(670 The Score) My dad was alive when this baseball season began. He died in June, before the All-Star Game, the trade deadline, the pennant race and an incredible postseason.
I may never have been more emotionally and intellectually invested in another postseason for all of my 55 years. Now, a couple days after one of the best World Series of all time has ended, I realize that his death was the main trigger as to why.
We talked baseball all the time, since I was 6 or 7. He educated me on the game and its history – but more so, he educated me on how to love it. He was the living model as to how to appreciate it and how to share that passion. It’s what I’ve spent most of my life doing – sharing passion for the game with everyone I could connect with. He forged my path.
So as this postseason played out, beginning three months after his death, I dove into it. The Cubs were in it and played two incredibly dramatic series. I was at four of the five home games. I worked as a media member at some of them, and I cheered on in the stands at some of them. Sometimes I did both. I went to pregame media sessions even though I didn’t need to for work. I went to the clubhouse after games, with no real responsibilities. I just wanted to soak up every ounce of connectivity I was afforded.
In the crowd, with my wife, I was invested emotionally like perhaps never before. Feeling it, in all facets. This included ugly emotions, like when I lost it with rage after a cheeseburger incident which won’t be forgotten. I was filled with righteous indignation at how hard I was trying to balance life, work, marriage, consideration and responsibility amid a hectic day that I couldn’t handle her understandable disappointment. Looking back, the grief, subliminal though it may have been, probably played a role.
We traveled to Milwaukee for Game 5, and the disappointment of that loss, of the Cubs being eliminated, left a massive mark. Sad, angry emptiness. It felt like the Red Sox disappointments of my youth. I attributed this to the growing relationships with so many in the organization, from bosses to players, and to the influence of my lifelong meatball Cubs fan wife. It was deeper than that.
With the Cubs gone, I picked a new favorite: the Mariners. They have never been to the World Series! Their stars are super likable. Cal Raleigh should win MVP, and Julio Rodriguez is a smiling five-tool marvel. General manager Jerry Dipoto is relentlessly aggressive and creative. I had my team to ride with the rest of the way.
The Blue Jays wouldn’t be denied. And when Vlad Guerrero Jr. was in tears after their Game 7 win at home in the American League Championship Series, with his beloved country and organization going where he’d always dreamt they could go, it was impossible not to be won over. Vlad wants to win a ring and to give it to his father, who never got one. Beautiful.
So I was all in with the Jays and conveniently anti-evil empire Dodgers. Yes, I hate what the Dodgers can do that other teams can’t (or choose not to) do. But the hatred for the economic beast also dovetails nicely with the Yankee hatred that Herb Spiegel raised me with. I didn’t put that vehemence together in the moment.
I was oblivious in my obsession. I read everything about both teams. Curiosity has always been a distraction from uncomfortable emotions for me, but it hit an absurd level. How much context on 26th Dodger Will Klein does a man really need? I fell in love with Toronto hitting coach David Popkins and his contact-based approach. He believes in clutch too! My guy. I felt such joy for Dan Shulman getting to do the television call in Canada for his hometown Jays, while his son Ben got to do the radio call. Fathers and sons, again.
I stayed connected to my dear friend Jon Sciambi as he called the series for ESPN Radio, syncing his calls with the TV whenever possible and texting with him the morning after games. I’ve done three seasons of The PBP: Voices of Baseball podcast, and I feel absurdly connected with the craft. That whole endeavor is a reminder of why I care about the game and all of this at all.
I longed to be the voice on the radio sharing the game with everyone, so my dad would listen to me. He was a busy man, a father of five and a doting husband with big jobs, big passions, hobbies and friendships. I was the baby, and he was kind of done with parenting by the time I came along. My big brother Bob tells a story about being home from college and Herb getting a call from a teacher of mine.
“Matt is having some issues in class, he’s not paying attention, and he’s not doing his best work,” the teacher said.
Dad responded, “I’ve raised five kids, and I think he’s doing pretty well. You handle it.”
Then hung up the phone.
That same lack of patience and attention was felt by little Matt. Dad was so fun, so funny, so engaging, so smart and had so much to offer. I wanted more and more and more of it. Never enough. So if I came to him with a baseball story great enough or a trivia question intriguing enough, I had him. I used that stuff forever. And it worked. We had a great relationship. Never as deep as maybe I wanted, because he had his human limitations like any of us. He stretched those limitations as he aged. He left us a beautiful example of a life well lived.
There’s a wonderful quote from the actor Jim Carrey about grief, and part of it is this: “The love you had does not disappear; it transforms. It lingers in the echoes of laughter, in the warmth of old memories, in the silent moments where you still reach for what is no longer there. And that’s OK. Grief is not a burden to be hidden. It is not a weakness to be ashamed of. It is the deepest proof that love existed, that something beautiful once touched your life. So let yourself feel it. Let yourself mourn. Let yourself remember.”
When the World Series ended, I was devastated. No more ballgames. It always hits me hard. I’ve made a bit in Chicago out of going to say “goodbye to baseball” for either a Cubs or White Sox game in person in late September, if the playoffs don’t loom. But this year saying goodbye was much harder.
Storylines in MLB that began during this season were discussed with my pops. They all finally played out on a glorious Saturday late night, in one of the best Games 7 that any of us will ever witness. I texted and talked about it with so many people.
The one I want to talk about it with is no longer with us.
This column will have to do.
Matt Spiegel is the co-host of the Spiegel & Holmes Show on 670 The Score from 2-6 p.m. weekdays. Follow him on Twitter @MattSpiegel670.