When I was a child, the moment my neighborhood friends and I gathered, we would divide into teams with a game of rock-paper-scissors and play “fist baseball.” It was a simple game where we hit a rubber ball or tennis ball with our fists and caught it with our bare hands. As long as we had a ball about the size of a fist, we would play joyfully in the alley until the sun went down, never tiring.
As we pounded the ball with our bare fists until they stung, the one dream we all shared was to have a baseball bat and a glove of our own. We wanted to swing a bat and catch balls with a glove, just like the baseball players we saw on TV. However, a bat and glove were quite expensive, and our family couldn’t afford such luxuries.
“Do you want me to carve a bat for you?”
That’s what my father said after I kept begging him for a bat. Maybe he was joking to console his youngest son, but I took his words to heart and, from then on, pestered him every day after work. Since my father worked at a lumber processing company, I naively thought he could whip up a bat overnight. Contrary to my hopes, weeks and months passed without any news. Just as my excitement began to fade, my father finally came home, proudly carrying a baseball bat he had carved himself.
It wasn’t as smooth as a store-bought bat, but it was a long, round cylinder with a nicely narrowed handle; my “Dad-made” bat far exceeded my expectations. The only problem was that it was made from solid wood and far too heavy for an elementary schooler to swing. Thin and frail as I was, whenever I barely managed to lift it and swing, my whole body would sway along with it.
Even though I couldn’t actually use it to play with my friends, I always brought the bat with me. I would swing it in the air a few times, puffing up with pride. Whether I could use it or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that my stern and fearsome father had listened to my request and spent time and care to create something just for me. Although I eventually grew old enough to swing the bat freely, by then we no longer played baseball games in the alley, so it ended up as more of a decorative item. But for me, it was always a source of great pride because it was a special gift, filled with love. Even now, whenever I think back to that bat, I can vividly recall the rough texture of the handle and the lingering scent of raw wood, filling me with a warm feeling.
All day long, he worked amidst swirling clouds of sawdust, yet during short breaks, he would quietly pull out bits of wood to smooth and shape. Now, in the quiet home his sons have long since left to build lives of their own, he still carves—delicate cranes, solid cutting boards, simple wooden trivets. And the gifts he offers now and then to his sons and his wives, always with a warm smile, are still brimming with love and devotion.
I feel regret for the times I prepared gifts perfunctorily for holidays or birthdays, or simply gave him money without much thought. Whenever I ask if he needs anything, he always firmly replies: “We have everything we need at home. Don’t waste your money.” A father who only knows how to give, never expecting to receive. I find myself wondering: What could I possibly give to a father like him?