Emory Griffith Jr. July 25, 1942 - June 30, 2008

I am Mickey Griffith, Emory’s oldest biological son. If you count the many non-biological sons of my father’s, I would fall somewhere in the middle. My brother Chris and I were just two of about three hundred sons that my father played some part in raising for at least a summer.

Following in his own father’s footsteps, my dad was a baseball coach and manager; stalking the dugouts of West Virginia and west central Florida like a hybrid of Billy Martin and Casey Stengel. His teams were not usually stocked with the elite, but they won and were fundamentally sound. He seemed proud of the fact that he attracted the strays and castoffs of the community; often the boys who did not make their first teams of choice or perhaps missed the deadline to sign up. It seemed that dad’s teams always had one more spot for one more boy.

He loved the underdog kid. Much like his beloved Dodgers, he had a huge spot in his heart for the kid who just worked his butt off despite being a little too short or too slow or had a habit of finding trouble. These were the kids he coveted and attracted. Once in uniform, these boys became his sons, and he set out in an effort to impact their lives. I would be honored today to represent these boys and men in my remarks. Today, I speak for Tom Long and Jack Langmaack. Tate Whatley and Sean Ray. Cornbread, Hard Castle, Sarge and Wrong Ball.

If you met my father, you were assigned a nickname. The great thing is that it often took him a few days to get a fair evaluation of what made you who you were. He never grabbed these names out of the sky. My nickname was “Full Pack”. When I pitched my dad was often stressed into smoking an entire pack of cigarettes during the course of the game. Naturally, when my younger brother came along, despite the fact that he was not a pitcher, he was to called, “Half Pack.” This family connection was very important and real to my dad. In a sense, it identified his purpose. He created a family every summer and freely and lovingly added to it when need be. He honored and was honored by the commitment to his way and his team by his players. As a player – not a son, I can say that I never played for a better and more caring coach in my life.

I also never played for a coach more skilled and astute at embarrassing his entire team during the course of a game or season. His rants and tirades were legendary and almost cartoon in nature. I often wondered if he saw a clip of Earl Weaver or Billy Martin on the news in the morning and set out to top them that evening.

The only book I ever saw my dad read multiple times was Roger Kahn’s ‘The Boys of Summer’, a wonderful and beautiful chronicle of his 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers. My first exposure to Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey was through my dad. He so loved the men and the sentimentality of that team. I think he dreamed that he was one of the boys of summer. He could so identify with their cycle of falling just short year after year, and he dreamed of the success of finally beating the odds and coming out on top just once.

He also loved the old west. If an old western were on television, he would find it. He certainly had already seen it, but he would still sit and ride those trails and frequent those saloons along with the likes of John Wayne and Gary Cooper. If I close my eyes I can see him sitting in his recliner with a black and white western on TV, a folding try table in front of him. He has just completed the crossword puzzle in the ‘TV Guide’ and is now tweaking the third version of his first college football top twenty-five. There is an ashtray to his right and sweating plastic cup full of RC cola to his left.

Besides my love of baseball, my dad also passed along a love and reverence of the American system of government. He loved the electoral process and took very seriously his responsibility to vote and monitor the political process. Make no mistake about it; my dad was a true blue Democrat. But his love and respect for his country and the American experience trumped any partisan positions or issues.

When I was twelve years old and visiting West Virginia in the summer of 1981, the country's air traffic controllers went out on strike. President Reagan took to the air waves after a few weeks of negotiating with the union had failed to net an agreement, and fired all of the striking workers. At twelve, with the perspective of a garden beetle I called the President a name of some sort – no idea what I said specifically. And though I’m sure my dad agreed with my outrage, he defended President Reagan and demanded that no matter how I feel about an issue, there is a respect that is incumbent with the country’s highest office. This edict has been strenuously tested over the last eight years, and I have violated it many, many times. Yet every time I do, whether in my mind or with my words, I hear my father.

I spent most every summer with my father shortly after my parents divorced. Nearly every significant memory I have with him occurred in the heat and humidity of June, July or August. I will forever see him in summer. After all, he was born in summer. The game that excited, exhilarated and broke his heart was played in summer. His first son was born in summer. And now fittingly, he leaves us in summer.

So here we are, each of us, whether here or not – whether we even know he has left us, to say goodbye to Emory Griffith, Jr. – ‘Little Emory’ (he hated that!) Father, son, brother, grandfather, uncle, coach. And so let us all on this tenth day of summer, in the midst of a pennant race and a historic Presidential election, in the middle of the old west blow a kiss goodbye to this sweet and salty misguided angel and one of the original boys of summer.