A good name is to be chosen over riches. —Proverbs 22.1
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Today let us pause to remember the lessons of our fathers.
My father grew up in a coal-mining community in western Pennsylvania. He played a lot of baseball. He taught me how to play soon after I could walk.
We played catch nearly every evening in the summertime. He taught me how to slide, how to swing a bat, and how to bunt. (Nobody likes to bunt!) As it turns out, my dad was “old school.” He believed “small ball” won games.
I turned eight. At last I could tryout for Little League. Time and place were announced.
I grabbed my freshly oiled mitt and put on my Cleveland Indians cap. My brother rode me to the park on the handlebars of his Schwinn. (We had no family car.)
The park was nearly deserted.
Sorry, said the coach. You’re too late. Tryouts are over.
No, I’m sorry you think that, said my brother. (He was 16.) I rode my little brother five miles on my bike for a tryout, AND YOU’RE GOING TO GIVE HIM ONE.
(My brother had a fiery temper. He didn’t lose it at that moment, but the coach could tell he was VERY SERIOUS.)
What position would you like to play? the coach asked.
Outfield.
Trot out there, and I’ll hit you a couple fly balls.
I slipped on my mitt and raced to the outfield. I crouched the way my dad had taught me, both hands on my (feverishly knocking) knees. I muffed the first ball but caught the second. Not gracefully, but somehow.
Not bad, son. How old are you?
Eight.
I’m sorry. I can’t sign you up this year. I’ve already filled the roster. But tell me your name in case someone drops out.
Randy Tremba
His face lit up.
Tremba?
Yes.
Is Mickey Tremba your father?
Yes.
I know him. I’ve played against him a lot. I’ll definitely make room for you on the team.
Until that moment, I wasn’t aware that my father was widely known and highly respected as a former outstanding center fielder and a renowned hitter on one of Youngstown’s best semipro teams.
Man, oh man, your father could catch balls other outfielders couldn’t. He was a slugger. He hustled. And he could beat out bunts like nobody’s business.
(Gee. My dad? Really?)
It’s not big things that win games, my father once told me. It’s little things done well.
Happy Father’s Day, old friend. Go O’s!
Yes, what is in a name mattered. I am smiling as I recall my parent’s (yes, both at the same time) funeral. The number of people who knew their name and wanted to support my brother and me. What had been a smallish college town in centeal PA, many came all out for memory of my parents. Smiling … thanks for your writing shared today, Father’s Day 2026