• Originally published July 13, 2008 at 11:33 p.m., updated July 13, 2008 at 11:33 p.m.

He sat there inning by inning watching the games through the windshield. The truck, a Chevrolet extended cab, was turned off and the heat had to be unbearable.

But game after game he was parked along the outfield fence watching me play baseball. My grandfather was one of my biggest fans growing up. He would arrive at the games of my youth with my grandmother long before we were to start playing and wouldn’t leave until after I received my snow cone and came by to tell him goodbye. My grandmother would leave him to go sit in the stands, but he would remain in the vehicle every game. I remember him waving to me through his driver’s side window and seeing people coming over to talk to him throughout the game.

My grandfather died over four years ago, but every time I go to a Little League game I can’t help but think about him.

I see him in the line of people in lawn chairs, sitting on truck tailgates and in the stands. I see myself in the kids playing the games and in their looks directed at the people outside of the gates. They’re searching for approval, support and love while playing baseball.

My grandfather was a pretty simple man, but I put him on a pedestal. He kept a makeshift scorecard on notebook paper of each game and would tell me what he observed when the game was over. He was by no means a baseball expert and the beautiful thing was that he didn’t act like he was.

He would tell me how proud he was of me when I made a diving catch, and would tell me to keep my head up when I struck out three times in a game. Most of the time he had to tell me to keep my head up.

Having him on my side always made me feel invincible.

A year after he died we broke down and sold that black and tan pickup truck. My father and I threw away trash we found under the seats and from his toolbox to get it ready for the next unlucky soul who would have to drive it around.

Nothing out of the ordinary was found until we got to the glove box and stumbled upon a couple sheets of forgotten memories.

The paper was worn but we could still make out the names and knew exactly what it was. My grandfather had left me another gift. This time it was a group of folded scorecards from about 10 years before. To me it was an example of how much he cared and how much he loved me.

They just proved to me that I won every one of those games even though those scorecards read otherwise.

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