When I first started umpiring baseball I was fourteen years old. Despite the fact that I wore long hair down to the middle of my back and never washed my uniform, I was moved up the pay chain pretty fast. When my father heard that his son was doing well at this umpiring thing, he decided to take the occasional break from the office and come on down to watch me (the ballpark and the office were about half a mile from each other).
Only he never let me know he was there.
He would find spots to sit that shielded him from my perspective, usually behind the stands. He would listen to what the fans thought of my work. If he could catch the words of one of the many old timers that sat down at the park watching the games, he would listen to anything and everything they would say about me. Then, he would go to the other stands and listen to the other team's fans, find their old timers and listen some more.
Then he would go back to work.
This went on for years.
Occasionally, between innings, I would catch him in the stands, and when I did, he'd usually tell me that the fans for both teams thought I was doing a good job. Then he'd go back to work.
One day, when I was eighteen and we were eating lunch (shortly before I left for college), he told me that he was always impressed by the job I did umpiring ball, that he couldn't have handled all that “adult intimidation” at such a young age like I did.
“I kinda like it, Dad,” I told him. “Always have.”
“I know, Son,” he responded. “You've been an obstinate, arrogant cuss since you could walk. Maybe before then.”
He didn't say it like an insult, though. He said it with pride.
“I'm proud of you,” he added. “Not sure what kinda man you'll be, but I doubt you are either. And I'm sure you'll do great in California.”
“Florida, Dad.”
“Florida. Right. You know I meant Florida.”
“Sure, Dad.”
Happy Father's Day, Pop.
Thanks for letting me live.