Dear Dad...

Remembering Mr. Ryder

Hey man, hope you’re well. Ha. Come on. Who says that to their deceased father? Onward...

You’ll be happy to know things are moving right along here. Mom still has tough days. Though, that’s to be expected. She never expected you to get pulled so early in the game.

Looking back, we’ve joked you kinda got Mike Pelfrey’d — perfect through five, an unexpected landslide in the sixth.

The girls are doing well. Lily still has her picture of you two hugging at the side of your bed. I remember how tough it was for you to even sit up, but whenever she came running in, you’d be healthy again. Kayla says she feels you around still. Always a smart cookie, that one.

Phil’s got two of his own. Vincent would make you laugh and Isabella would make you cry. Thankfully, the whole gang is decked out in blue and orange. That’s thanks to you.

All the games in the company seats or up in the reds, getting there early for batting practice, you knocking out for the final few innings while Phil and I took in those last few pitches (occasionally from the front row, depending on how bad the team was and what the score was; only took a $5 bill!), it all ingrained this exceptional version of fandom in us.

No one I’ve met or will meet will ever have the love for this game that you did. Taking note of the little things, the strategy, the moves beyond the moves, all of that came from you.

You were six years old in 1962, 13 in 1969, 17 in 1973, and 30 in 1986. You were the Mets fan. Even during the awful years, we were reminded — constantly, in fact — it wasn’t as bad as the post-Tom Seaver seasons.

The first time I ever saw you cry was at his number retirement ceremony oh-so-many years ago. The whole night is tattooed behind my eyes. Crazy what we remember…

And, oh, the lessons we learned. Don’t overlook today’s game in favor of what’s down the line. You’re never out of it until that final out is called. Just keep plugging away, do your job, and good things will happen.

These weren’t just baseball lessons. They were life lessons. And we’re forever grateful. Let’s be honest, you knew exactly what you were doing.

The intersection of life and baseball is real. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. It’s chess, not checkers. Conduct your business with the future in mind, not the present.

You’ll also be very pleased to know that the New York Mets have begun to think with the future in mind, not just the present.

A nice Long Island boy, Steve Cohen — the same age as you, grew up in Great Neck, wouldn’t be shocked if you guys partied in the Shea lot simultaneously, to be honest — saved us from the Wilpons last year.

Yes, it actually happened. No more bullshit, man. It’s real. And it’s spectacular. So far, at least. Feels like the best is yet to come.

When you left us on March 12, 2015, you missed a hell of a run. Well, I doubt you missed it. Every magical moment that took place that season, we were reminded of you and could literally hear you squealing in giddiness when they happened.

Even when it was over, the ride was all worth it. We needed it. It brought back that sense of normality.

The fond memories — like watching Johan Santana’s no-hitter from the first to last pitch at the kitchen table on an otherwise ordinary Friday night, or those unreal 1999 and 2000 runs, or even watching David Cone pitch a perfect game in Yankees pinstripes, but still rooting for him like he had the other New York pinstripes on with piping down the sides — they all stuck around.

Sure, they sting for a second when conjured. But there’s so much more good than bad, there. And I treasure it all.

There’s also the memory of you informing us of your diagnosis in the Citi Field parking lot on Opening Day 2013. You sly dog, you. You knew we couldn’t absorb that crushing blow on a day like that. And I love you for it.

That was your style. Yea, there’s bad news. But in the big picture, it ain’t so bad, huh? That’s debatable, but we’re certainly trying to make the best of it.

I’m doing well. I took your departure tough but found my legs again and stood back up. Finally took your advice to let other people read my words. You weren’t wrong, man.

Worked my ass off for a few years and, believe it or not, I actually have a taste of media access this year. Wild, right? We got ‘em now…

Some of the local New York sportswriting legends you used to enjoy and leave open their newspaper articles on the kitchen table for me when I woke up actually read my work. I like to think you’d be proud.

In the end, I’m doing it all for you. Minding my p’s and q’s, speaking up when necessary, and never asking for permission, just making the right calls for myself and my family.

Love you and miss you terribly,

Tim

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