Dad

Happy Memorial Day everyone. Today we honor our fallen soldiers, and all of the men and women who have served our country in the armed forces. Today, I also honor my father.

Russell O’Reilly Rowe was the oldest of 7 children born in a one bedroom house in a one-road town in central Illinois. He was just 17 years old when Pearl Harbor was bombed to launch the United States into World War II. He found himself early the next year fighting in fox holes in Germany. He survived that war, and enlisted for a second stretch 6 years later. In 1949, while based in Virginia, he met my mother Elinor Jean Derby, who was also serving her country in the Army. He became a father in 1950 when my sister Rita was born. But Russell was back overseas in the Korean War a couple of years later serving first as a cook, and later as an M.P.


He held a series of jobs after the army in upstate New York where I was born. He was a salesman, a factory worker, and a taxi driver to name a few. When I was 3 years old, our family moved to southern Illinois in the shadow of St. Louis. He worked for years on the Chevrolet assembly line to help make ends meet for our family. Later, he successfully launched his own furniture upholstery business.

Dad was not perfect though, and our family had many struggles. He was a hard worker, a hard drinker, a hard smoker, and a hard gambler. He and I weren’t particularly close as I was growing up. But we had one strong bond, one thing we could always talk about, one thing we could always share. Our love for baseball. I would drag him out into our front yard night after night to play catch. He would throw me pop fly after pop fly, ground ball after ground ball. When I threw it over his head, he would of course make me chase it. When I broke a window or two, he would quietly repair it. I’m sure I was punished for it, but luckily I don’t remember that part.

The Cardinals games weren’t on television much, so we would listen to Jack Buck and Harry Carry on the radio. Dad would tease me when the Redbirds were doing poorly. I remember he called the Cardinals 3rd basemen Ken Boyer a “flat-foot”. He did it just to antagonize me, since I loved Kenny Boyer. Even though we were fairly poor, he would take us across the river to many a game to sit in the $1 bleacher seats, first in old Sportsman’s Park (Busch Stadium I) on the corner of Grand and Dodier, and then later in the new Busch Memorial Stadium on the riverfront.


Dad didn’t make it to my wedding in Busch Stadium II, and he never got to see Busch III. He died of bone cancer in 2000. But on Memorial Day and Veterans Day, and often in between, I slip on his army dog tags, open a beer , and sit down to watch our favorite baseball team.
My favorite movie will always be “Field of Dreams”. When Ray Kinsella talks about his Dad and how they always fought, but they had a common ground with baseball, I smile. That was me and my Dad. When the “ghost” catcher takes off his mask to reveal he his Ray Kinsella’s father, I inhale and fight back the tears. When Ray says, “Hey Dad. Wanna have a catch?”, I stop trying. That’s me and my father.

I love you Dad, and I miss you. Here’s to you. For your service to our country. For your years of back breaking labor to provide for us. For your wisdom. For your smile. And for baseball. Wanna have a catch?