In that moment, my 10-year-old voice sang in unison with my dad’s.
The solo crack of the bat and the crowd swelled to sing the chorus. There was my dad cheering me on as I rounded third and crossed home plate. I felt the world at my back and at the forefront, a dad who reached his arms around me to teach me.
This month, my dad turned 80 years old. I gratefully remember his words: spit on your hands, rub them in the dirt and choke up on the bat. That is how you hit a home run!