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they have worked to restore the old homeplace, which was built by my grandfather in 1902.
Dad seemed most content sitting on the old porch swing, rocking, reading the newspaper, listening and watching the birds as they frolicked in the huge oak trees. He loved the country so much that the Bluestone Cemetery, just a stone’s throw from the field in front of the house, is his final resting place.
He’s passed on that love of the country to my brother and me, who both enjoy spending weekends at the farm — even if it includes cutting several acres of grass with a power pushmower. Dad frowned on riding mowers. He said he enjoyed the time he spent cutting the grass. It was his thinking time.
Dad was always thinking. He cared deeply about many things —from religious faith to the way big salaries have spoiled major league sports. He was not afraid to express his opinion; and his opinion was not always popular, but it was always based on careful consideration of the issue.
It was that way with his writing. He spent a lot of time writing, 43 years of his life. But even after covering more than 5,000 baseball games, he still tried to write the game story in a fresh way, so that his readers would enjoy it.
He was careful to check his facts, even the small points, like making sure that names were spelled correctly. A small point, he would say, but not to the person whose name was misspelled. He strived for balance in his writing, to give the person who was the object of a critical story an opportunity to respond. They didn’t always oblige, but he always gave them a chance.
Dad had a love for the underdog, whether they were the longshot in a local amateur golf tournament or the runt in a litter of puppies. Though much of his time was spent with the superstars of professional sports, he always had time for the unknowns and the people behind
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