My Old Man

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Today is Father’s Day, and, though I am a father myself and welcome the kids and grandkids to come visit with the obligatory well wishes, I miss my old man today, too.

He took me to my first ball game, caught a foul ball and handed it to me.  He taught me how to keep score, how to watch the fielders and not just the pitcher and batter on the diamond, how to tell if a ball was going to be caught before it was actually caught. 

I’d rush home from school to catch the last innings of a Cubs game on WGN, and when he came home, already knowing the outcome, would listen patiently as I recounted what I witnessed on television.  

Every thing I love about the country’s pastime I got from him.

And every time I hear this song I think of him.

His friend called him Buck, and he taught me how to be a man.

When Martin Luther King was pleading for equal housing rights, he marched down Fullerton Avenue in our neighborhood in Chicago.   A lot of the other kids in the neighborhood wanted to go watch and throw rocks.  I think it was the first time I ever heard the word, “Nigger.”  Dad took me aside and said that I was in no way going to join my friends in hurling stones or pejoratives at anybody who has a right to speak his mind.

When I applied for conscientious object status with my draft board, he supported my decision.

After I moved to Wisconsin and got married, we didn’t talk that much.  Whenever I called home, he would always answer the phone.  Mom never did.  But, as soon as he answered, he would hand the phone to her and let her do all the talking.  imbOurs was a silent connection. 

One time, though, he called me.  He was never a big Muhammad Ali fan.  He preferred guys like Floyd Patterson not the brash vociferous bragging of Ali.  I liked Ali, and Dad knew that.  We never argued about it.  It was a tacitly implied, “lets agree to disagree” arrangement we had.

In 1978 Ali lost the championship to an unheralded Leon Spink.  Ali was out of shape and overweight for the match and lost the decision.  A few months later, Ali fought Spinks again to become the first man to ever win the heavyweight championship three times.   ABC was playing Bob Dylan’s song,  “Forever Young.”  I was crying when the phone rang.  It was Dad.  All he said was, “I watched the fight.  He looked good.”

It was the closest I ever felt to Dad in my life.  It is why I miss him today and every day.