ON THE LAST day of the 2002 season, Sept. 29, I notched the 1,000th hit of my career, a single to left against the Marlins in Florida. My Philadelphia Phillies were about to head home under .500, so it felt nice to have something to celebrate. But that joy would be short-lived. During that game, more than 1,000 miles away, near my hometown of Teaneck, New Jersey, my father passed away after a long battle with diabetes, cancer and the effects from a series of strokes.
One year -- almost to the day -- after my father's passing, I'd be celebrating the clinching of a division title with my Chicago Cubs teammates at Wrigley Field.