Keeping Score: A Legacy Written in Box Scores

July 2016 Cubs Scorecard

I found it while packing up my office, preparing for my move to Boise—a dusty file folder tucked behind a stack of old software manuals and holiday cards. Inside was a scorecard from July 20, 2016, Cubs versus Mets at Wrigley Field. Five years to the day from when I'm writing this, and the pencil marks have faded some, but I can still make out the neat columns and careful notations that chronicle nine innings of Cubs baseball for my daughter Kailey and me during our cross-country road trip. It's more than just a souvenir; it's a thread that connects three generations of my family, linking back to a lesson my father taught me on a cool early fall evening in Pittsburgh more than forty years ago.

I was nine years old in 1974 when my family moved to Pittsburgh. My father, a Yankees fan from New York who had married into a Cubs family from Chicago, knew how much I loved my mother's team. Despite his own allegiances, he promised to take me to see the Cubs play the Pirates at Three Rivers Stadium that fall. It would become the first professional baseball game that I remember.

That day stuck with me—not just because it was my first, but because I kept score. And now, decades later, I can revisit it with uncanny clarity, thanks to a relic of the internet age: the game's box score, preserved online like some sacred archaeological tablet.

September 30, 1974. Bill Bonham pitched a complete game, but the Cubs could only muster one run—Billy Williams scoring on a bases-loaded walk to Pete LaCock in the first inning. That was it offensively for the Cubs. Bruce Kison and the Pirates held on for a 2–1 win.

I had every play neatly recorded in pencil on that crisp scorecard in my lap. That quiet thrill of charting a real ballgame, pitch by pitch, was something new entirely. It transformed the experience from spectator to storyteller. But I was still heartbroken at the loss.

Dad showed me the symbols—the elegant shorthand of baseball. He drew a mini version of the field and jotted the numbers down for each position. He explained how a strikeout was a backwards ꓘ if the batter was looking, how a 5-4-3 double play told a complete story in three numbers, how a home run was simply HR but somehow contained all the joy of watching a ball disappear into the stands. His patient explanations transformed what I thought was just watching into something deeper—active participation in preserving the game's narrative.

Then came the moment that would define not just that game, but our family's sports allegiances for decades to come. A Pirates fan sitting behind us struck up a conversation with my younger brother and me. When he offered to give us a foul ball—if he caught one—in exchange for switching our loyalty from the Cubs to the Pirates, my response was immediate: "No way." But my brother, perhaps seduced by the promise of an actual baseball, said "okay".

That single word changed everything. What started as a Cubs family suddenly became divided. My brother's newfound love for Pittsburgh sports—the Pirates, the Steelers, the Penguins—created a rivalry that continues to this day. While he embraced his adopted city's teams, I remained stubbornly loyal to Chicago, setting up decades of good-natured family warfare that adds spice to every sports conversation. That moment taught me something about loyalty and choice that I'd carry forward—that the traditions we embrace, we embrace deliberately, and they become part of who we are.

But the real gift my father gave me that day wasn't about team loyalty—in fact, he was quietly rooting for neither team, content to watch his Cubs-loving son discover the game's deeper rhythms. It was about attention and presence. Keeping score forced me to watch every pitch, every swing, every defensive play with intention. It taught me that baseball, like life, is made up of small moments that accumulate into something larger, and that paying attention to details creates memories that last. Looking back now, through the lens that only comes with time and distance, I understand that this wasn't just a baseball lesson—it was a masterclass in being present, in showing up, in the quiet ways that love is demonstrated through shared experience.

Decades passed. I married, had children, and found myself facing the same choice my father had made—whether to pass along this beautiful burden of Cubs fandom. Even as I embraced this ritual with my own children, I couldn't escape Mike Royko's famous warning Sins of the Fathers and the generations-long suffering we Cubs fans inflict upon our children. In his 1989 column, Royko pleaded with fathers not to pass along the disease of Cubs fandom, calling it worse than drug addiction. He warned against hooking innocent children on a lifetime of disappointment and heartbreak. Royko was kidding, but not really...

Despite his wisdom, despite knowing the pain that comes with loving a team that specializes in creative ways to break your heart, I couldn't help myself. Still, I carried that lesson forward. When I wasn't coaching my son's Little League teams, I was in the stands with my scorecard, chronicling his journey from tee-ball through high school and into college. Those scorecards became the record of his baseball career—not just the statistics, but the story. The strikeout that led to tears but also to determination. The diving catch in the gap at the Little League Western Region Complex. The clutch HR with two outs in Arcadia.

