Thank you Bobby Cox (and thank you, Dad)

Over the past couple of weeks, I've used this column to lament about the seemingly crooked career politician who looks poised to defeat a seemingly honest career politician (both of whom started their political lives as Democrats) to become the next governor of our state. As much as I try to focus on the candidates and not the party affiliations, any connection to the Elephant brand looks like gold in the Peach State this year. So this week, I'm not going to dwell on Nathan Deal or Roy Barnes. I'm writing about a welcome distraction from the serious issues at hand.

I have my father to thank. Dad's a Republican. I'm an independent. But we didn't talk politics Sunday or Monday when the two of us joined my liberal-leaning brother at Turner Field to witness the final two games of the Bobby Cox era.

The three of us were there from the start of Cox's incredible run. Dad treated us to Braves games at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium and later, Turner Field, from the time my brother Blake and I were old enough to play tee-ball at Fayette's Kiwanis Fields.

During the early years of our ballpark experiences, the Braves stunk. But Blake and I didn't mind -- neither did Dad. We relished every trip to the stadium. We boys had Dale Murphy to idolize, plus, last place teams tend to feature rare promos like "Meet the Players Day," which helped our parents fill childhood picture albums with photos of two young brothers wearing royal blue Braves caps posing with "The Murph", a 21-year-old John Smoltz and Lonnie Smith.

Before the 1991 season, my dad purchased family tickets to about a dozen home games. One of the dates he selected was the second to last game of the season -- the night the Braves improbably won the pennant with Smoltz catching a jubilant Greg Olsen in his arms after completing a masterful performance on the hill. We stayed in our seats post-game and well past my bed-time, watching the Dodgers lose on the jumbotron, which clinched the Braves' first postseason appearance since the year before I was born.

Back then, Dad didn't have the money to buy playoff tickets, but as a family we watched every League Championship and World Series game on our living room t.v.

In 1992, my father's brother died tragically young, just as the Braves held a three games to one lead in the National League Championship Series against the Pittsburgh Pirates. The Braves lost games five and six of that series, as members of my family struggled to deal with the terrible, heartbreaking loss. Then Francisco Cabrera singled, Sid Bream beat the tag and the Braves gave a couple of kids from Fayetteville a reason to dry their tears, at least for a moment.

Dad continued to take us to games. A couple of years later, my dad planned a family vacation around the Braves' road schedule, loading up the minivan to watch our team play on the road in St. Louis. Because of earlier rains, our two contests at Busch Stadium turned into back to back double-headers -- an absolute treasure for Dad, Blake and me (and torture for my mom and baby sister).

By the time Dad could reasonably afford playoff tickets, the 1995 World Series title had come and gone, but as a teenager, I experienced the thrill of the postseason when my father took Blake and I to see the Braves beat the Cardinals in a pair of home games during the 1996 National League Championship Series.

I remained a loyal Braves fan after high school and watched as many games as I could while attending college in Maryland and serving in the Navy. Every time Cox's team took the field on my t.v., I felt a connection to home.

Since moving back to Fayette a few years ago, Dad, Blake and I have visited Turner Field a number of times -- bringing my grandfather along, too. Our family's baseball tradition began years ago. My great-grandfather spent nearly his entire life in Georgia, but rooted for the Yankees because Atlanta didn't have a pro team during many of his years. My grandfather took his dad to the 1960 World Series in New York and we have the family snapshots to prove it.

When Dad sprung for playoff tickets this year, Blake and I were thrilled.

On Sunday and Monday, Dad and I rode up from Fayetteville. Blake, who lives in Atlanta, met us at the stadium. We went home disappointed with the scores, but the three of us relished being there. Bobby Cox's injury-riddled Braves gave us one more improbable run, for old times' sake.

We should have won both games and the series, but standing and Tomahawk-chopping in the upper deck was pleasure enough for the three of us. Thanks Dad. I look forward to the day when my wife Brittnay and I have a little one of our own and you can join us for an evening at Turner Field. Hopefully, Cox's successor and protege Freddi Gonzalez will give us many more reasons to cheer.

Bobby Cox gave us a great run, but my dad is the one who deserves all of the credit in my book. Dad didn't do anything to make the Braves win, but he did make Blake and me fans and gave us the chance to enjoy it all.