I originally wrote this back in January of 2015. It is posted below with a few revisions. My dad would have been 95 on July 15 of this year.

Stu Miller, former relief pitcher for the San Francisco Giants died yesterday at the age of 87.  Giant fans of a certain vintage, as well anyone familiar with the lore of Candlestick Park and its infamous winds will remember Miller.

I often gauged my age in relation to my heroes on the field.  It seemed for so long that these baseball heroes were older guys like my dad. Stu Miller and my dad were both born in 1927; the year that Babe Ruth hit his 60 home runs.  Occasionally a young player would come on the scene and I’d be reminded of someone I knew who was in college, but even that seemed pretty old for an elementary school kid.  When I reached college, I still marked time by comparing my age to the current players.  The grizzled veterans, who were approaching age 40, were either amazing that they could still play, or were obviously just hanging on too long.  The youngest players were now my age and their abilities stood in stark contrast to mine.  I was happy to have been able to play at Biola College.  We did not enjoy a lot of success but I did have the opportunity to play against several ballplayers that made it to the big leagues.  I would later point with pride to Paul Moskau (Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Chicago Cubs) and mention that I had gotten a double off of him when he pitched for Azusa Pacific.  I usually added that it had been a double down the right field line off a fastball. I was your classic contact hitter who managed to get the bat on the ball most of the time. On this occasion the pitcher generated most of the power and I ended up with one of my rare doubles.  

Hall of Famer Ozzie Smith played at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and our paths crossed for one game at Biola.  As long as Ozzie Smith was acrobatically holding down his position as the shortstop of the St Louis Cardinals, then age must not matter all that much.  After all, I had played against him in college and if he was still playing, then by extension I was still young enough to play too, though more likely in a lively game of wiffle ball.

However, even Ozzie Smith retired, as did all the Giants of my boyhood.  Watching Willie Mays in his declining years is one my sadder recollections and yet I am so glad that he is still with us; along with Juan Marichal, Orlando Cepeda and Gaylord Perry.  (We sadly said goodbye to Willie McCovey in October of 2018).

And then I read just yesterday that Stu Miller had died.  You see, I can’t think of Stu Miller without thinking of my dad.  Miller who was an outstanding relief pitcher with the Giants in the early 60’s and was on the All Star team in 1961.  For all his exploits, he is mentioned most for supposedly being blown off the mound at Candlestick Park during the All Star game.  He was not actually blown off the mound, but the strong wind did cause him to lose his balance and he was called for a balk. And how does my dad figure in to all this besides being the same age as Miller?  Well, he went to that All Star game and he brought me home a program which I still have to this day.  

Dads never really know for sure what it is that will have a lasting impact on their kids. My dad was no different.  Yet he knew me well enough to know that holding on to that program and giving it to me would be a good thing.   For me it was the next best thing to being there at the game.  My dad did one better the following year when he took me to Game 1 of the 1962 World Series between the Giants and Yankees.  For a guy who didn’t passionately follow baseball, he cared enough about his young son to appreciate his love for baseball.  It was a great way to say I love you.  Thanks Dad and I’m glad the wind didn’t blow that program out of your hands!