When it came to be that time in little league when guys started hitting the ball out for home runs, the only question in my mind was "When?" When was I going to get mine, who was it going to be against, was it going to win a game, etc etc.In any case, on an overcast day in early June of 1998, the Mets played the Pirates at Fowler Field behind the Milford library. I still hadn't gotten my first home run yet (well, my first since I went yahtzee to dead center in coach pitch for a grand slam. The ball hit a car and set off its car alarm, a la the old school siren that would play before "Whoomp (There It Is)" at Yankee Stadium in the 90's), and to tell you the truth I was wondering if I was ever going to hit one myself.All that changed when I stepped up to the box with the bases jacked, and on the first pitch took an outside fastball and implanted it to dead center for a grand slam. Things I remember about that moment - 1. I didn't think I hit the ball hard at all. I thought I tried to do too much with an outside pitch and popped it up. 2. As I'm rounding first base my coach was yelling "That's the one, THAT'S THE ONE." 3. Unless video footage proved other wise, I don't think my feet ever touched the ground. 4. Rounding third base and looking up into the stands and seeing my mom and grandfather standing and cheering in the bleachers.I sat down on the bench, my heart racing, my teammates in disarray in the dugout as if we had just won the World Series. But after everything calmed down and that half inning finished, I went out to pitch and realized something - my Dad wasn't there to see my first home run.If you know anything about my family and baseball, you'll know that my Dad and Grandfather never missed any of my or my brother's games. Driving hours around the tri-state area, sitting/standing in 30 degree November weather for fall ball, being half burned to death in the summer sun, and driving 14 hours by himself to see me pitch two games in Nashville, TN for a National Tournament - very few kids can ever say their Dad drove 15 minutes for a game, let alone 14 hours.That day in particular, however, my Dad had to play trumpet at a ceremony at St. Mary's church and couldn't make my game. After we went on to win, my Grandfather and I drove over to the church, walked up the back steps to the loft and grabbed my Dad's attention through the pane glass door. He turned around, saw the smile on my face and the ball I was holding up through the window. He knew immediately what had just happened and his smile far exceeded mine.A few weeks later at the house, I was being my usual 12 year old bratty self and for whatever reason my Dad and I got into a little tiff. It escapes me now what exactly we were arguing about, but at the pinnacle of my frustration I said - "Yeah!? Well you missed my home run!" The argument kind of just stopped right there and my Dad left the kitchen without really saying anything else. I knew immediately what I said was completely uncalled for - for a guy who never missed a game, and had to miss just this one for an obligation at our church, I had literally no right to ever make him feel bad for missing my home run. The next week or so nothing was really said about the argument and it was sort of swept under the rug, but I knew deep down how much I had hurt my Dad and how much he would have given to have been there to see the game.Fast forward to about 2 Sundays after that - Father's Day. I had a late morning game and the weather couldn't be any more perfect. A bright sun beaming down on a breezy warm field with the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers swirling around the cheers and chants of the Little League complex in Milford.It was about the 3rd or 4th inning and we were down 2-1. On the hill was my best friend and now current roommate Jonathan Close, and it seemed to me like he was throwing pretty well - changing speeds, hitting his spots, making good pitches......(who the fuck am I kidding - it was little league - you threw the ball as hard as you possibly could for 6 innings and prayed you didn't hit 5 guys in the head or your infield didn't make 13 errors by the second inning).I stepped up to the dish with our offense gasping for air. I'm not exactly sure what the count was, but Jon left a belt high fastball on the inner half and I turned on it. Unlike before, I knew I got all of it. Its funny though, the hardest balls you'll ever hit in your life are the ones you feel the least. Its as if the bat flies through the zone and the ball has no choice but to scamper out of its way so fast that it ends up over the fence. My ball ended up being more of a line drive than a fly ball - wrapped down the line and hitting off the backstop fence of the field adjacent to ours in left field. My shot tied the game at 2, and we would eventually go on to win.Afterwards, after getting congratulated by every parent, every teammate, and every friend that was there, I made my way over to my family. Big kiss from mom, a firm handshake and a smile/chuckle from my grandfather, and there was my Dad with the biggest, most proud smile on his face. Before he could say anything, I took the ball that was in my hand - my home run ball - and handed it to him, "Happy Father's Day Dad".Here's to an amazing Dad and my biggest most beloved fan of my baseball career.Love you Dad.