official scorer, along with his old friend Bob Maisel.

official scorer, along with his old friend Bob Maisel.

I’m a lot bigger now than I was when Dad used to take me to the ballpark, sometimes stopping in the locker room or walking out onto the field during batting practice to talk to some of the players, coaches or manager. I’m a lot bigger than I was when he used to let me carry his beatup, portable Olivetti typewriter with the broken zipper from the pressbox to the Baltimore Clippers dressing room after the ice hockey games.

But I realized last August that those ballplayers are still larger than life. Frank Robinson still looks, to me, like he’s ten feet tall. And standing out on the field at Memorial Stadium with Dad, I still felt like the little boy who used to go to the park with him. I was as proud as I ever was to be his son.

And I realized last Thursday that “The Dean” is still larger than life, too. Dad will always, to me, be ten feet tall. I’m proud to be following in his footsteps, giant as those shoes might be.

And I know he’s proud of me. He kids me that, after nearly fifty years in the newspaper business, there’s finally an editor in the family. I just hope that I’m half as good an editor as he was a reporter.

I’ve never been happier when, last Friday afternoon, “The Dean” responded to that nickname with a flicker of his closed eyelids and a squeeze of my hand. By Sunday, he was responding to us, using sign language to communicate his ardent desire to remove the breathing tube frpm his throat.

I’m fortunate. Dad’s going to make it — and I’m going to remember that Thursday. He knows how much my mother, my brother Gary and I care about him. Never will I forget how much those three words mean, how easy they are to say, and how often we forget to tell those we care about. But I’m lucky; I get a second chance.

His doctors are calling him “The Miracle Man.” One said he must be “made of nails.” Shoot, I could have told him that. He’s “The Dean,” my friend, my mentor, my Dad.

I love you, Dad.