The Ticket Stubs

Journal

He kept every ticket stub from every game he took his son to.

Eighteen years of ballgames. My dad never missed one. He kept every stub in a shoebox under the stairs.

After he passed, I found the box. 1989 to 2007. Every stub. Some of them are so faded you can barely read the date.

Father's Day was coming. I had an idea. I spent a week arranging the stubs — by year, by color — into a picture of the two of us at our first game.

Four hundred and twelve stubs. It took forever. When I stepped back, there we were — 1989, first row, cotton candy.

I gave it to Mom. She cried. Then she laughed. 'He'd have loved this,' she said. 'He loved those games more than anything.'

Now it hangs in my hallway. My son asks about the man in the picture. I tell him: that's Grandpa. He took me to every game.

The box is empty. The wall is full. Eighteen years of Saturdays, and it all fits in one frame.