My name’s Mark. I’m 47 years old, a husband, a father of three, and, if I’m honest, a man who has spent the last decade buried in work.

Between meetings, deadlines, and shuttling my kids to practices, I convinced myself I didn’t have time for my father. He lived only forty minutes away, but weeks turned into months between our calls.

Dad was a Vietnam veteran, a tough old guy who raised me on baseball and grit. He’d been living alone ever since Mom died. And though I knew he must have been lonely, I avoided thinking about it too hard. Until one night, my wife looked me in the eye and said, “Mark, when’s the last time you did something with your dad? Not a phone call. A day. A memory?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

That’s when she pulled two baseball tickets from her purse. “Take him. This weekend. No excuses.”

So I did.

When I called Dad, he was stunned. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, fumbling. “Just thought maybe we could catch a game. Like old times.”
On the other end, silence. Then his voice cracked: “I’d like that.”

Friday night, I drove up to his little house. He was already outside, waiting on the porch. He wore the same faded Yankees cap from my Little League days, and a jersey so old the letters were peeling. He grinned like a kid. “Haven’t been to the stadium in years,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Told the guys at the diner. They’re jealous.”

We got to the ballpark, and for a moment, I swear I was twelve again. The smell of hot dogs, the crack of the bat, the crowd roaring—it was all the same. Dad hooked his arm through mine as we climbed the steps, moving slower than I remembered.

At our seats, he squinted at the scoreboard. “Can’t read the damn numbers anymore.”
I read them out loud for him, pitch by pitch. He chuckled. “When you were little, I used to tell you what was happening, remember?”
“Then it’s my turn now,” I said.

We didn’t talk about big things. We talked about bunt strategies, about how overpriced the beer was, about the time I dropped a foul ball right in my glove. He laughed so hard I thought the people around us might complain. But they didn’t. Because joy is contagious.

When the final inning ended, fireworks lit the sky. Dad clapped like a teenager. On the drive home, he said softly, “Next time, let me buy the tickets. It’s my treat.”
“Deal,” I told him.

But there wasn’t a next time.

Two weeks later, Dad collapsed from a heart attack. The doctor said it was sudden. Just like that, he was gone.

At the funeral, I kept hearing the same words: He loved you so much. He was proud of you. And yet all I could think was: Why did it take my wife to push me into one last game? Why didn’t I go sooner?

A few days later, I went to his house to pack up his things. That’s when I found the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the Yankees’ opening day, next season. My name was written on the front. And inside, a note in his shaky handwriting:

“Mark, if I’m not around, take your son. Or your daughter. Pass it on. Baseball isn’t just a game—it’s family. It’s how we remember we belong to one another. Love, Dad.”

I sat on the floor, holding those tickets, and I wept in a way I hadn’t since I was a boy. Not because I lost him—though I had—but because he was still teaching me, even after death.

That day I understood something I wish I’d learned sooner: memories don’t make themselves. We have to carve them out, fight for them, protect them like sacred ground. Because there will always be work, always be errands, always be reasons to say “later.” But there won’t always be a next time.

If you’re lucky enough to still have your parents, take them to the “game.” Maybe it’s dinner, maybe it’s a walk, maybe it’s just coffee. Do it now. Don’t wait. Because the day will come when you’d give anything for one more inning.

A month after the funeral, I still hadn’t touched the envelope with the tickets. I kept it on my nightstand, as though opening it again would summon Dad’s voice. My kids tiptoed around me, sensing the ache I carried, and my wife kept her quiet vigil, giving me space but never leaving me alone.

One Saturday morning, my twelve-year-old son, Jacob, came into the kitchen wearing my dad’s old Yankees cap. It was too big for him, sliding down past his ears, but his eyes sparkled. “Dad,” he asked, “when are we going to the game?”

My throat tightened. I had been avoiding this moment. But then I remembered Dad’s handwriting, shaky but clear: “If I’m not around, take your son. Or your daughter. Pass it on.”

I took a deep breath. “Opening Day,” I said. “Just like Grandpa wanted.”

The kids lit up. My daughter, Emma, clapped her hands. “Can I bring a sign? Like the ones on TV?”

“Of course,” I said, trying to smile. “Grandpa would love that.”

Opening Day arrived cold and bright. As we walked into the stadium, I carried the envelope in my jacket pocket, the tickets warm from being held so tightly. The smell of hot dogs, the chatter of the crowd, the vendors calling out—it all rushed back like a wave, but sharper now, tinged with absence.

We found our seats. Jacob leaned close, his voice almost lost in the noise. “Tell me what Grandpa was like here. What did he do?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “He used to lean forward every pitch, like he could will the batter to swing. He’d complain about the price of soda, but then buy three anyway. And he’d always, always laugh when I missed a foul ball.”

Emma giggled. “You missed?”

“Plenty of times,” I admitted.

The game began, and I read the scoreboard aloud, just as I had done for Dad. When the fireworks exploded after the last inning, Jacob and Emma clapped wildly. For a moment, it felt like Dad was there too—his laugh echoing, his cap tilted low, his pride swelling from the stands.

On the way out, Jacob slipped his hand into mine. “Thanks for bringing us, Dad. I think Grandpa’s happy we came.”

I blinked fast, looking up at the night sky, the smoke of fireworks still drifting. “Yeah,” I whispered. “He’s happy.”

That night, after the kids fell asleep, I tucked the old cap onto Jacob’s dresser. I placed the empty envelope inside a frame and hung it in the hallway, so we’d see it every day. Not as a reminder of what I lost, but of what I still had—what Dad asked me to protect.

Because he was right. Baseball isn’t just a game. It’s family. It’s memory. It’s love passed down, inning by inning.

And I’ll never wait for “later” again.