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We learned last fall that my dad has macular degeneration. The diagnosing physician, totally lacking in acceptable bedside manner, told my saintly and completely unsuspecting father that he would, over time, go blind. The second doctor consulted, being spared the part of bearer of bad news, used more gentle terms and hopeful tones.

Months have passed. What we have been denying, is quietly and not all that slowly happening. I've spent hours on the internet and, being in the medical field myself, hear about the latest research from co-workers. It doesn't matter how it's phrased. His fuzzy vision will fade to black...and my father's hazel eyes will sparkle, but not see.

My dad was a scholarship southpaw pitcher for Notre Dame from the fall of '52 to graduation in the class of '56. His favorite pitch was a fast ball and he struck out enough batters to play semi-pro and be scouted by the Philadelphia Phillies and several other clubs, and was about to accept the offer made him by the Washington Senators. One cold, very foggy morning in the bullpen while warming up and straining to see the catcher's glove, he tore his rotator cuff, causing him pain that's never completely left him, and costing him throwing speed that he was never able to regain.

Had he been born later, he would have undergone arthroscopic surgery to repair his pitching arm and signed his name, in his tight, slanting script, along the dotted line.

Had he been born later, he would undergo ophthalmic surgery to repair his retinas. Dad would go to Florida, just as he used to with his father - my grandfather - who passed on his love of the game to his two boys and to his six grandchildren. Dad would continue to go with his brother, who was a catcher for Texas A&M in his day. He'd go to watch the pitchers in all the springs ahead of him.

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