To My Father: On Mining and Baseball, Texas Style

12 October 2010. Mark this day. Two miracles transpired, both of major importance to West Texans. Seeemingly most important, the Texas Rangers clinched the American League semifinal games, sending them to the AL Championship against those arch rival New York Yankees. It is a match made in heaven, or in my childhood living room, where I sat dutifully in my little rocking chair next to my dad, rooting for the Yankees (before there were any Rangers) and where I formed those visions of baseball victories that later led to a real Texas Rangers team that my dad and I would favor. I'll never forget the time we all went to Arlington together, probably in the early 1990s, to watch those Rangers. I think they lost that night, but the glory and glamour of finally being in a big league stadium with my dad -- who can forget such an experience? And then, throughout his "retirement" years, I remember many, many nights sitting in that Desdemona home listening to Ranger baseball with my dad, and always, always, hoping against hope, and ultimately seeing them come close to championship an playoff worlds, but never close enough.

My dad died 12 year ago, but he would be proud of the Rangers tonight. They made it to the ALS championship, and to make it even better, it's against those Yankees. I'm wishing Mickie and Roger could see how their influence on my life continues, even if as the new rivals attempt to take over for the great old models of father and son and baseball.

But my dad was never quite focused on baseball, or anything really, except providing for his family. O.C. Patty was a roughneck, a not-so-distant cousin of a miner, one of those long-suffering and hard-working men who never came home without an ache and never complained at all. My dad, I always take pride in saying, worked on the then deepest oil well ever drilled, some 2-and-a-half miles deep, some time in the early 1970s. A lot of folks will say that Texas Oil is what made former president George W. Bush so famous; I say it was my dad, and his fellow-very-hard-workers.

Anyway, oil field roughnecks and miners are of the same breed -- very, very tough and hard-working family men who care little about their own needs and much about their wives' anc childrens' needs. They come home daily sore and hurting, but sure that they have done well. They cherish the moments outside of the rig, or the mine, but they go back each day, knowing the dangers. And, they occasionally get to see a moment or two of real, pure value, when the whole world stops to honor one, or 33, or their number.

So, as the miners literally arise, I say "Thank You" to each of them, and to my dad, and I wish them all a wonderful family reunion. And some time to recover.

While they watch the Texas Rangers whip the New York Yankees and move on to the World Series.

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