The violent aluminum ping gives a hint of what comes next—a soaring line drive, curling into the right-center field gap, over the heads of two pursuing outfielders. The baseball landed three hops from the fence, traveling farther than the batter’s father would have thought possible.
That was my son, David Cordero Jr., a 14-year-old freshman who plays baseball for Desert Hills. It was a clear April day, and the collision of ball and bat brought back memories to a time when I launched a pitch farther than my dad would have thought possible.
That had been a cloudy Saturday morning 26 years ago, the ball exploding off my bat and somehow striking the base of the left-center field fence. A senior in high school and just 160 pounds, it is doubtful I ever hit a ball within 50 feet of that distance before or since. It was a special feeling.
That year, my dad worked two hours away from town. Consequently, he missed a lot of my games. Prior to that season, I could count on one hand the number of games he missed. At various times, he helped coach my teams or keep the scorebook. He loved watching me play.
My dad made it home on the weekends and witnessed—on that particular day—what was easily my longest hit. I can distinctly remember my dad yelling, “All right, David!”
Now I’m a dad, and look what has happened. I’ve coached my son’s teams many times and have been the scorekeeper quite often. I love watching my son play. I also love when my dad gets to watch his grandson play.
Before this year my dad lived 450 miles away. Now he’s two miles away, and he can watch David Jr. all the time.
And while my indelible moment resides only in the memory of a few, my son’s hit was recorded. I have watched it quite often. The timing perfect. Hands in. Head down. Driving through the pitch. He took off immediately and didn’t stop until he slid into third with a booming triple and a cascading wave of confidence.
What makes it even better: If I turn the sound up, I can hear the excitement in my dad’s voice as he cheers him on.
