I woke up very excited on Thursday, October 3rd. I had just celebrated a birthday the night before with friends, and I was getting ready to jump in a car with some of my Tallahassee buddies and head out for a road trip to LSU. I got out of the shower and saw all the messages on my phone. Dad had a big heart attack, and wasn't expected to make it.

I drove down to St. Pete, not knowing if he was still with us. During that time, I thought about him and the lessons he taught me. Optimism was very high on the list. He loved those Devil Rays, and he was always optimistic that thy were becoming a little bit better. They never really got better, but he watched them religiously every night.

When I'd visit, I'd always drag him down to the Trop to catch a game. We always went to the same vendor on the street, and he got to know us. He'd always give us his best seats a little below face value. I think he liked my dad.

We watched a lot of bad baseball. He liked Freddie McGriff, I liked Randy Winn and Denny Martinez. We both hated Vinnie Castilla. Through thick and thin, wins and losses (mostly losses) he kept the faith.

When he passed, neighbors of ours who went to church with one of the pitchers told that pitcher that the Rays lost a big fan. The Rays sent flowers to my mom, and told her that my dad's loyalty to the team would be missed. That little bit of sentiment still chokes me up.

Tonight, my dad is smiling. No, the Rays don't have any history at all. No, they don't deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as the Yanks, the Sox, Cubbies and others in terms of baseball lore. But tonight, they're going to the ALCS.

How bout them Rays, Dad?