As I wrote back in 2009, during another year of Cubs disappointment, I knew I was passing along the same "optimistic pessimism" that had been inflicted upon me. I was the dad telling my children that tomorrow is a new day, that there's always next year, that this season—surely this season—would be different. Despite the decades of evidence to the contrary, despite the mathematical reality of Cubs history, I continued to believe. And worse, I taught my children to believe too.

Every box filled in was a moment preserved, a way of saying this mattered, you mattered, this game we shared mattered. The habit became so ingrained that I've purchased a program or scorecard and kept score at nearly every Cubs game I've attended since that first one in Pittsburgh. My children learned not just the symbols and abbreviations, but the ritual itself—the careful attention, the patient recording, the way that keeping score transforms you from passive observer to active participant in the game's unfolding story.

Which brings me back to that scorecard from July 20, 2016, when Kailey and I sat in the sweltering heat at Wrigley Field, watching Bartolo Colon face off against Kyle Hendricks during what would become the Cubs' championship season. Our seats were next to two Mets fans who had flown into Chicago that very day just to see Colon pitch. A friendly rivalry bloomed between us, scorecards in hand, each of us tracking every pitch, every run, every substitution. As the Cubs pulled ahead, our scorekeeping turned competitive, complete with light trash talk and shared laughs. wo Anthony Rizzo homeruns later, we left the ballpark grinning, ready to continue our trip westward, while our new Mets friends flew home to New York, slightly sunburned and disappointed. It was the kind of fleeting, scorecard-fueled camaraderie only baseball can conjure.

As I filled in each box that afternoon, I was struck by the perfect symmetry of the moment. Here I was, passing along my father's gift to my daughter, just as he had done with me four decades earlier.

But there was something different about that day, something that only became clear in retrospect. For the first time in my adult life, that eternal Cubs refrain of "wait 'til next year" actually came to pass. That 2016 season—the one chronicled in part on that faded scorecard—ended not in heartbreak but in celebration. The curse was broken. The suffering, at least that particular strain of it, was over.

I think about my father often, especially now that he's gone. I understand better what Kierkegaard meant about how we live life forward but understand it backward—those moments that seemed simple at the time were profound acts of love. He was teaching me not just about baseball, but about presence, about the importance of being fully engaged in the moments we share with the people we care about most.

The scorecard in my office now represents more than just that Cubs-Mets game or even our cross-country adventure. It's a tangible reminder of a chain of connection that runs from my father to me to my children—each of us learning that some things are worth preserving, that attention is a form of respect, and that the stories we keep are the ones that make us who we are.

My children are young adults now, and they've inherited more than just Cubs fandom from me. They've learned that baseball is a language of connection, that keeping score is really about keeping memories, and that sometimes the most profound gifts are the ones that look like simple pastimes. When they have children of their own, I suspect they'll find themselves at ballparks with scorecards and pencils, continuing a tradition that started with a patient father in Pittsburgh all those years ago.

The game ends, the crowd goes home, but the scorecard remains. A humble piece of paper transformed into family history, one box score at a time.

And for all of Mike Royko's warnings about the sins we visit upon our children, I can't help but think some sins are worth inheriting—especially when they come wrapped in the language of love, attention, and the enduring hope that this year might finally be the year.

Lessons from the Lab: Five Years of Pixels, Patience, and Parenting

Every parent knows that moment when your child's teacher sends home the volunteer signup sheet. You scan the options—field trip chaperone, book fair helper, classroom reader—and somewhere between "lunch duty" and "party planning," you spot something that makes you pause. For me, that something was "computer lab assistant."

But if I'm being honest, my motivation for volunteering ran deeper than typical parental involvement. Going through a divorce had shifted my relationship with time—particularly the time I spent with my children. Suddenly, every moment felt more precious, and the traditional pickup-and-dropoff routine wasn't enough. I found myself searching for ways to be more present in their daily world, to carve out extra hours together that weren't structured around custody schedules or weekend plans.

There was another factor weighing on my mind: balance. I was spending considerable time as a volunteer for my son's Boy Scout activities and coaching his Little League team—practices, games, tournaments, events. While I did help coach Faith's AYSO soccer team, that commitment felt small in comparison to the hours I was investing in scouts and baseball. I wanted to make sure I was showing up equally for all of my children, and that Faith didn't feel like her activities and interests were less important than her brother's.

The volunteer signup sheet represented an opportunity I couldn't pass up: a chance to spend an additional hour or two each week in Faith's world, to see her in her element, and to be part of her school experience in a meaningful way that balanced out other commitments.

