God gives us a unique opportunity as fathers to join Him in one of the most noble, transcendent assignments we’ll ever have as men.
By Dennis Rainey
Years ago my son Ben and I had the opportunity to attend a World Series game in St. Louis. It was awesome to see my beloved Cardinals square off against the Detroit Tigers.
The Cards won 5-0 (and went on to win the Series in five games), but the highlight from that experience was when my friend Chip turned and asked my son, “How would you describe your dad in one word?”
Watching Ben think for a moment, I quietly speculated about what he might say. I was hoping it would be some noble character quality like “loving” or “kind” or “forgiving.”
Instead, my grown son’s one-word conclusion of me was “intentional.”
I sat there stunned.
Intentional? If you’d given me a dictionary and a couple of days, I’d never have chosen that word! I looked at my son and thought, You were number two in your class in high school, student body president, intelligent … Is that the best you can do?
Ben explained to Chip, “Dad was always purposeful about being a father—always teaching and training us. He tried not to leave anything to just happen.”
Now that I’ve had some time to chew on it—and now that others in the family have weighed in and confirmed it—I’ve concluded that “intentional” is not a bad description. I think I realized early on that raising my children was going to be my greatest contribution to a time that I would not see. As a result, I needed to step up as a father and become very intentional in what
Barbara and I taught them and in what I modeled to them.
Fortunately, I had a great “intentional” model of my own—Hook Rainey.
A big dad in a small town
Boyhood was pretty simple for me growing up in Ozark, Missouri. I think one reason it was so secure was that even though I lived in a small town, I had a big dad. Not in personality or size, but in character. Some boys never have that. I’m glad I did.
My dad was a quiet man with granite-like integrity. He lived his entire life a few miles from the log cabin where he was born. He was barely a teenager, and one of nine children, when his father deserted the family, leaving them dirt poor. All this took place in an era when abandonment was considered unmanly and divorce was unacceptable.
Looking back on it all, I wonder how Dad figured out how to be a man. He could easily have been a victim and become bitter and angry. Forced to grow up early, Dad took care of his mom and his brothers and sisters for a number of years. Somehow he managed to graduate from high school and scrape together enough money to start a service station.
Dad loved baseball. I learned later that he was a legendary country pitcher in those parts. A lefty, he was tagged with the nickname “Hook” because he evidently had a wicked curveball—the only thing about his life that was crooked. He was so good that he played in the St. Louis Cardinals farm-club system and even pitched a game against Hall of Fame pitcher Dizzy Dean.
My dad not only had a sneaky curveball; he also knew how to keep a secret. One day during the Depression, when his family wasn’t looking, he and my mother eloped one weekend and went to the Kentucky Derby for a two-day honeymoon. And although I recall one argument they had when I was a boy, I really never questioned my dad’s love and loyalty for my mom. They were married 44 years until his death.
Dad taught me how to throw a curve, a slider, and a knuckleball. His knuckler was mystical. As the ball would glide to me, he’d laugh and say, “Count the stitches, Son … count the stitches!” I’d chuckle with him as the ball floated and darted toward me. It was all I could do to catch that fluttering ball.
A bundle of memories about time with Dad now bring a smile to my face. Hunting deer and quail and fishing for white bass. His sixth-grade boys Sunday school class. Old Spice aftershave and Lava hand soap. And falling asleep together with his arm around me on a Saturday afternoon as we watched the “Game of the Week” on television. I can still feel the hair from his arm against my boyish cheek, and I can almost smell the propane on his hands from that morning’s delivery.
I don’t recall a single sermon that he ever preached to me when I was a boy, yet Dad taught me life. He was a living message. Authentic. Humble.
He didn’t like “braggarts” or “blowhards,” as he called them. He was faithful, honest, loyal, and kind. A man who took his responsibilities seriously. And I can count on one hand the curse words that ever came from his lips.
Dad coached our little league baseball team, the Ozark Tigers, for three seasons. I was only 10 when we played our fir