Guardians Triston McKenzie and his dad celebrate bond forged through baseball -

The bond sprouted from the living room floor of the McKenzies’ Palm Beach County home, where Stan would sit, in front of the couch, with Triston either beside him or behind him. The two studied every player’s every move and listened closely for any useful advice from the commentators.

Stan McKenzie fell in love with the sport through the 1980s Yankees. He was a new Brooklyn resident with no baseball background who jumped at opportunities to learn from whatever Phil Rizzuto or Ralph Kiner spouted on TV. The family moved to Florida when Triston McKenzie was a toddler and, from that point on, any game, any teams, any broadcast lured them to the living room.

They still connect over baseball, but the ritual has evolved. Now, Triston is the player on TV and his dad is in that living room examining every pitch, mannerism and decision. And after every one of Triston’s big-league starts for the Guardians, they debrief with a phone call.

For Father’s Day, The Athletic talked with Triston and Stan to learn more about the postgame phone calls that have strengthened their connection to the game and to each other. They each knew a letter was headed to the other person, but didn’t know they would be receiving one themselves.

From left, Triston McKenzie with his dad, Stan; his mom, Shereene; and his brother, TJ. (Courtesy of the McKenzie family)

Dear Stan …

It wasn’t personal.

Triston didn’t mean to ditch tradition. He was just rusty on the routine. After all, it was his first start of the season, two months tardy, thanks to a stint on the injured list stemming from his last spring start.

He was antsy to get back on a major-league mound. It was getaway day, the end of a weekend series in Minneapolis after Mother Nature interfered with his final rehab tuneup. It preceded an off day. And, well, Triston simply forgot to call you.

Believe him, this is the sort of start he can’t wait to dissect with you. The rocky ones? Those can wait a day or two. But five near-perfect innings, one hit allowed, one walk, 10 strikeouts, no runs and a key win against the team the Guardians are chasing in the American League Central? For his first outing of the season? That’s normally a start worth chatting about immediately after the game.

Triston McKenzie made his season debut against the Twins on June 4. (Bruce Kluckhohn / USA Today)

Those calls mean everything. They’re a staple, a safe haven, a comforting recap. You have always let Triston be himself, which is why he says you understand him better than anyone. He knows you’re coming from a place of authenticity. You’re not the dad telling his son to follow his instructions simply because you said so. You’re not claiming to know best. You genuinely want to help in whatever manner you can.

He partners with his catchers on a game plan. Coaches and analysts study his mechanics. But there’s something about this father-son pairing that grants him a deeper level of thought. He can candidly talk through things with you. He trusts your perspective. It’s different.

The two of you have aligned on this since he was a lanky kid. Sitting in that living room, dishing back and forth, serving up predictions.

I think he’s going to throw a curveball.

Well, I think he’s going to throw a fastball.

It didn’t necessarily matter who was proven right. The thought process behind why you each forecasted a particular pitch was coming next was what had you both so intrigued. It’s what united you.

Stan, the way you approach the conversations with your son is why he keeps coming back. Instead of critiquing his decision-making on the mound, you share your curiosity.

You threw a 2-1 slider. What was the thought process behind that pitch?

He appreciates that framing, rather than …

Why didn’t you throw the heater?

He trusts his catchers and coaches, of course, but having that unbiased third party — and the one who knows the way he thinks — offers a valuable dimension. You’re usually on the same page, or at least shuffling through the same chapter, trying to find common ground.

If Triston dominated a hitter with fastballs in his first two encounters and decides to mix it up and fling a curveball in their third meeting, inducing a loud out, his teammates will say to leave it alone. He accomplished what he needed. But you’ll ask what he was considering in that moment. You’ll notice how he shook his head as he walked off the mound. You’ll spot that he second-guessed his decision-making. He’ll say he was thinking about throwing another heater. You’ll reply you were expecting it, too, and wonder why he changed course — not to dispute his motivations, but to contemplate other possible outcomes.

It’s sort of like when Triston and teammate Steven Kwan play chess. They spend a lot of time talking about theory. The game could unfold in millions of ways. If you change one move, there’s a ripple effect. How does one pitch change one at-bat, which alters the course of an entire game?

These are the minutiae you guys pore over, the stuff you’ve both loved for decades. Triston remembers weekend tournaments at Disney as a kid, and then coming home to turn on a game. You would point to specific examples of how a big leaguer gets to his position or rotated defensively or cut off a throw.

