My Dad, the Saxophone Man

Russell Martin, Jr.'s motivational story about how his father taught him to work hard at baseball—just like he did with his music.

By Russell Martin, Jr., Los Angeles, California

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I'm a professional baseball player. That means I've heard the national anthem performed before games thousands of times, by solo singers, military choirs, marching bands, the occasional recording star.

I place my cap over my heart, stand at attention at the top of the dugout steps and listen. We all do. But honestly, you don't always pay strict attention. It's hard to when your mind is on the game.

But this night was different. That was my dad out there, playing. He stood near home plate in Dodger Stadium last September, blowing into his old, tarnished saxophone ("Don't want a new one," he'd always say. "They don't make them like they used to."), playing to nearly 55,000 fans before our game that night against the Pittsburgh Pirates.

I watched anxiously from the top step of the dugout and followed every note, praying for him to do his best. A few bars into his performance, a funny thing happened. I realized our roles had reversed.

All my life he'd rooted for me, prayed for me to do my best. Now I was rooting for him. For most of his days he'd been a street musician, but thanks to him, I was the Dodgers catcher

Sports and music have been the mainstays in my life for as long as I can remember. Sports, because from early childhood that's what I loved—and did—best. Music, because that was as vital to my dad's life as, well, breathing.

Our time together was important to me. He and Mom split when I was almost two, and during the school term I'd stay with Mom. She lived in Ottawa, Canada, two and a half hours from Dad's home in Montreal. Every other weekend I spent with Dad, plus the entire summer.

Dad's place wasn't like Mom's. Mom worked as a government analyst and lived in a comfortable home in the suburbs. Dad moved around Montreal a lot, from apartment to apartment, according to what rent he could afford. He couldn't afford much. The biggest place he ever had was four and a half rooms. "Don't you want a place like Mom's?" I asked one day.

Dad sat me down. "Material things have never been important to me," he said. "What's important is happiness, fulfillment, chasing your dreams. My dream is music. Yours is baseball."

It's true. When I was just two, Dad tossed a ball in the living room. I caught it in two hops. "Did you see that?" he yelled, turning to his brother. "I think we've got a ballplayer here."

Dad knew what he was talking about. He was more than a musician. He was also an athlete, an excellent baseball player who was quick and strong, and who loved the game. When he was a kid he'd talk his way into pickup games with older boys. "I'm Jackie Robinson's son," he'd say, and he was so good, they believed him.

From the time I was two, we spent every day we could at the local park, me with my little red bat and Montreal Expos cap, him with a bag of baseballs and two fielders gloves.

"Man!" he'd say when I got into one. "You really hit that ball!"

At home we turned on the Expos game. Dad is a great storyteller, and all through the game he'd talk about Robinson—how he'd dance off third base, drive the pitcher crazy and then swipe home.

Most of all, I loved it when he went into his announcer's voice: "Now hitting for the Expos, Russell Martin," he'd say. "Bottom of the ninth. Here comes the pitch. There's a shot to deep right field. That ball is…out of here!" That's when I knew what I wanted most in life: to be a major-league ballplayer, to hear my name for real over a major-league stadium's booming PA.