Eleven years have passed since my father died, and the changing role that grief plays in my relationship with him has become part of the longer narrative of who I am because of him.
Dammit, Mike. Now I'm gonna be weepy for the rest of the day! In all seriousness, my Zaida has been gone since 1995 and my Uncle Jerry passed away in 2015 (after the Mets won the NLCS but before they lost in the WS to the Royals). And yet to this day, every Mets game I watch, they're in the room with me, yelling at the TV when the bullpen blows a lead, cheering insanely when one of our beloved Mets pops one out to get us back in the game.
A beautiful story of the Chicano experience carnal. While reading your story I saw the faces of my own father and grandfather. Plain and simple is God’s good Grace!
I did not have time to read your essay this morning, was just going to glance at the first paragraph an get back to it later. Now I'm behind schedule; of course I could not stop reading. I am perfectly content, though... it was the best way to start my day, and I will think about your words throughout the day. I just lost my best friend and am still having many conversations with her, so your words had special weight for me today. What a beautiful tribute to the love between you and your dad. Happy belated Father's Day.
As I read this post—especially today, when I’m struggling to remember that there might still be good in the world—I cried.
Your story about your dad and the connection to Dodgers baseball reminded me of all the experiences I had with my mom that centered around the Dodgers.
One of my earliest memories is how excited my mom got about the World Series games in 1963 and 1964. Even though I was only 5 or 6 years old at the time, I remember her saving up her ironing so she could do it while glued to the TV. She’d stack up the clothes, bring out her iron and ironing board—along with the water bottle and spray starch (yes, before permanent press)—with a plan to get it all done. The only problem was, she’d get so excited watching the game that she’d turn off the iron (around the third inning) and call her friend Rose from the “wired” phone in the kitchen (with a view of the TV), and they’d continue watching the games together—fully immersed, discussing every ball, strike, and out.
From April to October every year, the Dodger game was always on—TV or radio. Schedules were shifted so we’d be home to watch or listen to Vin Scully tell us about the game. And at least once a year, we’d make the drive to Dodger Stadium to see the game in person. We were always in our seats in time for batting practice, and we never left until the game was over... because, as she liked to say: “It isn’t over until the fat lady sings!”
Fast forward to the 1988 World Series: my mom must have made over a thousand calls to a local radio station trying to win free tickets. When she won two tickets to Game 1, she wanted me to go with my sister. I remember telling her—over and over and over again—“Mom, something special will happen at the game, and I don’t want you mad at me for the rest of my life for missing it.”
I obviously didn’t know the seats would be about 10 feet from where Kirk Gibson hit his walk-off home run—but I’m still soooo glad she was at the stadium for THAT game.
Our last game together was the final tribute to Vin Scully at Giants Stadium in 2016. A special day for all of us.
My last photo of her is of her sitting by the pool, wearing a Dodger hat. She died just a couple of weeks later, in 2017.
Mike:
My apologies for the long story, but you’re one of the voices I check in with regularly to help make sense of the world. Whether it’s politics or just stories about life, I wanted you to know that your words resonate and connect.
Oh wowwwwww! What a beautiful story. Thank you so much for sharing this! Baseball is the sound of summer and as much a part of our lives as a family member. I’m so glad you have those memories to hold her tight - as long as we have those our loved ones walk among us! 🙏🏼Thank you!
Mike, what an extraordinary story! Your dad would be so proud, not only because of your journey, but because of the love you shared through your writing. My dad, whom I loved dearly, died 36 years ago, when he was only 69, six years younger than I am now. I frequently think of him, but haven't thought about writing about him in a long time. You have nudged me in that direction. And, what I have learned about death, from my parents deaths' and my late husbands,' is that it's never too late to send condolences. So, I am sending you condolences for the death of your father. Peace be with you! Take care!
Dammit, Mike. Now I'm gonna be weepy for the rest of the day! In all seriousness, my Zaida has been gone since 1995 and my Uncle Jerry passed away in 2015 (after the Mets won the NLCS but before they lost in the WS to the Royals). And yet to this day, every Mets game I watch, they're in the room with me, yelling at the TV when the bullpen blows a lead, cheering insanely when one of our beloved Mets pops one out to get us back in the game.
