My dad is a poet and a lousy baseball player, among other things. He would be the first to tell you that, during his childhood, he wasn’t any good. When I was younger, I was significantly less lousy at baseball than he was — at least that’s what he told me.
So much less lousy, in fact, that my dad was certain I would play baseball at the University of Michigan. For several consecutive years, we would make the three-hour trek across the state so I could participate in the Wolverine Baseball Experience, a series of developmental baseball camps where kids of all ages would show up to improve their game and attempt to impress the Michigan baseball coaches. During the winter, we would pack into Oosterbaan Field House and do baseball drills and competitions for hours. For summer camps, we would stay overnight in South Quad Residence Hall and walk down to Ray Fisher Stadium for 12-hour days of baseball. At age 11, I thought I had convinced then-coach Erik Bakich that I would be the next catcher for Michigan.
I was wrong, obviously.
I may not have impressed Bakich, but I impressed my Dad, who championed me through all 10 of my baseball-playing years. Without fail, he would drive me to late-night winter practices with my travel team across ice-covered roads. He would sit in the stands — Diet Coke in his folding lawn chair — cheering for me and my team, likely to the annoyance of other parents in attendance. Sometimes, it was to my annoyance too.
But, as I look back, I’m not annoyed. I’m equal parts thankful and impressed by his dedication. I’m thankful because his presence was such a sound, earnest representation of love. And I’m impressed because we rarely won.
Poetry is a competitive exercise for my dad, who frequently submits to poetry contests across the globe. He wins occasionally and is published sporadically, but similar to me and my baseball career, wins are hard to come by.
My time playing baseball has been closely mirrored by my dad’s career in poetry. Last week, he placed second in a poetry contest. Weeks before that, he placed second in another contest. In January, he came second again.
The closest I ever got with any team I played for was — you guessed it — second place. In the photo above this piece, you can see me and my father (who is ironically wearing the block ‘M’ — Go Blue, Pops) holding that second-place trophy.
Despite the lack of success, I played baseball until my junior year of high school, when I decided it was more fun and important to hang out with my friends and do regrettable, probably illegal things. It doesn’t take much critical thinking to realize that was a mistake, and my dad knew it was. He pushed and pushed me to get back on the field, but I didn’t. I used my teenage angst to justify my choice. I decided that my dad was living vicariously through my baseball career. I could play ball and he couldn’t.
Again, I was wrong.
He wanted me to continue playing because I was good at baseball — and baseball was good to me. I quickly realized that a life without baseball felt particularly aimless; I had few hobbies outside of driving around with my friends and listening to Playboi Carti.
After a pandemic and a year or two of spinning without purpose, an English teacher recommended me the book “Fiddler on the Subway.” It is a collection of long-form feature pieces written by Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Gene Weingarten. The book engrossed me wholly. Weingarten’s ability to report creative non-fiction was captivating. It made me want to write, so I did. For the first time since I hung up my cleats, I found a new purpose — the same one as my dad’s.
It’s been three years, and I’ve been writing ever since. I usually attribute my passion for writing to Weingarten’s talent — it was certainly a catalyst. But I owe you some Freudian honesty: I write because of my dad, the same way I played baseball because of my dad.
For me, the competitive nature of writing is not dissimilar from baseball. It is a game of frequent error and disappointment. If you’ve ever played baseball, a coach has probably told you that the greatest hitters in baseball fail 70% of the time. A career .300 batting average — or a 30% success rate — will land you in the Hall of Fame. Great writers fail often, too. A few good words among a sea of bad ones can be all it takes to succeed.
Last Christmas, my parents gifted me “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott. It’s a book about writing. In it, she says that “Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve done it. Nor do they go about their business feeling dewy and thrilled.”
I can’t speak for my dad, but I don’t think he knows what he’s doing until he’s done it. He certainly doesn’t do it feeling “dewy and thrilled.”
He’s spent his life writing and competing, holding to his purpose fervently. Regardless of how many second-place finishes he has, that dedication is worth something.
Being a perpetual runner-up is something we are both familiar with, and I think that’s okay. I’ve found comfort in knowing the best players of all time fail often.
He may have been a lousy baseball player, but I give him a pass. It is a God-given truth that poets aren’t good for much outside of poetry — perhaps parenting, but certainly not baseball.
Statement Correspondent Liam Rappleye can be reached at rappleye@umich.edu