My Son, Tug McGraw, and a Faded, Unforgettable Autographed Baseball
Fatherhood and life lessons on why ‘ya gotta believe’
Thick green blades of grass poke up between my toes while my six-year-old son, Cole, scrambles down the gravel driveway in hot pursuit of a runaway tennis ball — an optic green Pro Penn Marathon.
The swift Florida breeze hurls pine cones off the trees like knuckleballs, which Cole tries to catch — without success. Telling him that catchers have notorious trouble handling knuckleball pitchers doesn’t stop him.
Under the pines, it might be more accurate to call our game, “throw and miss,” instead of, “playing catch,” but we are participating in a ritual.
Cole, who is still chasing the runaway ball, stops and shouts, “Dad, watch this!”
I nod and take a few steps across the lawn to get a better view. He looks over, face hidden under a New York Mets cap that seems a permanent fixture on his head, and nods when his eyes meet mine. He then lines up to kick the tennis ball.
I yell, “Cole, just throw it.”
“Dad!” Cole looks toward me. “Let’s play real catch. Not the tennis ball kind.”
Now, I stand in our front yard, attempting to teach Cole how to catch a baseball with his glove instead of his face. I tried the tennis ball because it would hurt less, but he said that’s for babies.
Without warning, Cole flings his glove on the ground and runs into the garage. I can hear him digging through mountains of old Wiffle balls, deflated footballs, three-wheeled skateboards, and flattened basketballs. By now, he has thrown everything all over the garage floor.
Love for my children gives me energy for life. Fathers protect their young, they don’t abandon them like mine did. I’m not a military man but believe the motto, “no soldier left behind” also applies to your kids.
Ironic, since my father was an Army veteran.
The screen door opens and Cole yells, “Dad, don’t move. I gotta pee. Just wait, I’ll be right out.”
I smile.
“No problem, buddy, take your time.”
A few seconds pass and then the door creaks open. Cole bursts out of the garage.
“I found it!” he hollers.
He runs up to me, eager to play.
“Dad, heads up!”
I notice that Cole has a baseball ready in his hand.
I yell, “Hey buddy, is that my autographed ball?”
“No Dad, this has my autograph.”
I stare for a few seconds.
“Sure, buddy, first hit my glove, bring the heat! C’mon!”
Cole looks at me and says, “Tell me a story.”
I start my famous fish tale, but Cole rejects it.
“Not that one, Dad. The Tug one, like the ball. Tell me about the Tugboat, Dad. Tell me about Tug.”
Cole persists, “Please!”
It’s impossible to say no.
“Okay, Cole, I’ll tell it again.”
One morning, I open the paper and there’s the smiling face of the great Willie Mays, advertising that he will be signing autographs for the Builder’s Emporium that very day. I know I had to go. Below Willie, in the same ad, there’s another player, but his picture is the size of a matchbook cover. I’ve never heard of him. He’s probably there to keep Willie Mays company.
Coles stares, “Keep going, Dad. Get to the good part.”
“You are a funny man,” I say, and turn back to the story.
I’ve got my baseball in one hand and I take off on my blue Schwinn Sting-Ray with the banana seat and baseball cards stuck in its spokes. I ride as fast as my legs can take me and don’t even get tired pedaling up the hills. Once inside the store, there’s a huge line to see Mays.
I walk to the back of the line and wait my turn, gripping the red stitching on my baseball. Willie Mays, in person, may be the best thing ever to happen, and I can’t wait to show my friends his autograph. They will be impressed.
From the end of the line, I watch as eager-looking adults wearing Mets jerseys push ahead of me, claiming someone was holding their spot or they were in the bathroom. I’m not a kid who cuts in line. One man has at least ten baseballs to get signed that he’ll probably sell. I hear kids and parents complain that someone took their spot.
Even this far back, the irritation on Willie’s face is easy to see. There must be a hundred people in line as panic begins to creep over me. My gut churns because the worst thing is to wait for hours and then get shut out. Mays’ patience must be running out. It reminded me of the one time I rode my bike to Atkins Chevrolet because Willis Reed, the star center for the New York Knicks…”
My son interrupts, “Dad, what’s a Knick? Did someone cut themselves? Is that when you nicked your finger with the apple and it fell off?”
Laughing, I continue, “You don’t forget anything, do you? No, my slicing off my fingertip cutting an apple is a whole different story. Reed left early from the autograph session.
I decide not to wait for hours and then watch Mays leave early, too. So, I begin to walk toward the exit when I see a man with a Mets hat sitting alone at a card table in the corner of the garden department. He’s near the birdseed and the stinky manure.
“Dad, what’s manure?”