Looking back now, after five years of volunteering in Faith's computer lab and classroom at Valley View Elementary, I realize I signed up thinking I'd be helping kids with technology—and hoping to steal a few extra moments with my daughter. What I didn't expect was how much the children in her classes would teach me about patience, problem-solving, and the art of rebuilding connection one small interaction at a time.

The Learning Curve

My first day in the computer lab, I arrived with the confidence of someone who'd spent years troubleshooting work systems and helping colleagues with tech issues. As a parent, a former office go-to for tech help, and someone who’d even rebuilt a computer or two, I figured I was more than prepared. How hard could it be to help a few kids log into their accounts?

The answer came within the first ten minutes. Twenty-something five-year-olds, each with their own unique interpretation of how a mouse works, their own completely logical (to them) approach to navigating software that made perfect sense until you tried to follow their reasoning. One student tried to use the mouse by lifting it off the table and waving it in the air like a remote control, convinced that if she just pointed it hard enough at the screen, it would obey.

"Mr. Boeke, my computer is broken" became the most common phrase I'd hear, usually spoken with the gravity of someone reporting a natural disaster. Most of the time, the "broken" computer simply needed the Caps Lock turned off, or the student had clicked somewhere unexpected and needed gentle guidance back to their assignment.

I learned quickly that my job wasn't just technical support—it was translator, detective, and cheerleader all rolled into one. Every successful login felt like a small miracle. Every moment of frustration a chance to build trust and patience. And every smile when something finally worked? That was the real reward.

The Unexpected Role Model

What I didn't anticipate when I first stepped into that computer lab was the impact of simply being there as a male presence in an overwhelmingly female environment. Elementary schools, by their nature, tend to be staffed primarily by women—teachers, aides, administrators, and volunteers. While this creates wonderful, nurturing environments, it also means that many children have limited exposure to male role models during their school day.

As the weeks turned into months, and months into years, I began to notice something remarkable happening. It wasn't just Faith who looked forward to my Thursday morning visits—other children in her classes did too. Kids would wave excitedly when they saw me in the hallway, ask when I'd be back, or specifically seek me out for help with their projects. They even invited me to sit with them at lunch.

Some faces became familiar fixtures year after year as children moved up through the grades. A kindergartner I'd helped with basic mouse skills would greet me as a confident second-grader, eager to show off their new abilities. Others would rotate in from different classrooms, but they'd quickly warm up, drawn by the novelty of having a "Mr. Boeke" alongside their female teachers and volunteers.

I realized I had become part of the classroom life-cycle, offering these children something they didn't often experience in their academic environment: a male adult who was patient, encouraging, and invested in their learning. For some kids, especially those without father figures at home or whose dads weren't able to volunteer, I represented a different kind of supportive adult presence.

Watching Faith Navigate Her World

Volunteering in my daughter's school gave me a unique window into her academic life—one I desperately needed during a time when so much of our relationship was being redefined. I watched her grow from a tentative kindergartner who needed help finding the right letter on the keyboard to a confident fourth-grader who could troubleshoot basic problems and help classmates with their projects.

But more than watching her technical skills develop, I saw how she interacted with her peers, how she approached challenges, and how she balanced independence with asking for help when she needed it. There's something profound about seeing your child in their element, among their friends, tackling problems and celebrating successes in a space that's entirely their own. For me, these glimpses became treasured insights into who Faith was becoming, separate from the upheaval happening at home.

I also got to witness something that filled me with quiet pride: Faith watching me interact with her classmates. She saw her dad being patient with struggling students, celebrating others' successes, and treating every child with respect and kindness. In a classroom where she was surrounded by female authority figures, she got to see a different model of male leadership—one that was nurturing, supportive, and invested in everyone's learning, not just hers.

Some of my favorite memories aren't from the computer lab at all, but from the classroom volunteering—reading with small groups, helping with art projects, or assisting during those chaotic but wonderful classroom parties. Each experience added another layer to my understanding of Faith's school community and the dedicated teachers who shaped her early academic years.

The Unexpected Rewards

What started as a way to be involved in my daughter's education became something much richer. I found myself looking forward to those Thursday mornings in the lab, not just because I enjoyed helping the kids, but because their enthusiasm was infectious. When a first-grader finally mastered using the mouse to complete their math game, their genuine excitement reminded me of the joy in learning something new.

The kids taught me as much as I taught them. Their questions forced me to think differently about technology—not as a tool I'd taken for granted, but as something magical and powerful that deserved explanation and respect. Their creative problem-solving often surprised me, and their willingness to try new approaches without fear of failure was inspiring.

