A Baseball Cap and a Father's Love

To set the stage for this story, I need to explain that when I was in grade school I was a huge fan of the Atlanta Braves baseball team. I followed all the players back in the early 70's, guys like Ralph Garr, Orlando Cepeda, Darrell Evans, Sonny Jackson, and Phil Niekro.

In particular, I was a fan of home run slugger Hank Aaron. I kept a scrapbook of all the newspaper and magazine articles I could find on this slugger nicknamed "The Hammer." I memorized all of his statistics; I studied box scores of all the games; and I even saw Aaron hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth at a game in Atlanta when I was in fifth grade.

I loved the game of baseball. To some, it's a boring game. I found it exciting. Watching the pitcher studying the batter; watching the batter studying the pitcher; and watching the fielders move a few inches or feet to the left or right, depending on the batter and depending on the pitch that they were anticipating from their pitcher.

It was all exciting to me. I lived and breathed baseball.

It's no surprise, then, that every moment I wasn't in school or church found me wearing my Atlanta Braves baseball cap. It was dark blue with the script 'A' on the front. I loved that hat. I even wore it to bed at night.

It was the summer of 1971, and we loaded up our white '68 Olds Cutlass station wagon for a trip from our home in Clarksville, Tennessee, up and over to Onawa, Iowa, to visit my maternal grandmother. The car was full. Besides the three of us kids, we also had a foster sister named Susie.

Susie was cool -- she was sixteen -- while I, at age 10, was older than my siblings. Susie had introduced us kids to the music of the Beatles, much to my parents' chagrin. Her favorite song, though, was, "I've Got a Brand New Pair of Roller Skates," and she played her little 45 RPM record over and over again.

Anyway, we loaded up the car and set off early in the morning for Iowa. We couldn't wait to visit Grandma! After an hour or two on the road, we kids were already asking, "Are we almost there?" We must have driven my parents half crazy.

I don't remember the route we took, but I do remember that we stopped for dinner in Peoria, Illinois. My parents wanted to find an Italian restaurant, and we settled on Angelo's. I was wearing my Braves cap as we walked into the restaurant, and I remember thinking that I should take it off while we eat. My parents had taught me that it's not polite for men to wear hats in restaurants.

I had the lasagna, and it was superb. I don't remember what anyone else ate, but I was quite content and happy. Still, I asked if we could order some dessert. Dad said no. He explained that we needed to get going if we were going to make it to Onawa that night.

We climbed back into the car at around 6:30pm. We still had another five hours to go, and as the station wagon zoomed down the entrance ramp and back onto the interstate, heading west, I eagerly anticipated seeing Grandma again.

We were driving into the setting sun, and it was a beautiful evening. We were all happy -- the dinner at Angelo's certainly helped -- and as a family we sang one of our favorite songs, "The Bog Song."

I loved singing that song, trying to list everything in one breath: "... and the bug on the feather, and the feather on the wing, and the wing on the bird, and the bird in the nest, and the nest on the twig, and the twig on the branch, and the branch on the bough, and the bough on the tree, and the tree in the bog, and the bog down in the valley, oh!"

We finally finished the song. We were about forty-five minutes out of Peoria. I stretched my arms back, then ran my fingers through my hair and scratched my scalp for a moment.

My hair! Wait. That means ... my hat! Where's my hat!?

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "I left my cap at Angelo's!"

"Are you sure?" asked Mom. I was pretty sure, but we did a thorough search of the car. It wasn't in there anywhere.

I was sad. That was my favorite cap. I had even bought it with my own money.

At that moment, I heard the turn signal go click-click-click. Dad pulled off onto the exit ramp, crossed the interstate, and got back on heading east toward Peoria!

And so you know the rest of the story. We went back to Angelo's, where I found the cap sitting on the hat rack inside the entrance. My blunder meant an additional hour and a half was added to our trip that evening. We did get to Onawa that night, though it was very late.

Dad never said anything. He could have been mad; he could have demanded a show of extreme gratitude; he could have reminded me of it for the rest of his life. But he did none of those things. Dad just did what Dad always would do. He showed unconditional love for his kids. He showed grace when he could have showed frustration or anger. That's just the way he was.

In fact, he's still that way. When I mentioned this story to him a few weeks ago, he had forgotten about it. He didn't go back and get that hat just so that I would forever love him. He went back and got that hat because he forever loves me.

I should also point out that Mom showed unconditional love here as well. Not once did she argue when Dad turned around, even though it was her mom that we were going to go visit. And Mom, if you read this (I know you will), you know that I know that you love me.

But it seems that society expects the moms of the world to be ever loving, and we don't always hold dads accountable. We should.

Anyway, Dad gave me a glimpse that night of how awesome God's love must really be. Would a normal dad go back and get that hat? Probably not. Would God? Certainly. And would my dad? You betcha.

I can bank on it. And that's pretty neat.