By LESLIE BROWN

My father got sick at the pinnacle of his career, when he was doing some of his best work as a Seattle illustrator. After years of fashion illustration, he was landing the kinds of assignments an illustrator dreams of — book covers, posters, magazine stories. One of my prized possessions is a reprint of William Faulkner’s “The Reivers,” beautifully illustrated by my father.

He was also hired during those last years of his productive life by the Mariners, a brand-new team at the time, back in the day when companies hired real artists to do real illustrations. Though I knew these were plum assignments, I had only the vaguest recollection of his work for the Mariners. I was in college and paying scant attention to my father’s career.

So it was quite a moment last month when I squeezed into a table at a crowded bar in Anacortes and glanced at the wall behind me. A framed piece of glass showcased Mariners’ memorabilia: a jersey, a pennant and a scorecard — or program — from 1977, the team’s first year of existence. The scorecard’s cover was a Norman Rockwell-esque painting of a mound conference — the catcher, the pitcher and three fans (an older man, a middle-aged woman and a boy) all conferring together, suggesting the community’s connection to this young team. It was richly hued, painterly, fun, evocative. And I was certain — though I’d never seen it before — that it had been painted by my father.

I turned to my husband and said, “That’s a Dick Brown illustration. I’m sure of it.” I stood up, got close to the glass and squinted at the scorecard, hoping to see his signature. I didn’t. Still, I felt certain. I knew his style well. Everything about it said “Dick Brown.”

I began Googling 1977 Mariner scorecards and found several for sale by collectors. None, however, mentioned the name of the illustrator. Days later, when I was back home, I did what any former reporter would do — I called the Mariners’ administrative office. The man at the customer service desk hadn’t gotten such a question before and sounded dubious. After all, 1977 was a few ownerships ago. Put it in an email and send it to us, he instructed.

I did so and for a week heard nothing. Then I got an email from Randy Adamack, senior vice president of communications, who said my question had landed in his inbox because of his unique position in the company: He’d been there since 1978. And yes, he said, he knew the painting, and yes, it had been done by Dick Brown. It was part of the Mariners’ first ad campaign, and if he could find any of the remaining posters, he’d give me one.

A week later, I stood in the Mariners’ administrative offices on the ground floor of the stadium waiting for Randy to emerge. A tall, silver-haired man with a warm smile strode into the lobby and handed me a tube. In it was the poster, the illustration beautifully reproduced, with a caption underneath: “‘We can do it together,’ as painted by Dick Brown, is the Seattle Mariners’ way of saying that the fans in the stands are as important as the players on the field.”

“This poster was all over the city,” he told me. I clutched it tightly as I headed back to my office.

My father died 29 years ago at age 54, struck down by a brain tumor that ultimately proved inoperable. He died what feels like a lifetime ago — before I got married, had a child, nursed my mother through her own final weeks of life. I have clear memories of him, to be sure. But he died before I was old or mature enough to discover who he really was, to see past the clichés my brothers and I constructed over the years to make sense of his life. A “self-made man,” “a man’s man” — these are the phrases I sometimes used to describe him. I knew nothing of his interior life. I knew little about what moved him. I knew few stories of his childhood. In many ways, he was an enigma to me — a quiet, brooding man who painted.

But paint, he did. And beautifully. He painted with grace and energy, with color and skill, with feeling and mood. His paintings told stories. They captured moments. They spoke of loneliness and despair, warmth and relationship.

Some part of him — besides sheer talent — is in his paintings. And so it is that I discovered my father in a noisy bar in Anacortes. He’s been absent from my life for nearly three decades. But when I saw his work behind that glass, as vivid as though he had painted it yesterday, I was reminded of who he was in the world. And for a brief moment, he felt completely and utterly alive to me.

— Leslie Brown is the communications manager at the King County Department of Public Defense.  She is the former editor of The Beachcomber.