Father's Day is a time of warm reflection for me.
It is day I give thanks for my dad, Ernest Adornato Jr., and the precious gift he shared with me, as a very young boy. That gift, the love of sports, inspired and challenged me throughout my youth. Sports taught me how to compete, on the field, in school and in life. And sports became a cherished way of life, as an important part of my career for more than four decades now.
Dad, who passed at the age of 90 on Aug. 9, 2022, was a first generation American born to Italian immigrants, Ernest and Mary Adornato.
Dad was known as Juidy (juh-dee) to friends and family, largely because his mother's broken English twisted the word Junior into that pronunciation. As a young man, his handsome good looks made him a dead ringer for the King of Rock-n-Roll, Elvis Presley. He served his country in the United States Marine Corps and settled into a long career as a brewery worker.
Born and raised in Highlandtown, a blue-collar bastion of Baltimore City, dad was described as quiet, yet mischievous. As an athlete, he was a bit undersized but fiercely competitive. He played football and baseball in the sandlot leagues of East Baltimore, excelled at racketball and volleyball and played senior softball well into his 70's. In the final two decades of his life he became an avid golfer, hitting as many as 500 balls per day all the way up to the final weeks of his life.
He instilled his love of sports in his two sons, coaching us on various baseball teams and supporting our efforts in other sports as our No. 1 supporter. He rarely missed a game.
Prior to joining High School On SI in 2022, I operated my own high school sports web site in Maryland, which I sold to The Baltimore Banner. In introducing our site to the Banner's audience, I penned the following words about the exact moment I fell in love with sports. My dad was front and center in the story.
I vividly remember the day.
Already an avid sports fan and aspiring young athlete, my love affair was cemented on one gorgeous afternoon in the summer of 1968. It was my first Orioles game.
The excitement built as we drove up 33rd Street and caught a glimpse of Memorial Stadium off in the distance. Not one to fight the traffic on the parking lot, much less pay the $4 fee for the right to park right next to the ballpark, my dad weaved his way through the adjacent neighborhoods until we found a spot on the street.
I was too excited to be concerned about the half mile (or so) jaunt. I practically floated as my anticipation built with every step. I was oblivious to the thousands of other fans filtering along the same sidewalks, but as we reached the stadium lot, the smell of ball park hot dogs, the color, the chirp of the vendors and the murmur of the crowd began to intoxicate me.
I hadn’t seen anything yet.
My dad stepped up to the window and purchased our seats and in we went. The lower concourse seemed massive. I tried to pull free from his grip and rush up one of the nearby tunnels into the stadium’s seating bowl, but my father held firm and said, “No. We go over here.”
Over here was the entrance to one of the stadium’s massive ramp towers which led to the upper deck. Anxious to see the field and the players, all I saw as we began our steep, zigzag ascent up the outside of the stadium was a wider view of the parking lot.
I was starting to become impatient but, about halfway up, it happened.
Through a narrow opening where the upper and lower decks separated, I gazed through a chain-link fence and got my first glimpse of the field. The vision was stunning.
Lush green grass framed the perfectly raked reddish-tan infield dirt. The bright orange popped from the white uniforms of the hometown Orioles and all of the other sights and sounds moved me unlike anything I had ever experienced before.
From that moment forward I was a sports junkie and, although I did not know at the time, my journey to becoming a sport journalist was underway.
Being a sports journalist was not my first goal. I wanted to be a professional athlete. Despite the fact that I lacked the talent to fulfill that dream, playing sports provided more joy than I could ever imagine. The teammates, the victories, the loses and the dreams, they remain with you always. I played nearly every organized sport, at one point or another, with baseball and football being my favorites. Along the way, I learned that I had an aptitude for wrestling, which allowed me to compete as a Division I athlete at Towson University. For more than two decades, I ran a national caliber men's slow-pitch softball team and, like my father, have developed a love of golf.
I have also had a front row seat to some of our country's greatest athletes in their most formative years, as high school athletes. It has never been hard to spot the ones destined to turn professional. There is just something extra special that is abundantly clear when you see them play.
Most of those athletes, just like myself and many others who developed a love for sports, also owe a debt of gratitude to their dads. The bond between fathers and sons through sports is one of the most enduring and emotionally resonant relationships in many families.
Fathers often use sports as a way to teach life lessons — perseverance, teamwork, humility, resilience in defeat, and grace in victory. These moments become a way to communicate values that extend far beyond the field of competition.
For some, especially in families or cultures where emotional expression isn’t always verbal, sports become a love language of their own. A nod of approval after a big play, a high five in the stands, or even the silence shared following a tough loss can say more than words ever could.
On this day, I salute Ernest Adornato, Jr. and all dads who have shared their love of sports with their sons and daughters. It is a special gift each us can share.
English (US) ·