Open Court: Sports stories with Dad

When I was 15, Major League Baseball introduced the concept of interleague play.

I grew up a Seattle Mariners fan—or, more accurately, a Ken Griffey Jr. fan.

When the Mariners made their first trip to Coors Field in Denver, my father used a connection to get us a pair of club-level seats on the third-base side.

Back in these days, the Colorado Rockies featured the lovable “Blake Street Bombers” and sold out nearly every home game.

In the top of the fifth inning, I was still flying high because Seattle’s young shortstop took time before the game to sign the green bill on my Mariners’ hat. The hat has been ravaged by years of wear and an unfortunate trip through the washing machine, but if one were to look closely, one can still see the faded signature of Alex Rodriguez.

Just when I didn’t think the night could get any better, Griffey strode confidently toward the plate and took his customary stance in the left-handed batter’s box.

Griffey took his time in this at-bat, sizing up Rockies’ starter Pedro Astacio. After taking a couple pitches and fouling off a couple others, Griffey zeroed in on a hanging Astacio slider and drilled it at least 480 feet to right-center.

Baseball fans tend to argue about everything, but nobody can deny this point: Ken Griffey Jr. had the sweetest swing out of any hitter from his generation.

As Griffey rounded the bases, my eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

Dad leaned over and said, “How ‘bout that!” in his best Mel Allen voice.

In 1998, Dad somehow secured tickets to the Denver Broncos’ AFC Championship Game at Mile High Stadium.

Denver rolled through that season as an unstoppable juggernaut and threatened to go undefeated.

The New York Jets made the trip to Denver, but didn’t stand a chance.

The cold, snowy conditions led to a sloppy first half, a tight score and a handful of obnoxious New Yorkers starting their infamous, “J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, Jets!” chant.

Dad and I were nervous and agitated while we wated for John Elway, Terrell Davis and crew to take charge.

Boy, did they ever.

The Broncos routed the Jets in the second half on their way to a 23-10 win and their second-straight Super Bowl win.

After one of Davis’ cutback runs resulted in a Denver touchdown, Dad started a, “J-E-T-S, go back home!” chant, much to the chagrin of the loudmouths behind us.

He then made a Bill Parcells joke that is unsuitable for print, but might have redefined the limits of comedy as we know it.

I had never laughed so hard in my life.

There are dozens of other stories, but those are the two I recall with precise detail.

Few things can strengthen a bond between father and son quite like sports, and that is definitely the case between my father and me.

Sports has always served as the backdrop of our relationship.

When his marriage was in the process of ending, he’d take me out for a burger and fries while we discussed why the Broncos needed to get rid of Brian Griese—anything to take his mind off things.

Now, we’re in the process of buying a house in Sahuarita, with the planned landscaping serving as our newest father-and-son project.

And as we plant trees and dig a spot for a pool, I can guarantee we’ll spend most of that time talking about how much better our favorite teams would be if we ran them.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

nprevenas@gvnews.com | 547-9747