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My son Brett brought me a baseball from his room this morning - not a football, soccer ball, tennis ball, or a basketball. He chose the baseball.

A custom wallpaper border made from baseball cards circles his room. He was even named after a former MLB all-star. He is only 2 and can already recognize the Yankees logo (the “NY” and the top hat). He knows he doesn’t like the Red Sox. He’ll sit and watch a game with me and add play-by-play commentary like “the man hit the ball” and “he missed it!”

In my bedroom on top of the TV is a baseball Brooks Robinson autographed for me this past March. In the closet, I have dozens of baseballs autographed from various trips to MLB games or spring training. In the kitchen, you’ll find a magnetic Braves schedule on the refrigerator. On any night during baseball season, I can tune to as many as 15 different baseball games on TV.

About 250 miles away, my dad can tune into most of those baseball games. His truck is adorned with Yankees logos. His office, though it has to keep a “professional” feel to it, has become home to various pieces of baseball memorabilia. My old bedroom has become a shrine to all things baseball, specifically Yankees. They even call it “the Yankee room.” Dad will pay at least $5 for anything on eBay with that sacred NY logo on it, and he’ll go out of his way to talk baseball with a total stranger wearing a Yankees hat.

On any given night, my almost-80 year-old grandpa will stay up late and fall asleep watching the Braves on TV. He reads the newspaper’s sports section religiously and follows the transactions of the Braves and Yankees very closely. He sees the little things in a game that so many people don’t have the patience to look for. On the table next to his recliner is this picture of him, Dad, and me at a Braves game last summer.

On those Sunday afternoons when we’re all gathered at my grandparents’ house for a big meal, you can be certain that right in the middle of the uncles and cousins and dads and sons is a conversation about baseball. After the meal, when we all gather in the living room to talk and loosen our belts, there is a baseball game on TV; and no matter how interesting the conversation in the room, there’s always at least one set of eyes watching the game.

For some, baseball is just another means of entertainment. For us, it is the family member that everybody loves to be around. We live, eat, and breathe baseball. Some of the best memories of my life involve baseball. I vividly remember sitting in the living room when I was young as Dad taught me how to read a box score. I remember those Sundays we rushed home from church, breathed in a plate of lasagna, and rushed off to the ball field where Dad would throw me curve balls until his arm wouldn’t throw another. Then he’d hit me ground balls until it was time to go get ready for the Sunday evening service.

Today during the kids’ nap time, I’m sitting quietly in the living room and watching our beloved Yankees on the TV. And then tonight I’ll probably take the kids out into the yard for a little batting practice. After the kids are in bed, I’ll catch the last half of the evening Braves game and then the first several innings of some random west coast game before heading to bed.

It’s nothing short of magical how that one little white ball with red stitches can link generations of a family together. It only seems fitting that Fathers Day comes in the middle of baseball season. In this family, when we think about our dads, we are thinking about baseball; and when we’re thinking about baseball, we’re thinking about our dads.

Happy Fathers Day. (and go Yanks!)