Building Community, One Click at a Time

Valley View Elementary fostered a strong sense of community, and volunteering was my way of contributing to that environment—and my way of creating stability during a season of personal change. The other parent volunteers became friends, the teachers became partners in education, and the school became a place where I felt genuinely invested and needed.

There's something special about being part of your child's daily world, even in a small way. When Faith would mention her friends by name, I knew those kids. When she talked about a project or assignment, I had context for her excitement or frustration. That connection enriched our conversations at home and helped me understand her challenges and victories more fully. During a time when many things in our lives felt uncertain, these shared touchpoints became anchors—consistent threads that wove through our weeks together.

The Technology Generation

During those five years, I watched a generation of kids grow up as true digital natives. What seemed revolutionary to me was simply Thursday to them. They adapted to new software with remarkable ease, figured out features I hadn't discovered, and approached technology with a confidence that both impressed and humbled me.

But I also saw the importance of guidance and structure in their digital education. These kids needed to learn not just how to use technology, but how to use it thoughtfully and purposefully. The computer lab wasn't just about building technical skills—it was about building digital citizenship, problem-solving abilities, and confidence in learning new tools.

Lessons Learned

My years volunteering in Faith's computer lab and classroom taught me lessons that extended far beyond the elementary school walls:

Patience is a practice, not a personality trait. Working with young learners required me to slow down, repeat explanations, and find new ways to communicate the same concept. That patience became a skill I carried into other areas of my life.

Representation matters, even in small doses. Being one of the few consistent male volunteers showed me how hungry some children are for diverse adult role models. My presence filled a gap I hadn't even realized existed, and the relationships that formed taught me about the ripple effects of simply showing up.

Healing happens in community. The school became a place where I could contribute meaningfully while processing my own changes. Working alongside other parents and teachers reminded me that everyone carries their own challenges, and that showing up for others often helps us show up for ourselves.

Children need to see different examples of care. In an environment dominated by nurturing female figures, I could offer a different but complementary approach to encouragement and problem-solving. The kids taught me that there's no single right way to be supportive—there's just the way that feels authentic to you.

When Everything Changed

After four wonderful years at Valley View, life threw us another curveball. When Faith's mom moved to a new place, Faith had to transfer to a new school between fourth and fifth grades. Just like that, my Thursday morning routine, my familiar computer lab, and the relationships I'd built over half a decade were gone.

The new school was different—fewer volunteer opportunities, different systems, unfamiliar faces everywhere. I found myself at a loss, unsure how to recreate what I'd had at Valley View. The staff didn't know me, didn't understand my commitment to being present in Faith's academic life, and frankly, I didn't know how to insert myself into an established community where I was starting from scratch.

For someone who had found stability and purpose in those weekly volunteering sessions, the transition felt like losing an anchor. I'd built my identity around being "Mr. Boeke from the computer lab," and suddenly that version of myself had nowhere to exist.

The Lasting Impact of Relationships

But here's what I discovered: the relationships and reputation I'd built during those five years at Valley View didn't just disappear. Word travels in communities, especially among parents navigating similar challenges. The connections I'd made—with other volunteers, teachers, and parents—became a network that extended beyond the school walls.

Parents I'd worked alongside at Valley View sought me out in my other volunteer experiences like Boy Scouts and Little League. Teachers who had seen my commitment would mention my name when their friends at other schools needed reliable help. Even some of the children I'd worked with over the years would light up when they saw me around town, introducing me to their parents as "Mr. Boeke from my old school."

What I learned was that authentic community investment creates ripples that extend far beyond the original context. The care I'd shown, the relationships I'd built, and the reputation I'd earned as someone who genuinely cared about children's education became portable assets that served both Faith and me as we navigated this new chapter.

Moving Forward

Faith eventually moved on to middle school, and my regular volunteering days became a cherished memory. But the experience shaped how I think about education, community involvement, and the patient work of helping others learn and grow.

To parents considering volunteering in their child's school: I encourage you to take the leap. You might sign up thinking you're helping your child's education—and you are—but you'll discover you're also investing in yourself, your community, and your understanding of the remarkable work that happens in elementary schools every day.

And to fathers specifically: your presence matters more than you might realize. In a world where elementary schools are predominantly staffed by women, your consistent, caring involvement provides children with a different model of adult support. You don't need to be the loudest voice in the room or the most qualified volunteer—you just need to show up with patience and genuine care for all the children, not just your own.

Whether it's the computer lab, the library, or the classroom, your presence matters more than you might realize. And who knows? You might just learn as much as you teach.

What experiences have shaped your understanding of education and community? I'd love to hear about your own volunteering adventures in the comments below.