Canzano: A nod to the greatest right-handed hitter who ever lived
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Canzano: A nod to the greatest right-handed hitter who ever lived
Now, tell me about your dad...
My dad would walk into the room when I was a kid and ask: “Who was the greatest right-handed hitter who ever lived?”
Napoleon LaJoie won five batting titles. Joe DiMaggio hit safely in 56 straight games. Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Roberto Clemente and Rogers Hornsby weren’t bad, either. But my answer was always the same.
“You are, dad.”
My dad was a middle infielder. He ran well and had butter-soft hands in the field. He was good enough with the glove to become a minor-league All-Star. But his most productive batting season in the minors was a .258 batting average in Triple-A in 1969. Two seasons later, at age 24, he hit a career-high seven home runs.
At 25, he retired.
My father was — and is — my hero. Always there when I needed him. Always free to play catch, tell me a bed-time story, take me to a book store or wrestle on the living room floor.
I love the photograph of my dad at the top of today’s piece. He’s a young shortstop in Triple-A with the New York Mets organization at the time. The picture was snapped before I knew him. I don’t know what he’s talking about or with who is listening, but I know that expression on his face.
He’s happy.
I frequently saw him that way as a kid.
My father sacrificed for his four children. I talked with him this morning on the phone and thanked him for being a great dad. And for teaching me how to be a good father. I also told him he’s still the greatest right-handed hitter who ever lived.
I’m not going to write long today. But I want to wish all the fathers who read my column a happy Father’s Day.
A year ago, I checked in with a variety of Pac-12 Conference leaders including commissioner George Kliavkoff, several athletic directors and coaches. I asked them about their fathers and wrote about it. If you missed that piece, give it a read.
Now it’s your turn — tell me about your dad in the comment section.
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Canzano: A nod to the greatest right-handed hitter who ever lived
I was blessed to have a father who loved his family above all else, who cared little about material possessions or keeping up with the Joneses, and who devoted his life to taking care of his wife and three sons.
Dad grew up in Hoboken, New Jersey, where he was a childhood friend of Frank Sinatra. I always say that Sinatra grew up to be a great singer; my dad grew up to be a great man.
He had a long and successful career selling everything from motor oil to paint to pet supplies. After he retired, I helped him get a job in the Stanford Athletic Department, running the gym store, which began a love affair with Stanford sports that continued until the day he died.
Even now, anytime I run into a Stanford coach or athlete from that era—people like Dick Gould, Mark Marquess, Paul Wiggin or Jim Harbaugh (who got to know my dad when he was attending Palo Alto H.S. and his father was Stanford’s defensive coordinator)—the first thing he will say to me is, “I loved your dad” or “I miss your dad.”
That’s because my dad was such a unique, engaging, unforgettable man. He always had a joke, a story, a piece of music, a recipe, a mutual fund, or a sports team he wanted to tell you about.
He had such enthusiasm for life. He made people feel welcome and comfortable and special. He loved to make people laugh, to help people, to share some important piece of information, to show them the right way to do something.
I used to tell my dad that the older I got, the smarter he got. He showed me what was really important in life. How to be a good husband and father. How to love a woman and honor her and take care of her. How to support, advise, and guide my children—demand a lot of them, set high standards, but love them unconditionally and back them up at every turn.
I just hope I’m half the man he was.
My dad grew up on a potato farm on the Oregon/Idaho border, traded potatoes so he could pay for room and board at University of Idaho, ran track at U of I, and was just beginning law school at Willamette when World War II began. He joined up, came home in 1945, raised four kids, played NW baseball, loved the NY Yankees, loved fishing, worked hard and died 36 years ago. He taught us to be honest, work hard, bait hooks, throw a decent ball, and always to respect people. Miss him today and every day.