Mullis: My dad, his brothers, and softball

My dad started a softball team with his fraternity brothers the year I was born.

My dad loved these brothers like, well, brothers, which meant we inherited a lot of uncles, some with loud voices and strange nicknames.

My dad’s two closest brothers were both named Pete. One Pete traveled for work. He was my godfather. The other Pete worked in Michigan. He was my sister’s godfather. And, in a nod to both, my dad named his first son Pete.

Michigan Pete married a friend of my mom’s, making it a dual-sourced friendship. He didn’t have a loud voice or a strange nickname. He was kind, easy-going and quick to laugh – like my dad.

And, like my dad, he rarely missed a softball game.

My siblings and I would run the park with the other frat-pack kids, while our fathers ran the bases. When there weren't enough players, any able-bodied male remotely related to a brother was eligible to play. This was how my mother’s brothers, my grandfather, and eventually my own brothers found themselves on the roster.

This was also how I became a scorekeeper.

The first thing my dad had me do when keeping score was scratch out the “E” for errors and write “SL” for slides. Even if a brother tripped over his own shoelaces, fell on the base, and got tagged out, it was recorded a “slide.” Although the team made plenty of errors, my dad either didn’t believe in them or didn’t believe they should be recorded.

My dad used these scorecards to create wry game summaries, which he passed out to the brothers at the next game. There were trivia questions, lifetime stats, and three “stars” of the game – even if the real star of the game was the mercy rule that ended it.

Periodically, my dad had to find a new place for the team to play. They moved four times and each time Michigan Pete was there.

When I was in college, I had a summer job near my dad’s office in Dearborn. We commuted into the city together, which meant I was destined for the ballpark on softball night. I didn’t mind. It was fun to keep score and dole out sass like a good niece.

When I got married, several brothers were there, including both Petes. This was a momentous occasion as my able-bodied husband was now remotely related enough to play. And my husband had an able-bodied best friend he considered a brother. This made his best friend related enough to play.

Bad backs, replaced hips, and trick knees eventually turned softball night into golf night. My dad didn’t like golf as well, but he loved his brothers and Michigan Pete was there.

Cancer doesn’t have a mercy rule. My godfather Pete died of it in 2014. Some of the brothers, including my dad and Michigan Pete, journeyed to his Chicago home before he passed. There’s a photo of them – laughing.

Shortly after his death, Michigan Pete was diagnosed.

They played golf until Pete couldn’t, turning golf night into a weekly visit at Pete’s home. Sometimes my dad went with his brothers, sometimes he went alone.

My dad rarely missed a week, until Pete did.

I was at the Battle Creek Bombers game when I learned of Pete’s death. My son, who shares my dad’s love for baseball and his easygoing manner, was laughing with his friends two rows in front of me.

I called my dad from a table off the third baseline. We spoke softly while the game went on – slides, errors, young men and their friends.

And for a moment, Pete was there.

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of “A Teacher Named Faith”. You can reach her at nlvm.columns@gmail.com or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.