It all ended so fittingly.

For the first time in nearly two years, a proud father got to watch his only son play the sport that had brought the two so close together for more than 20 years.

Unbeknownst to his son, he overlooked from afar on a hill above left field as the young man and a friend shared time throwing each other batting practice, just as they did in high school several summers before.

As he watched, trees began to swallow the sunlight behind third base, and the coach inside him couldn’t help but quietly murmur hitting instructions, “stay back, keep your hands in,” as his son connected with each pitch. It was the perfect end to a summer day, and the perfect end to a life lived to its fullest.

The next morning, my father and best friend in the world died of heart failure at the age of 43.

It’s hard to imagine that it’s been nearly two and a half years since. And every time I’ve watched the magic of baseball’s postseason unfold without him, I can’t help but conjure memories of myself and my dad working on the diamond past dusk as I begged for just a few more pitches or a couple more fly balls.

I think of all of the times we shared traveling across North America taking in baseball games in places like San Diego, Seattle, Boston, Atlanta, Dallas and even Montreal.

I have visions of him walking out to the mound to calm down his 13-year-old son who had suddenly found himself pitching in a tie game with the bases loaded.

It may just be a simple game, but the relationship I developed with my dad was deeply rooted in baseball, a common passion we shared and a special bond that connected us beyond normal father-son relationships.

At the age of 24, while in peak physical condition and still savoring the arrival of his 1-year-old son, Tim quickly found himself in a hospital bed with a severe heart virus, uncertain if he would live to see me reach the age of 2.

Soon after and not a day too soon, the miracle of life was donated to him in the form of a new heart, and after a successful transplant surgery he returned home determined to make the most out of his second chance at life.

Fortunately for me, I was his only child, and during the next 19 years I benefited more than anyone else from the knowledge and wisdom possessed by a man I almost never got to know.

As you may have guessed, it all started with baseball — from the moment I could hold a Wiffle bat, he was there to make sure I was gripping it the correct way, with my knuckles lined up.

As the years elapsed and I started playing in high school, his role as my coach began to diminish, but the bond was never weakened. On Friday and Saturday nights in high school, I would have rather sat next to him on the couch in our basement and watched our beloved Anaheim Angels play than go out and roam the city of Omaha with the rest of my friends.

While there is nothing I wouldn’t do to have one more baseball-filled day with my hero, I know that I have to be eternally grateful for the passion, tenacity and determination that he passed on to me during his all-too-short but fulfilling life.

Whether it dealt with baseball, school or life in general, he was always there to do what was best for me, and every day I can’t help but realize how thankful I am for what we had.

Because it’s not often that you come across a 20-something who can honestly call his father his best friend.

In loving memory of

Timothy J. Cordes,

July 18, 1964, to June 7, 2008