proud, Dad — proud of the way they fought, proud of the grit, proud of the way they just refused to quit. That was you all over.
Moonshot’s growing. Butte Sports is still alive and kicking. The kids are getting big, full of attitude and humor — little pieces of you showing through all the time. You’d love them. You’d love all of it.
When life gets heavy, I think about nights like that Game 3. About patience, and fight, and finding beauty in the long innings. You used to say, “Baseball’s just life in slow motion.” Took me years to get it — but I get it now.
When Freeman’s homer cleared that center-field wall, when Muncy lit the spark, when Smith sealed the deal — it felt like you were right there. Same chair. Same grin. Same soft laugh that said, “Told ya, bud. That’s why we watch.”
Miss you every day, Dad.
Love you forever.
Save me a seat in the bleachers. I’ll bring the radio.
—John
