Happy Birthday Dad!

One of my earliest memories as a child is walking through a crowded concourse at Dodger Stadium. The inner reserve level (fondly known as the “blue seats” back when the multi-tiered ballpark resembled a rainbow) swarmed with fans. Body to body, Dodger die-hards wiggled through the mob, juggling bright blue foam fingers, the day’s program and hot grilled Dodger Dogs, dressed in foil and piled high on cardboard trays. Like cattle, fans herded through the concourse, masses struggling to walk in both directions, feet shuffling on the concrete, crushing peanut shells underfoot, the Public Address Announcer vibrating the columns with his booming voice, introducing the starting lineups, a concessioner rings out, “PEANUTS! Get your PEANUTS HEEYYAARR!”

To a boy of six, the scene was more magic than chaos. I was mystified by the smells, the sights and the sounds. And if I didn’t watch out I was in danger of being run over by a runaway fan, angling toward Aisle 3, desperate to catch the first pitch. My dad must have recognized the look of awe on my face and the sheer disregard I had for my own safety, so he positioned my six year old frame behind him and instructed me to reach up and hang on tightly to the belt-loop at the back of his jeans. With my dad as a shield and my finger securely fastened to my father’s belt-loop, we weaved in and out of traffic. My father parting the seas until we finally reached the Promised Land—the “blue seats.”

I am a baseball fan.

I’m a baseball fan because my dad’s a baseball fan. As was his dad, and the dad before that. My dad, both figuratively and, in the case of the Dodger Stadium concourse, literally paved the way. A framed newspaper clipping hangs on my living room wall. Featured at the center of the black and white (now yellow) page is a large photograph of a semi-pro baseball team from 1934 Indiana. Standing in the back row with a kind smile is the team’s player-manager and my great grandfather Benjamin Chamberlin (for whom I am named). Knelt down, and surrounded by a couple dozen uniformed Hoosiers, is my grandfather Phil Chamberlin, giddy as a batboy gets. On the opposite wall, a framed black and white photo of my dad, David Chamberlin, hangs proudly. He is a teenager, at bat and in full swing, his pants rolled up and meticulously folded over his stirrups. His weight shifted forward, his hands extended, his chin tucked into his chest, his eyes lit up, in perfect follow through.

My dad and I once drove from L.A. to Phoenix. That’s a 6-hour car ride through three-digit-temperatures of desert. We got to talking about fatherhood. (I often think about rearing children like that Oreo Commercial. A young dad drops a cookie on a dirty kitchen floor in front of his infant son. The dad looks around to make sure no one is looking, then bends down, picks it up and swallows it whole, all while his young son looks on. We hear the father’s thoughts, “The fact that I am responsible for another human being is completely and utterly ridiculous.”).

I asked him if he had any advice on raising kids. “Tell them stories,” he said. “Tell them stories from your past. Tell them stories about us, your family and your friends. The stories will paint a picture of who you are and who the people you love are.”

Here’s some stories about my dad. Here’s some stories about baseball.

One season as a little leaguer, my dad missed the Triple Crown by a couple seeing-eye singles, hit nearly .400 with 10 homers and 35 ribbies. But it wasn’t enough to win Most Valuable Player. The honor went to a kid with slightly inferior hitting numbers, but with outstanding pitching statistics—a double threat. The MVP race was so hotly contested and created so much controversy that it divided the locals. My grandfather was his most outspoken supporter and stewed over the results of an award for 11 year-olds. To the day he died, I’m certain my grandfather felt that his son had been robbed.

As a young teenager, he spent a whole summer at a baseball camp in Oklahoma. His first time on an airplane, he was armed with just a glove, a bat, and some underwear; his bat taped around his duffle bag. “I was such a geek,” he confesses. Whenever he reminisces on the days when he played baseball all day and all night during those few weeks in the hot Oklahoma sun, you would think he was the first astronaut to land on the moon.

He once called balls and strikes as a home plate umpire at a youth game. The inexperienced pitcher walked batter after batter after batter. My dad reluctantly calling balls, cringing with each pitch, feeling the youngster’s pain. He later admitted that even if the kid got it anywhere within 2 feet of the plate he woulda called it a strike. The coach finally brought in a reliever and later found my dad to tell him “thanks” for having a heart and helping out his struggling pitcher.

My dad usurped the starting catcher’s position on the varsity team during his freshman year at Franklin High. He was once photographed blocking the plate, crouched down, glove out in front, bracing for impact as the runner barreled toward him. The runner collided with my dad, and the both of them went toppling over but dad held on. The umpire shouted, “OUT!” The picture appeared in the local newspaper. The photographer later griped, “if you would have kept your eyes open, the picture woulda been perfect!”

He once caught Montreal Expos prospects during a pro workout in the Southland. Thrilled by the opportunity and probably hopped up with excitement, he clumsily caught the wiry hurler with what seemed like a Nolan Ryan fastball. With each pitch, my dad bobbled and booted the ball, taking the pitcher out of his rhythm. “It hurt my hand,” my dad admits, “he threw at a different level than I had ever handled.”

My dad and I once coached my little brother’s tee ball team. My dad is a great coach. No. An excellent one. He’s got that knack for both teaching and making you feel good about yourself. What does he consider his greatest coaching accomplishment? Ending an inning on outs. You see, in tee ball, teams bat around every frame, because Lord knows 6 and 7 year olds don’t have the dexterity of skill to catch and throw. They look more like pidgeons trying to gather seed. Tee ball squads never get three outs to end an inning. But not my dad’s team. They did it a handful of times that season (mostly because of a couple o’ kids named Stephen).

My dad took me to my first playoff game, my first double header, took me to my first baseball card show, my first spring training game (Frank Castillo was RIGHT. THERE.). Every spring we made the annual trip to Big 5 for cleats, and gloves and aluminum bats. My dad always cringes at the “tink” of the bat.

My dad rips broadcasters who aren’t objective, has been playing fantasy baseball since 1989. My dad saw Sandy Koufax throw his perfect game, is one of the few people in the world who knows the Angels once played at Dodger Stadium. My dad likes to take shots at Desert Christian baseball, he didn’t think much of our JV squads… I don’t blame him. My dad once piled into an Accord with four college boys (the least of which measured at 6’2’’, 175 lbs) to drive six hours to watch a game in another state, then get back in the car, drive six hours back, and work a 12-hour shift the next day. My dad’s even directed my brother and I to make a road trip after he’s passed away and to sprinkle his ashes on the field of every major league ballpark in America.

My dad and I have frozen at Fenway, burned at AT&T Park (Chamberlins never remember sun screen), and even sat comfortably in an air conditioned B.O.B. But one of dad’s favorite places in the world is in the yard, on a spring afternoon, pulling up weeds and listening to Vin Scully call an exhibition game. My mother swears that his face lights up every year about this time. She swears that his eyes sparkle, that his steps bounce. She calls it “the gleam.”

But you’re so much more than baseball, Dad. So much more. And not a million posts on this blog can ever encapsulate you. But on this day—your birthday. You’re my “gleam.”

Happy Birthday, Dad.