A little boy needs a dad. It’s that simple. When a dad chooses not to be a part of a boy’s life, the child clings to hope that one day he’ll understand why he made the choice to leave. Those little boys tend to latch on to something that makes them feel a connection with their paternal vagabond. Kind of like wishing on a shooting star or pitching a penny into a fountain.

I was that little boy, and my shooting star was the Chicago Cubs.

It all started around 1989. I never knew why my father quit coming around, but I knew it didn’t feel right. He was a native of Chicago and had grown up there before moving to Arkansas and meeting my mother. When I got “The One and Only More or Less Official Cubs Party Album and Rally Starter” cassette tape in the mail, I was a little confused. My mom explained to me that my father was a huge Cubs fan and, looking for that connection, I dove right in. It was one of my most prized possessions—until I received my VHS copy of “The Boys of Zimmer,” and later “Chicago and the Cubs: A Lifelong Love Affair.”

I listened to that tape and watched those videos over and over again. I even forced my friends to watch them with me. I was ate up with the Cubs. He sent me a few t-shirts in the mail as well. My favorite was a pinkish colored “Bleacher Bums” shirt. During those long hot summers of my youth, I cherished those Harry Caray and Steve Stone broadcasts on WGN. Andre Dawson, Jody Davis, Mark Grace, Shawn Dunston, Greg Maddux, George Bell, Luis Salazar, Sammy Sosa, and my all-time favorite, Ryne Sandberg—these were the names I grew up with, and I’ll never forget them.

The outfield ivy set the bait. Harry Caray reeled me. Those blue pinstripes got me in the boat. It was the perfect storm for a young kid looking for a connection to get completely and thoroughly obsessed. I didn’t care about World Series appearances and the win/loss column back then. I just enjoyed watching the Cubs play baseball.

As I grew older the fire never died. I made it through all the horrible years. Struggled through the “meh” years. Contained my excitement in 2003 and 2008. I researched the curse of the goat. The history of Wrigley Field. Tinkers to Evans to Chance. I found out that the Cubs were basically the team to beat in the early 1900’s. Why Ernie Banks is one of the most underrated players in MLB history. In an Arkansas sea of Cardinals fans, I stood out like a sore thumb. I can still count on one hand how many true blue fans I know.

My wife and I took our maiden voyage to Wrigley Field in 2011. What a dump—and I wouldn’t want it any other way. The nostalgia oozed from that place like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The organ, the ivy (even though it wasn’t green yet), the scoreboard. I cried when Jody Davis sang the 7th inning stretch. I laughed when the locals cussed Marmol in the bathroom for blowing the save. It was more special than I ever could have dreamed, even in a loss.

As the years piled on I began to think about my biological father less and less. But I never could turn on a Cubs game without a passing thought. I tried off and on to find him, and I finally did sometime around 2015. I realized that I wouldn’t be able to salvage even a fraction of a relationship with him, and I closed the book on that part of my life.

This year, we took our 2 boys to St. Louis to watch their first Cubs game, a Kyle Hendricks gem where he took a no-hitter into the 9th inning. I watched them take it all in, and it was humbling for me to share that experience with them—the same one I had wanted to experience when I was close to their age.

Baseball has been, and always will be, a big part of my life. I don’t know if I owe that much to my father or not. But if I do, I’m grateful to him for it. This year I started to notice that my thoughts didn’t wander near as much while checking the score of the game or watching it on television. I’ve got my own kids to nurture and teach now, and I don’t have time to worry about the non-existent relationship with my biological father. But, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge one thing. After Russell to Baez to Rizzo sealed the deal for our trip to the World Series, a small, tearful smile came over my face along with this message to my father…

“I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am.”