It’s so much more than a game
This was so beautiful...thank you for sharing it with us.
Thank you Kevin 🙏🏼
Deeper ties to the Dodgers than just the Madrid Miners...https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albuquerque_Dukes
A beautiful story of the Chicano experience carnal. While reading your story I saw the faces of my own father and grandfather. Plain and simple is God’s good Grace!
This is a beautiful story Mike Madrid.
Thank you!
I did not have time to read your essay this morning, was just going to glance at the first paragraph an get back to it later. Now I'm behind schedule; of course I could not stop reading. I am perfectly content, though... it was the best way to start my day, and I will think about your words throughout the day. I just lost my best friend and am still having many conversations with her, so your words had special weight for me today. What a beautiful tribute to the love between you and your dad. Happy belated Father's Day.
Thank you Diane. 🙏🏼 So sorry for your loss
Mike:
As I read this post—especially today, when I’m struggling to remember that there might still be good in the world—I cried.
Your story about your dad and the connection to Dodgers baseball reminded me of all the experiences I had with my mom that centered around the Dodgers.
One of my earliest memories is how excited my mom got about the World Series games in 1963 and 1964. Even though I was only 5 or 6 years old at the time, I remember her saving up her ironing so she could do it while glued to the TV. She’d stack up the clothes, bring out her iron and ironing board—along with the water bottle and spray starch (yes, before permanent press)—with a plan to get it all done. The only problem was, she’d get so excited watching the game that she’d turn off the iron (around the third inning) and call her friend Rose from the “wired” phone in the kitchen (with a view of the TV), and they’d continue watching the games together—fully immersed, discussing every ball, strike, and out.
From April to October every year, the Dodger game was always on—TV or radio. Schedules were shifted so we’d be home to watch or listen to Vin Scully tell us about the game. And at least once a year, we’d make the drive to Dodger Stadium to see the game in person. We were always in our seats in time for batting practice, and we never left until the game was over... because, as she liked to say: “It isn’t over until the fat lady sings!”
Fast forward to the 1988 World Series: my mom must have made over a thousand calls to a local radio station trying to win free tickets. When she won two tickets to Game 1, she wanted me to go with my sister. I remember telling her—over and over and over again—“Mom, something special will happen at the game, and I don’t want you mad at me for the rest of my life for missing it.”
I obviously didn’t know the seats would be about 10 feet from where Kirk Gibson hit his walk-off home run—but I’m still soooo glad she was at the stadium for THAT game.
Our last game together was the final tribute to Vin Scully at Giants Stadium in 2016. A special day for all of us.
My last photo of her is of her sitting by the pool, wearing a Dodger hat. She died just a couple of weeks later, in 2017.
Mike:
My apologies for the long story, but you’re one of the voices I check in with regularly to help make sense of the world. Whether it’s politics or just stories about life, I wanted you to know that your words resonate and connect.
Thank you for sharing.
Oh wowwwwww! What a beautiful story. Thank you so much for sharing this! Baseball is the sound of summer and as much a part of our lives as a family member. I’m so glad you have those memories to hold her tight - as long as we have those our loved ones walk among us! 🙏🏼Thank you!
Mike, what an extraordinary story! Your dad would be so proud, not only because of your journey, but because of the love you shared through your writing. My dad, whom I loved dearly, died 36 years ago, when he was only 69, six years younger than I am now. I frequently think of him, but haven't thought about writing about him in a long time. You have nudged me in that direction. And, what I have learned about death, from my parents deaths' and my late husbands,' is that it's never too late to send condolences. So, I am sending you condolences for the death of your father. Peace be with you! Take care!
Thank you for the kindness 🙏🏼 I’m learning there’s still a lot of unresolved grief I’m processing. Your words have helped so much.
Thanks Beth! I really appreciate it!
I’ll check it out Beth! Thank you 🙏🏼
This is beautifully written, insightful, and deeply touching. Thank you for sharing yourself with us, Mike. Your writing is a gift🎁
P.S. I’d been totally game for running into a rattlesnake if I’d been there!