I'm the son my father never had. The son he never had because I'm actually a daughter. I'm one of two girls in my family; the youngest of the two. I started playing sports before I can even remember. There's a picture of me in diapers playing with a softball. My sister was an athlete too, but she was still the girlie-girl type. She wore fashionable clothes, lots of make-up and fixed her hair in the most up to date styles. Me on the other hand, I was more of a tomboy. Jeans and t-shirts were my uniform until college, and my hair was perennially in a pony tail. Sports were my life. I played them night and day, and watched them on TV when I wasn't. And my dad was my biggest cheerleader and my best coach.

I was the one in the family that my father could talk to about sports. Not only about fundamentals of the game, but also about his favorite players and teams. We had endless discussions about who the Rockets should trade to be more competitive or which teams would come out on top of their divisions and make it to the World Series. Baseball itself may truly be the foundation of my relationship with my father.

For as long as I can remember, my father and I would attend the Astros' home opener together. Opening day was the greatest day of the year. We'd wait through the long weeks of spring training until finally that April day would arrive. Since opening day is generally an afternoon game, I often got to miss school for the occasion. What could be better? An early dismissal from school for a day full of baseball with my dad was about as good as it could get. Granted, I spent a lot of time with my father otherwise. He was one of my softball coaches; he came to all of my other sporting events, as well as just being a super dad at home. But there was just something special about opening day. It was our day. We'd get to the park early for batting practice and usually hang around after the game for autographs. These are some of my most cherished memories.

I'll never forget a couple of years ago, the first year I was away from home; I asked my dad if he went to opening day. He told me he just couldn't get in to it that year. He wasn't sure why. He said he didn't have anyone to go with since I was so far away. I sat down and cried when I got off the phone with him. My tears weren't because I missed a baseball game, or even because I'd missed my first opening day since I can remember. I cried because I missed my father. I missed him buying me a lucky pretzel because I was sure the Astros would win if I ate it. I missed him telling me about the year that Nolan Ryan pitched his first no hitter in Houston. I missed our special time together. And I realized after I talked to him that we would never have that time again. I was grown and gone from home and no longer the son my father never had. Somewhere along the line I grew up. I became an independent, free thinking woman. And I like to think that my dad had a lot to do with that.

Now that I'm married and planning to start of family of my own, I only hope that we can have a little girl so that my husband can some day know what it means to have a "Daddy's girl."

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