Editor's note: This was scheduled to post Wednesday, May 20, but didn't go live until Thursday because we here at The Southpaw forgot to change it's status.
I must have selective memory. My father swears I once threw a bat at him. This incident, that I strongly deny ever occurred, allegedly happened when he was pitching batting practice.
But the apple must not fall far from the tree because my father has selective memory too.
He doesn't recall the many brushbacks he threw under my chin. Or the time I didn't listen when he said I should correct the hitch in my swing - see I admit to some things - and he drilled me in the back on back-to-back pitches.
The purpose of these to tales is not to say my father and I had a combative relationship, but that we care so much about each other we're more than willing to forgive and forget.
And that's why I want to wish him Happy 70th Birthday.
That's right, Mike Abdalla is 70.
My college friends, no doubt, will say they don't believe it.
But it's true. Michael George Abdalla was born in 1939, the year the Yankees won their fourth straight World Series. The year Ted Williams - Pop's favorite player - was a rookie who drove in 145 runs.
Sometimes it seems the old man picked up a ring that belonged to a cave creature because, like Bilbo Baggins, he doesn't seem to have aged a day since 1990.
Just last week he asked me to help him move some logs from the front yard to the back. But, as the task grew to a close, it seemed he was helping me.
That's a father's job after all.
And that's a job he worked very hard at. As I'm sure my sister's and brother would echo, it's a job he's rarely backed away from.
He shows up to help with electrical work, lets you borrow the car when yours is in the shop, talks you through tough decisions, and lets you be who you are.
And of course, he was there to explain the game, even though I didn't pick it up until I was 13.
When I was 0h-for- what seemed like a century, he wouldn't let me quit. Then I got my first hit on his birthday, a high bounding chopper over John Bartell's head. And Bartell was a very good pitcher. Old Forge's version of Roy Halladay. With a better curve. I swear. Then I got a second hit later that day as our team rallied from eight runs down. And dad took me for ice cream at Jitty Joes.
Best. Day. Ever.
And he taught me the nuances of the game, very gently, explaining that John Kruk was not going to make the Hall of Fame, that the Splendid Splinter was the best hitter ever, that Jim Eisenreich was a steady player and that was something every team needed.
So, today, I wish Dad a wonderful, happy and healthy birthday.
And I promise, I won't throw any bats.
Nice job Pat. He is truly one of a kind..Happy Birthday, Pop.
Thanks, love you