“It’s cow poop we use to brighten the flowers. I’ll explain later.”
He seems satisfied but six-year-olds, like elephants, never forget.
I decide to investigate. There’s a little name card in front of him that says, ‘Tug McGraw.’ I’d never heard of him before but learned he was a pitcher. I felt bad no one was in his line so I walk up to him. He was a lot younger than Willie and has a twinkle in his eyes when he spoke.
He asks my name and tells me to sit down. He has a big smile, and I can tell he likes kids and isn’t irritated like Mays. Of course, there aren’t a million people screaming for his photo and autograph. He asks me about my family and about what position I play. He grabs my baseball and rolls it around in his hand like he’s getting ready to throw a fastball. He pretends to whip it at me but doesn’t let it go.
I flinch. I can’t help it. I don’t like to get hit in the face.
Living in my house, I know how that feels.
Tug just laughs, though, and tells me ‘Don’t worry. I would never hit a kid.’ When other kids start to line up, Tug shakes my hand, signs my ball, and writes, ‘Good Luck, Steve. Have a great life. Your Friend, Tug McGraw.’ He tells me I’m a polite, nice kid. Tug didn’t have kids then but that would change.
I toss the ball back to Cole.
“The end,” I say.
I’m testing to see if he’s listening.
“Dad, that’s not the end, keep going.”
“All right,” I say, “And they all lived happily ever after. That’s the end.”
“Daaad,” he says, “Please.”
“Okay. I became a big Tug McGraw fan and followed his career through several teams and World Series wins. Turns out, he becomes a great relief pitcher, and soon everyone knows him. He becomes famous for the catch phrase: ‘Ya gotta believe!’”
“Dad? Believe in what?”
“That’s a big question,” I say. “For Tug, it was about belief in his team, belief in himself. It’s about staying positive. I cherish the ball Tug signed because Tug treated me like his friend. It was like he knew me, like I was the only one there in the whole store with him. I saved the ball not because he was some superstar — he wasn’t then — but because he took the time to talk to me, make me feel important, the way I imagined a dad treats a son. He asked my name, wrote it down, and looked me in the eye. We connected in those brief seconds, like he understood me.
“The signed ball holds those memories. It’s not like a store-bought autograph, but about the thrilling moment you meet the player. The ball is like a time machine returning me to the past. Tug made me feel special.”
Cole asks if he can hold the Tug ball. We head into the house, and, for the fiftieth time, I show the signed ball to my son. The words are now a smudge of blue ink. I can see September 9, but can’t make out the year. Maybe 1972, maybe. No sharpies back then. You can hardly make out Tug’s name, but, for me, the signature is as clear as it was forty years ago.
Cole then informs me, “Dad, you forgot the part about Tug’s son.”
I explain how Tug didn’t get to know his own son well until his son was older. I tell him my own father left when I was a kid and we never did play catch. I can see my boy is confused.”
“Dad, is your dead? How did he die?”
“Cole, one day you’ll hear the whole story. Tug’s son is like me and went to see his dad one day when he was a little older. His son became a great country singer named Tim McGraw.”
“And you became a lawyer! What will you say when you tell Tug’s son the story?” he asks like it’s a given that we will meet.
“I’d tell him his dad made me a better person and a better dad — but he didn’t help my baseball.”
He asks if it’s okay to use my Tug McGraw ball to play catch. I tell him I’m sure Tug would approve and remind him he has to keep his eye on the ball. He pretends to take his eye out of its socket and rest it on the stitching.
I chuckle. “Ya gotta believe! Ya gotta believe in yourself.”
He giggles.
I grab the ball and pretend to whip it at him. Cole doesn’t flinch. Instead he looks and says, “Dad, throw the ball. C’mon, I’m right here. I can catch anything you can throw.”
I grip the ball tight. Tug’s name stares at me in faded blue ink, and I smile. So much more than an autograph. Such a nice man to take the time to talk to a lonely kid.
Cole’s voice brings me back to the present.
“Dad, stop messing around and throw the ball. Earth to Dad, c’mon!”
I grip the ball and throw it high and arching toward the treetops. Cole takes off. He runs hard and then dives onto the soft green grass. For a moment, the ball disappears under his body. He screams and scrambles to his feet, eyes twinkling, and flashing a monstrous grin, over his three missing teeth.
“Dad, Ya gotta believe, right?” Cole extends his glove and shows me the ball.
He made the catch!
Thanks for reading my story. I hope some day the McGraw family will discover what it meant that day in those few minutes for Tug to spend time with a fatherless boy.
This chapter is part of a Memoir due out in January called, Pretend They Are Dead, The Story of A Father’s Love from the Grave
