Proof The Bible Is True

Baseball is a tradition in my family. Some of my best memories growing up were the days my dad took my brother and me on the 90-minute drive to San Francisco to see the San Francisco Giants play at Candlestick Park. We saw a lot of baseball history being made, like when Willie Mays and the Giants won the National League pennant in 1962.

 

When I had my first child, Zach, Paw—as Zach called him—had another youngster to school in all things baseball. Unfortunately, by the time Zach was old enough to go to games Paw could no longer go. He had Alzheimer’s and had to move into an assisted-living facility. Zach couldn’t understand that Paw would never “get better” or why we only saw him in his “new home.”

 

“Why don’t we take Paw with us to a Giants game, Dad?” Zach asked one day as we drove home from a visit. He wouldn’t understand a medical explanation, I barely could. The permanence of this disease seemed completely unfair, the situation painful. But I couldn’t bear to dash Zach’s dream. I just couldn’t. “Maybe someday we’ll all see a game together,” I said. Maybe someday.

 

Even if we couldn’t attend ball games together, our bond of three generations stood strong. Paw was Zach’s biggest fan until he passed away. After he died, the world seemed pretty gray for all of us, but especially for Zach. “Now we’ll never see that game together,” Zach said the day of Dad’s funeral. I should never have raised Zach’s hopes, I thought. I always knew it couldn’t happen. 

 

Read More: Heavenly Angels: Baseball Tickets Given to Father and Son