A Tribute to My Hero.

A popular saying in the American lexicon is “There are two things in life you can’t avoid: death and taxes”. April 15th is designated as Tax Day, the day in which your tax information from the previous year is due. April 16th, for most people, is a day of relief. However, for me and my family, April 16th is the day where death, and its effects, hit us right between the eyes. On April 16, 1996 our father/husband went to be with the Lord.

It is unfathomable to me that is has been NINETEEN years since my Dad passed away. There are days where it seems like it has been forever, and I need to look at pictures to refresh his face in my memories. And there are days where it feels like it was yesterday. I wish I could describe these emotions to you more simply, but I can’t. Unless you've been through the death of a parent (or child) the depth and breadth of emotions that are involved are difficult to express.

“But Shawn, this is a blog about sports.” Yes, it is. Sports are woven into the very fabric of who I am. My brother and I are the very definition of fanatics – just look at our wardrobes. But the love of sports had to start somewhere and the genesis of that love started with my Dad, so bear with me. 

My father was a very good athlete. During his high school career he ran hurdles for the track team. Funny sidebar – he wanted me to run hurdles in high school. He taught me great form; the only problem was that I was barely taller than the hurdles themselves. Needless to say that didn't work out very well for me. I digress. He loved baseball and I am so thankful for the day that he first signed me up to play youth baseball. At the same time, I consider myself lucky that my Dad was a Cubs fan. Both of these loves bit me hard and I took the bait hook, line and sinker. To this day I have a passion for baseball and the Cubs and I have my Dad to thank for both of those. 

One trait in particular that I loved about my father was that he knew my boundaries perfectly. This is why I loved having him as a coach on my baseball teams as a kid. He understood my personality and my “game” and pushed me when I needed to be pushed, coached me when I needed to be coached, and loved me when I needed to be picked up. He could differentiate between the roles of coach and father and played them to perfection. I guess that’s why I shed a tear every year on Opening Day. The emotions are split between loving the game of baseball and missing my father. 

One of the unforgettable moments of my life came on an April 16th, back in 2004. My brother and I descended upon Wrigley Field to watch the Cubs take on the Cincinnati Reds (ironic, huh?). We were sitting in a 500 section of Wrigley on the first base side of home plate. It was a strange game to say the least. It went back and forth all day and as we reached the bottom of the 8th, with the Cubs down three runs, my brother decided it was time to break out the rally caps. We persuaded nearly the entire section to produce rally caps and thought it was working as the Cubs plated two runs. But then the rally died and we went to the 9th with the Cubs down one run. As the bottom of the ninth began my brother pleaded the section to keep the rally caps going. He then turned to me, no lie, and claimed that Sosa and Alou would go back-to-back. I tend to be a bit of a pessimist myself, so I scoffed at him and hoped that they could scratch across two runs off of Reds closer Danny Graves and send us home happy. If you clicked on the link you already know what happened – Sosa lead off the inning with a shot to right-center field. We were going crazy. Wrigley was pandemonium. My brother and I were just going nuts, to put it plainly. Lost in all the hoopla was the home run by Sosa; it tied him with Ernie Banks on the all-time HR list with 512. As Alou stepped to the plate, my brother still believed. And sure as I’m sitting here, Alou sent one into the LF bleachers and Wrigley, along with us, came unglued. It was the coolest sports moment I had ever experienced, for lack of better terminology. Todd and I took a second after going wild and just looked at each other. We knew what the other one was thinking, “Dad was a part of this”. Not that he caused Sosa and Alou to homer. No, he was with us in spirit and cheering on beside us. It was a very special moment. We began to depart Wrigley and the place was buzzing. We made our way down the ramps from the upper deck and you would have thought the Cubs had just won the division from all the commotion. Fans were standing at the bottom of the ramps high-fiving anyone who walked by them. As soon as we departed the stadium our phones began to ring – it was our Mom. The moment was not lost on her either as she had watched the game from her home. We all knew that what we had just experienced was special. 

As an adult there are moments in your life where you gain a greater appreciation for the job your parents undertook while you were a child. Perspective can be a very humbling emotion, but at the same time it can allow gratefulness for the way you were raised. This was one of those times. To others, it may seem petty that a baseball game caused me to grasp my parents love for me on a larger scale, but does it even really matter how it happens as long as it happens? As a father myself now, I only get to tell my sons stories about their Grandpa Crull. I wish with all my heart that my Dad could have played with them and loved on them. It would have been awesome to watch him connect with them. I find myself reflecting on the things I say and do as a parent; and wondering if I am doing as good a job as I believed my Dad did with me. I do regret words and actions as a parent, I think we all do. Looking back from a son’s perspective, I can only recall one thing my Dad ever said or did that bothered me. Late in his life he told us that he wished he hadn't allowed us to focus so deeply on sports and that we would have been more “well-rounded”. Dad, I love the fact that I love sports. It reminds me of you. And that makes me happy. 

I hear many people say “if I can be half the person my Mom/Dad was I’ll be happy”. Did I say that in the years following his death? Absolutely. But as I thought about it more – that is the antithesis of the approach my Dad would have about it. First, he would tell me NOT to be like him. Why? Because he understood that it wasn't about him. He would tell me to model myself after Jesus Christ, because he was the ultimate example for us. My father had a desire to be like Christ and that should be my goal as well. Do I fall short? Every day. But the cross paid the price for me and His grace covers me. I am extremely thankful to have grown up in a Christian home. My Dad was the model of that for us as kids. But again, he is a man that would deflect the credit. I love the humble spirit my father had and I again hope I follow in his footsteps in that manner. But something else he taught me to love was music. In my times of despair and grief music speaks to me more often than does sports. I’m sure that makes him smile. One song that sticks out to me is Foo Fighters “My Hero”. It came out less than a year after Dad passed away and it immediately struck a chord with me, obviously. Dave Grohl wrote it about the ordinary people in life who are heroes to us all. My father was one of those people. He may have been ordinary to the rest of the world, but he was, is and will always by my hero.

I love you Dad.