As I ran onto the basketball court before my first Varsity game, I felt a bundle of nerves, mixed with adrenaline, well up inside of my chest. I’d worked hard, for many years, to finally be able to wear the signature warm-ups of the Varsity team. Memories swirled through my head, in tempo with the rhythm of the pep band—late afternoon free-throw shooting at the neighborhood park, morning runs to build my endurance, and pick-up basketball games around a metal hoop with my dad and younger brother.
My brother had no finesse on the basketball court, and his primary accomplishment was perhaps the number of jammed fingers he’d given me over the years. My dad was a direct descendant of the coaching-school-of-tough-love, truly believing that no foul was ever committed unless blood was drawn. Yet, as I ran onto that basketball court, with my ponytailed hair and number fourteen jersey, I knew undoubtedly that my dad would be in the bleachers cheering for me. I did not anticipate, however, that he would be cheering during the warm-ups. As my team circled the court and began doing lay-up drills, I had to motion to my dad to come to the edge of the court, at which point I shouted over the music, “Dad, you’re not supposed to cheer during warm-ups, okay? Can you please wait for the game to start?”
My dad was twenty-one-years old when I was born, after marrying my mom directly out of high school, and entering the work force, as a baker. I’ve heard some speak of their fathers as though they are enigmas they barely knew—men, who worked all day to provide for their families, yet didn’t speak a lot about themselves, while their children respected them from a distance. Yes, my dad was like a lot of fathers who retired in front of the television each night after a long day of work, and whose primary goal in life was to provide for his family. Aside from that, my dad was the exact opposite of reserved. There was not one shy bone in his body, not one ounce of ability to keep his feelings hidden from his kids. He was part historian, part philosopher, part outgoing salesman—trapped inside the body of a baker.
My dad had multiple ideas and theories, along with a mountain of historical facts which consumed his thoughts on both long road trips and short jaunts across town. As my brother, sisters, and I zoned out on his reenactment of the Lewis and Clark Expedition toward the Pacific Ocean, our dad continued teaching us, in his animated way. It didn’t register that we were barely interested, or that our eyes had begun to float toward the back of our heads—he knew that either osmosis or some other life form was helping us to absorb what he lectured. My dad could’ve written a textbook on how to handle sullen teenagers. At a stage of development where a lot of parents began to obsess over receiving silent and stoic behavior, he ignored it and continued to educate us in the only way he knew how—by persistence.
Of all of the things I learned from my dad, a handful stand out. His most common phrase when I was an adolescent was, “boys will ruin your legs.” To this day, I’m not really sure what he meant by that. Perhaps it was to instill fear in me that by becoming involved with a member of the opposite sex, I would in fact, forfeit muscle tone. Further, he was adamantly opposed to me dating upperclassmen. He gravely told me that older boys only wanted one thing, and it wasn’t help with homework. What that translated to was that if I brought one of these scary older guys to our house, they would certainly get a personal tour of his gun collection. Shopping for dresses was always a fun experience with my dad. Anytime he pointed out a dress to me I would make a mental note that it wasn’t the right one. His saying, “this would look great on you,” actually meant, “not one ounce of your flesh will be seen through this dress which is the fabric equivalent of a couch cover.”
My dad knew we were lying by looking at the bottom of our tongues for the presence of blue lines. We’d no idea that those were actually veins which were always present—in our minds, he was a genius capable of espionage. Whenever he suggested going out for a family adventure, we knew we’d be taking a load of garbage, to the dump. If Dad talked about driving to the perfect picnic location, we could pretty much count on the fact that we would spend three hours in the car looking for this magical place before he settled on a different one. For my dad, it was never about the destination—he enjoyed the journey, because that meant time together in the car.
Dad was the master of home projects, and would rather spend every available moment he had working around the house, rather than hiring contractors, to do it. In his pursuit of home makeovers, he was an equal opportunity employer, which meant he hired—free of charge—his children. There was no such thing as “man’s work” or “woman’s work”—we were all created equal and capable of helping out with painting projects, laying out shingles as he roofed the house, and holding of the flashlight, while at the same time, staying out of his light.
Yes, I knew my dad would be out there cheering for my first Varsity basketball game, as he had been for every other game I’d played in. Although I hadn’t anticipated him to be cheering so loudly during our organized warm-up routine, I wasn’t surprised to see it. Dad was my ever present fan club president; the man who wore my picture button proudly on his winter coat, who still carried my tattered first grade photo in his wallet to show co-workers, and who never forgot to say I love you, before leaving for work in the morning. He was the dad who followed our winning basketball season all the way to the State Championship, and who was there with tears in his eyes, following the game. Although I wasn’t the star of the team, he was proud of me; and if I would have challenged his pride, I wouldn’t have seen any blue lines beneath his tongue, because it was the truth. As the basketball nets were being cut down by our team captains and the championship trophy carried by our coach, I ran to the edge of the bleachers and hugged my dad—who was, of course—still cheering.
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