OK, so I’m a week late. Humor me anyway.

Being off last week, I lost out on an opportunity to thank my father for what I believe is the greatest gift he ever gave to me.

Introducing me to baseball.

My father died a number of years ago. One thing he was not was a sports fan. He could not care less about how the Pirates, Steelers or Penguins did. My years growing up, the Pittsburgh teams winning the World Series, Super Bowl, Stanley Cups — they meant nothing to him.

What did mean something to him was exposing myself and my two brothers to baseball.

I have vivid memories of my dad hitting fly balls to my older brother and myself in the park, or playing catch with us in the front yard. He wasn’t into sports, but he wanted his children to at least be exposed to them.

My parents took the approach that the more elements the children were exposed to early in life, the better suited we would be to choose our path in life.

My father took us to Forbes Field to see the Pirates play Saturday or Sunday afternoon games. We’d always sit in the left field bleachers for 75 cents. My dad would lean back, open up whatever novel he brought with him, and get his reading in during the game.

When the crowd reacted to a play on the field, he would peek his eyes above the top of of his book to see what happened, then resume reading.

While my dad figured he was doing his fatherly duty in taking us to Pirate games, he opened up a whole new world for me. I noticed guys with typewriters — yes, I am that old — in a booth behind the plate at Forbes Field.

When I asked my dad what those guys were doing, he explained they were writing stories about the game.

I asked how much they had to pay to sit in such good seats. He said, “they don’t pay anything. They get paid for writing those stories. That’s their job” — or something to that effect.

Bingo! I knew what I wanted to do for a living! I was maybe 10 years old at the time. I never changed my mind.

When the time came for me to find a college, my dad knew I wanted to go into journalism. He wasn’t sold on the sportswriting thing, though. He tried to steer me toward advertising at Ohio University, a solid journalism school.

He visited the campus with me, met my advisor, enrolled me in the advertising program. I changed that freshman year, took News Reporting and Editing, and lived out my childhood dream.

My dad wasn’t particularly happy, but he understood. My parents eventually divorced and I lost touch with my father for a while.

Years later, after he read some of my stuff, he said: “You know ... You’re pretty good at this.”

Don't know if I am, but hearing him say that meant the world to me.

Thanks, Dad, for allowing me to choose my path — and introducing me to baseball.

John Enrietto is sports editor of the Butler Eagle