He would have enjoyed sitting in the glorious south Florida warmth. He would have worn that big straw hat of his, and he would have filled the park with his booming voice, a voice perfect for singing gospel music and berating umpires. 

One of the best things a man can do for his son is pass along a love for baseball. My father did that for me. 

Those summers I spent with him as a child, we roamed about, looking for whatever it was he was looking for, and if there was a ball game to see during one of our stops, we saw it. 

We sat swatting mosquitoes on hot South Georgia nights watching Class D. It was Waycross against Tifton, but an 8-year-old at a ball game with his dad doesn't care that Class D is a million miles from Yankee Stadium. They still hit the ball and run and the hot dogs taste just as good. 

We were in a hotel one night in Nashville, Tenn., and the Little Rock Travelers were there, too, for a Southern Association series with the Nashville Vols. 

My father walked up to the Little Rock manager in the lobby and asked for a signed baseball for his son. The manager located the equipment man and I had my ball. I still have it. 
 

The annual pilgrimage
 

I have promised myself I will make this annual pilgrimage to spring training as long as I am able, financially and otherwise. 

The other afternoon, I saw the inaugural game at the Houston Astros' new training complex in Kissimmee. Houston beat the Yankees and an usher made Yankees owner George Steinbrenner show him his ticket. 

Later, I went to Tinker Field in Orlando and caught a Twins game. At Tinker Field you can walk down to the visitors bullpen and stand a few feet behind the catcher and see firsthand what a batter sees when he faces major league pitching. 

In Fort Lauderdale I watched my team, the Braves, shut out the Yankees. I hate the Yankees, but their spring park is nice. There are murals of Babe Ruth on the walls and they must import the vendors from New York for these games. 

Cry the vendors with their trays filled with Pepsis, "Soduh, heuh." 
 

Dissecting the game
 

After the games I pass the time with friends, others who refuse to grow up as long as they hold to their passion for baseball. 

We talk the game. We dissect the game. We talk of our memories of the game. Women make marvelous companions, but I've yet to meet one who remembers Larry Sherry of the Dodgers was the 1959 World Series Most Valuable Player. 

I am certain I never thanked my father for introducing baseball into my life. We had far too little time together for such. 

But when I'm here, in the ballpark, I draw closer to his memory than at any other time. 

Nothing could be more valuable than that.