Now, you take what you learn from watching Triston pitch and apply it to the little leaguers you help coach, even when they suggest you don’t know what you’re talking about. You laugh, and say, “I guess not,” despite devoting so much time and energy to aiding an instrumental member of the Cleveland Guardians’ starting staff.

Triston can’t thank you enough for that. He covets those phone calls, those chats that permit him to be himself. And he apologizes for messing up the routine upon his return to the rotation.

Happy Father’s Day pop 🤞🏾🖤🖤 pic.twitter.com/SWwvfTAsMV

— Am I…Triston 🦹🏾‍♂️ McKenzie?? (bluecheck) (@T_eazy24) June 20, 2021

Dear Triston …

Your dad sat in Section 158 for your start against the Astros last week, with a direct view of you holding your glove to your face before initiating your delivery, and with headphones in, listening to the broadcast and recording mental notes for the next phone call. On evenings like that, the ballpark is his sanctuary, and with a crowd north of 35,000 filling the forest-green seats at Progressive Field, he couldn’t imagine a more perfect setting.

He’s watched you your entire life. He’s seen every stage of your journey. He knows you. He knows your mannerisms. He claims he could watch 50 other pitchers and not pick up on certain cues; but with you, he notices every twitch, every motion, every hint of body language.

And yet, he would still feel uncomfortable offering suggestions or tips if he didn’t have your approval. He never wants to feel like he’s infringing.

He’s grateful you appreciate his input, starting with those 9 a.m. texts on the morning of your start day, the quick reminder, such as, “Good things happen if you get your first pitch over for a strike,” followed by the ultimate dad ending: “Make sure you read this.” The fact you text, “What’s going on? Your watch not working?” if he misses his deadline actually makes him smile. (Now he makes sure he types out the message the night before and sets a 9 a.m. alert to prompt him to send it.)

Triston McKenzie delivers during a start last week against the Astros. (David Richard / USA Today)

As you navigate your way through your fourth major-league season, he watches every one of your outings. And then he watches them a second time. And then a third time, ensuring he catches every broadcast, just to see if he’s “missing any interesting intricacies.” You both love details. Your dad used to document how many first-pitch strikes you threw, which pitches you threw to each hitter and in which sequences. He’s not as regimented about it now. He’ll make a mental note of a few keys to mention later.

He’s a staunch advocate of pitching inside. “If you can’t pitch in, you’re wasting time because these guys are just way too good,” he’ll say. He’s never overbearing about it. He’s just giddy that his son has this opportunity, and if his son welcomes his insight, he’ll do anything to provide one iota of help.

Really, he wishes every parent had the chance to craft such a relationship with their child, no matter the profession — anything to step into the kid’s world and make the parent feel a part of it, even if in different time zones.

“It makes me feel like I’m something special,” your dad says. “It gives me a sense of pride.”

Sometimes, he hesitates because he never wants to feel like he’s overstepping. You have so many resources at your disposal, with video and data and teammates and coordinators and analysts and coaches with decades of experience in the dugout. But you go out of your way to ensure he can’t overstep.

“I feel blessed he still feels he needs to hear that voice, he feels he’ll pick something up,” your dad says, “that I’ll see something completely different than how everyone else sees it, and that he finds value in it.”

The summer your dad moved to this country from Jamaica, 40 years ago, he didn’t leave the house. It was just him and your grandma, and she was working. He had nowhere to go and no friends. So, he watched baseball. Nothing else.

In Jamaica, he had one classmate who wore Mets gear and another who wore Yankees gear. He didn’t like the orange in the Mets logo, so he gravitated toward the Yankees. When he arrived in Brooklyn, he watched them every day, hanging on every word Phil Rizzuto or Bobby Murcer uttered.

He never played the sport himself — well, aside from when the neighborhood kids gathered for a pickup game and either hopped over or clipped the school fence. (Don’t tell anyone outside the family that last part.) They had nine gloves, so at the end of each inning in the field, they would leave them at their positions for the other team and go bat.

Your dad insists his lack of experience on the diamond aids him because he isn’t brainwashed by his own track record. Instead, he treated baseball like a college course, and those Yankees legends on TV were his teachers. That’s how he absorbed everything he could pass on to you over the years. And now, if he can’t attend your games in person, there’s nowhere he’d rather be than on the floor of the living room, watching you operate on TV.

Because, in the end, if you told the 1983 version of Stainton McKenzie that he would have a son in the big leagues 40 years later, he would say:

“You’re crazy. No way. No way. Man, I’m living the dream. I would have never guessed that. Never in a million years.”

(Top photo: Steph Chambers / Getty Images)

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