Striking Out

My dad’s been gone for nearly ten years.

And I can say without any hesitation, I only have good thoughts of him.

Funny how time works.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad was a GREAT man.

Honest.

Sincere.

Supportive.

Great.

But when it came to me, his only son.

His only child.

He carried a hammer with him.

Not literally.

That would’ve hurt.

In fact, he never hurt me.

But he did lose his temper with me.

More than once.

Like the time I was supposed to be at the corner waiting for him to pick me up.

So I could go get a haircut.

But instead I was at home playing with the local kids.

You would’ve thought I killed someone.

I’ve never seen his face so red.

But he got over that one.

Eventually.

Or on the day of my Bar Mitzvah.

When I decided to loosen the knot in my tie.

He was not a fan.

So much so that when he tightened it, I could barely breathe.

Thankfully time.. and a little therapy... has erased all of those memories.

And now I only have good ones.

I’m hoping my son can say the same when he is my age.

Now all-in-all, I’m a pretty good dad.

Or so I am told.

But perfect?

Not so much.

Need an example?

Let’s go all the way back to... 

...yesterday.

You see, I see greatness in my son.

I know, that’s my job.

But really, it’s there.

It’s there in the classroom.

It’s there at home.

And it’s definitely there on the baseball field.

This little one has the opportunity to do some great things with a bat.

A little weight room.

A couple hours in the batting cage.

A few shots of steroids.

He’ll be great.

But seriously folks.

From the moment he put on his uniform, on or around age five, he’s had it.

You know... IT.

Not sure exactly what IT is, but he’s got it.

I know it.

His coach knows it.

The problem is he doesn’t know it.

Or doesn’t see it.

Or maybe worse, he doesn’t believe it.

I have tried motivating him.

In every way I know. 

But I haven’t found the magic touch.

I have been too hard.

I have been too soft.

I have been on him all the time.

I have walked away.

I have patted him on the back.

I have kicked him in the butt.

Somedays we are close.

Somedays, not so much.

Yesterday... not so much.

After his game, I took him into the privacy of our basement and gave him a speech.

Actually, it was more lecture than speech.

The gist was -- “You are great, but if you don’t work harder, you won’t be great.”

It was filled with all the nutrients a good lecture needs.

Cliches.

Loud Volume.

F-bombs.

Not my proudest moment.

By far.

And what made it worse were the tears pouring out of my son’s eyes.

Everything I was saying may have been right.

But every way I was saying it was oh so wrong.

Downright pathetic.

Instead of teaching.

And loving.

And holding.

I was yelling.

At the top of my lungs.

At a boy.

My boy.

Who just wants to be loved.

And instead of being loved, he was being screamed at.

By his dad.

What in the world happened to me.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much last night.

And when I got up this morning, I made him a PB&J sandwich.

And I gave him a hug.

Or 10.

And when the clock hit three, I picked him up at school.

The big hand had never moved so slow as it did today.

When I got him, we went directly to the batting cage.

I knew I couldn’t change yesterday.

But I couldn’t wait to start today.

We didn’t pass go.

There was no $200.

But there was a bat.

A new bat.

Courtesy of Daddy Guilt.

(I got it on the clearance rack at 75% off, so we were both happy.)

We spent over an hour at the batting cage.

Laughing.

And smiling.

And a little teaching.

But mostly smiling.

And when the day was done we got in the car to head home.

And he said, “Thank You”.

“Thank you for taking me to the batting cages.”

Now I’m the one with tears in my eyes.

Father's Time

Phil, Mark and I have been the best of friends for nearly 30 years.

We don’t spend as much time together as we used to.

We don’t spend as much time together as we would like to.

And now we don’t even live on the same coast.

But it doesn’t take for but a few seconds for us to regain that magic.

We are warriors.

Well, we were warriors.

University High School Warriors.

We met in high school, (mumble) years ago, and hit it off immediately.

We share a lot of things in common.

Love of Sports.

Sense of Humor.

Ability to make fun of each other.

And now we have one more thing in common.

Each of us has lost his father.

I was on a house-hunting trip on Saturday when my phone rang at 11:42am.

8:42 on the west coast.

It was Phil.

Wasting no time, he informed me that his father had passed away.

His dad had been sick for quite a while.

And unfortunately his body could no longer beat the cancer which had invaded it.

I’ve known Phil for a long time.

We can say anything to each other.

But when he called today, I didn’t know what to say.

I fumbled through a couple of sentences of support, which he appreciated.

Just like when Mark’s father passed away, at least ten years ago now.

Mark’s dad was way too young and seemingly way too healthy to suddenly be taken away from us.

My dad was not as young, but also appeared to be healthy when we lost him a few years later.

Mark and I had no time to prepare for the loss of our dad.

But we have had plenty of time to think back and wonder what if.

Or why.

Or what happened.

I will NEVER forget the hug that Mark gave me the first time we saw each other after my dad passed away.

Mark is one of the funniest people I have ever met.

And there is nothing off limits when it comes to his jokes.

And sometimes it’s easier pulling a tooth out of his mouth than a straight answer.

And I am no better.

But the hug he gave me eight years ago, when my father passed away, was the moment I realized just how much he missed his dad.

I spoke with Phil on the phone three times on Saturday.

He called me once to tell me the news.

I called him twice to let him know I was thinking about him.

I could tell there was a whole lot more relief than sadness on the other end of the line.

Phil’s been preparing for this day for several years.

He just didn’t know it was going to be today.

Watching your father disappear, day-after-day-after-day, in front of your eyes, is something that I cannot relate to.

My father was here one minute and gone the next.

And there was something magical about it.

The doctor told me that he may have suffered for 15 seconds, but that was it.

Amazing.

Phil’s Dad suffered for 15 years, probably more.

Phil’s Mom and Dad were sentenced to a life together at home as she battled through a variety of illnesses and health issues that all but eliminated their mobility.

As their only child, Phil stopped being their son and took on the role of caretaker.

When Phil’s Mom passed away a few years ago, that closed the book on a dark and draining chapter in his life.

But there was no time to put that book down.

His dad needed a place to go.

Without hesitation, Phil moved his dad in with him.

Oscar and Felix had nothing on them.

Phil is someone who tries to take advantage of every moment in his life.

Phil’s Dad enjoyed sitting at home and watching TV.

And why not.

He got to see his son every day.

Phil took his dad to nice dinners.

He took him on trips.

He took him to baseball games.

All the things that a father does for his son.

Except this was a son doing it for his father.

A great son.

A son that will no doubt miss his father.

But a son that recognized that the father he had been caring for had lost his fight.

I spoke with Phil four days ago and he casually said that he didn’t know if his dad was going to be alive in two or three days.

I’m not sure he really meant it when he said it, but his words proved to be very close to the truth.

And in Phil's situation, this truth has set him free.

Welcome to the Club.