Father’s Day Remeberance

Father’s Day Remembrance

As I waved to the conservative black sedan pulling away from our suburban driveway, I heard my neighbor’s final words as he descended into the car. Lumbering into the front seat, Tony bellowed, “If the Yanks go to the series and I get tickets, you’re not goin’.” He smiled as he said it, but I knew he still meant it. Tony wanted me to go to this game because he had taken David, my husband, to a World Series Game last season, promising me an opening day ticket. He just did not understand. Yet. His two daughters are still very young—three and one. With twenty-five years of parenting six children, I realized that this would be more important to our eleven-year-old son, Michael. I made the sacrifice for my child. Selflessness is something that I find far too lacking in our society; yet, it is the one thing that parents can teach their children with very little effort. To miss Opening Day at Yankee Stadium with a free ticket is not painful whatsoever when I considered the memory that my youngest son could make with his father.

It was not that I did not want to go. I really, really did. It was a chance of a lifetime! This girl from Mississippi whose father was an armchair quarterback for his entire life could not believe her good fortune when she received the invitation. I love sports- all sports, but I especially love the Yankees. Still, there was more to my decision than meets the eye. You see, I remember my first fishing trip with my daddy. I was eight years old and a tomboy. I was everything you would expect in a tomboy: skinned knees, ripped shorts, unkempt hair. (Okay, the hair was not my fault. My hair was always kept quite short due to the numerous cowlicks scattered about my head, making it impossible for my mama to get my hair to stay down.) Where were we? Eight years old… first fishing trip with my daddy.

Fearful that I might drown, my mama made my father promise not to take me out in a boat, so we headed for the Ross Barnett Reservoir and found a shady spot below the spillway where my daddy assured me that we would be successful fishermen. Being eight, I was not prepared for the “baiting of the hook” aspect involved in fishing. My father tried to demonstrate the proper technique necessary to keep the cricket on the hook as it dangled from the end of my cane pole. I threw my line into the water; but before my daddy could bait his own hook, I had caught a small catfish. The demonstration of baiting was repeated, and I cast again. Once more, I swung my pole out of the water with a small crappie (i.e. a white perch). Now, somewhat frustrated, my daddy baited my hook with the admonition that this was the last time he would ever bait my hook for me. If I wanted to fish, I would find the guts (literally and figuratively) to help myself. He was going to fish. I immediately caught a nice-sized bream. I learned to bait my own hook that day, but we caught a total of three fish. That’s right….not another bite for the next five hours. We drank icy, cold Coca-Colas in six and three-quarter-ounce glass bottles. Sometimes, we would put our peanuts in our Cokes. It is a memory of my father that I will always cherish: his patience, just the two of us, the private jokes-- these can never be replaced. I sensed that I had the chance to give that moment to my husband and son.

Yankee Stadium Opening Day- the smell of freshly cut grass, coupled with the smells of oiled leather, steaming hotdogs, and popcorn; Crackerjacks stuck in your teeth and cotton candy’s characteristic pink and blue stained lips; the national anthem and West Point cadets smartly dressed in their gray-over-gray uniforms. It is one of those rituals that are ingrained in the brain-- like the first daffodils pushing their sleepy heads through the soft brown earth to welcome spring. It is like Easter Sunday with new gloves and pocket book-- with a brand new Easter bonnet trying to escape my head in the spring wind while I walk into church. I swish as I walk, wearing at least five crinoline slips under a perfectly starched cotton sateen dress adorned with a huge double bow in back. Opening Day has that special significance—it helps usher in Spring. We have watched it for years, but we have never been close enough to attend. Even my husband was jittery with anticipation.

My husband grew up in Elizabeth, New Jersey. Always a Yankees’ fan, he refutes the rumored stories that still circulate among old schoolmates that there may have been some skipped classes and unscheduled trips under the Hudson River. The world may never know the complete truth, but to my knowledge, David had never been to an Opening Day game at Yankee Stadium. He left home in 1977 to serve his country. We had just recently returned to retire “down the shore.”

With over twenty-eight years devoted to the United States Army, David has served his country faithfully. Our family has traipsed after him when allowed. Many times, he has left us behind for hazardous duties. In fact, during most of Michael’s lifetime, David has been a weekend dad or a totally absent dad due to his military duty. It is not easy to be a normal family when Pop is seldom around. Still, we have managed to create a cohesive family unit with our own traditions and special memories-- no matter where we made our home in the world.

Michael was too young to remember many of our family’s big memories. He was too young to remember how every time we moved into a new house, David would put up the basketball goal, and our family would have the traditional first game at the new family abode. I think he can remember the traditional family football on Christmas Day. The most memorable one was at Fort Drum, New York, in approximately five feet of snow—with snow still falling.

Still, Michael and David need some memories that belong to them alone.

So… I feigned a headache and bowed out, allowing the extra ticket to go to Michael. Here I sit writing my apologetic paper. The game has just ended. The Yankees won! Yea! Michael called me from his father’s cell phone before the game to tell me that he had eaten a hotdog and a pretzel. He got a poster and a collectible player card on entry. Pop bought him a new Yankees’ cap and something else… I could not hear over the roar of the crowd. They will be home soon. There will be tons of plays replayed and moments relived. I will listen intently to every word. We will laugh and hug and eat big bowls of lentil soup and homemade bread. And I will file these moments away in my heart as I watch my husband with our youngest son, sharing a special memory that is theirs alone to share. And what about Tony and the possibility of World Series tickets? Well, if he does not have enough to go around, I will be watching from the comfort of my home. After all, life is not about just me. It is about selflessness and what I can give. Hopefully, today I gave my husband and son a shared memory that will last forever.