Happy Father’s
Day to all father’s out there. Today is a day to appreciate “dad” and give him
a day of peace and quiet, relaxation, yard work, etc. – whatever he wants…as a
father of three, every day is father’s day. This is not to say that we, as
fathers, don’t get angry of our children…of course we do, we love them and want
them to do well and not make the stupid mistakes we made.
As a father, I
try a few simple things: to be 100% honest with my children, show them an
uncompromised ethic where you never allow anyone coax you to do what you know
is wrong, and to be respectful; respectful to one another, respectful to your
elders, respectful to ladies, and to treat your mother as if she were a saint.
You know why? Because she is a saint. She gave you life, gives you breakfast,
lunch and dinner, and a band aid when you scrape your knee. Oh yeah, one more
thing, to give whatever you do your best effort. Whether it’s sports, school,
clubs, work, relationships – give it your best.
It’s not to say
if I am good at what I do; I’ll leave that verdict to my children, wife, and
friends.
Here is the way
I break it down:
I was fortunate
to grow up in a relatively large household, being the youngest of five. My
parents were quite a bit older when I was born; my father was 48, my mother was
39.
Growing up, dad
rarely had a catch with me, but that was OK. He attended every one of my little
league games, would always give me the “go get ‘em Sport” as I was stepping to
the plate. I was fortunate enough to play baseball until I was a freshman in
college, when I was cut. That rejection didn’t bother me too much, as I didn’t
care for the coach and I finally realized I wasn’t going to be the next Jerry
Grote. My father was sorry I didn’t make the team, but he knew that with this
door closing in my life, another would open.
My father was a
very well educated man; he was valedictorian of his high school graduating
class (1936) in Ohio, attend Ohio State University for two years, transferring to
Michigan where he graduated with a Bachelor’s
degree and masters in forestry. He then went to Duke for his second masters in
engineering. Education was very important to him…not to me.
Dad and I
rarely saw eye-to-eye on school. I always worked hard at school, but test
anxiety turned me into a C+ student instead of a B+ student. “Don’t worry Sport,
hard work pays off…”
I was finally
able to get my act together after my second year at a community college on Long
Island, and transferred to the school of my desire, SUNY Cortland, because I
was going to be the best Phys Ed coach ever…how little did I know.
Dad was proud
that I finally got to the school I wanted to go to, and told me to work hard
and take different classes to see what I might like. Phys Ed was nothing more
than an unfulfilled dream. I found Radio and Television production, and it fit
like a glove. My GPA, perpetually a 2.5 average started to climb.
At the end of
my second year at Cortland (my fourth year in college where I should be getting
ready to graduate, but was still a year away), a friend of mine came into my apartment
and said she heard from my sister, and my father was in the hospital. I was
living in a frat house, and our phone usually lay on the floor in the main
hallway on the 2nd floor, and would invariably get kicked off the
hook, rendering it useless. My sister couldn’t get through, so she had gotten
the number of my friend from my girlfriend at the time.
My friend woke
me up (it was a Saturday) and I quickly made a call to Huntington Hospital,
where I was able to track down my father. I was told that he was having
problems with his diabetes. After speaking with him on the phone, I realized
that story was utter baloney.
I called my
sister, and she was towing the family line that he had problems with his
diabetes. I knew her story was an extension of my mother’s ill conceived “let’s
protect them from the truth.”
With finals
finished, I went back home, and I could see something wasn’t right in both my
sister’s and mother’s faces. My three other siblings were on their own at this
time, and not being there when I got home. It was then truth ultimately made its
way into the conversation, and that dad had cancer….the BIG C.
I visited dad
at the hospital over the next week or two, and I remember telling him once my
grades came in that I had done the best to date…a 3.0 average. From his bed, he
said he was proud of me and knew I could do it, and would do even better.
Dad came home
on June 3rd, the day after my 22nd birthday, and passed
on June 6th. With one more year left of school, I was contemplating
not going back, but mom would have none of it. I did make a promise to my
father that day in the hospital that for the first time I knew I was going to
actually finish college. What did he say? “I know.” Once again, he knew more
than me.
After taking 48
credits my final year, I did graduate; I also had received an award for the
highest GPA in the Communications program (3.7) the first semester of that
year. Graduating a year late, my faith permits me to know that dad was there at
graduation, smiling down from Heaven, “I told you Sport.”.
He has missed
the greatest achievements of my life, meeting the wonderful lady I would marry
and have three children with, missing our wedding, buying our house, promotions
at work, this blog (what’s a blog?).
He’s missed
none of it. He is always in my heart, as is mom who passed 4 years after dad.
Dad was a
Yankee fan, but a fan who would always root for NY teams. He was thrilled for
me when the Mets won n ’86.
I was thrilled
for him when the Giants won their four Super Bowls (three of which he didn’t
see).
My children
never met their grandfather, a man that I always respected, and respect more
with each passing day. There is not a person I have ever met that I have more
respect for.
This is a day
to remember our father’s, alive or not. This post is not meant to be
melancholy; although I lost both parents early in my life, I was fortunate to
have had two tremendous parents that taught me the meaning of respect. That is
what I want to be able to pass on to my 18, 16, and 11 year old children.
Last week
marked the 26 anniversary of my father’s death. Has it been that long?
Still less time
since the Mets last won a World Series.
Happy Father’s
Day dad, and Happy Father’s Day to all father’s out there.
