Dad--Part I

I am my father’s son.  There’s not a whole lot of doubt about that.  OK, you might not know it from looking at me, as I bear a strong resemblance to the men on Mom’s side of the family.  In fact, more than one person thought Mom’s brother was my father (something I notice more as I get older).  But if you get to know me, and you know my Dad, you know where my personality comes from.

Dad’s a great guy, and that’s something I don’t tell him often enough.  Sure, many of you have seen and/or heard my impressions of him at various times, but I love the guy.  Mom would say, “You better.  You’re just like him.”  Yeah, in a lot of ways I am.  But a good part of that is because he’s been an involved (but not overbearing) father from the start.

My earliest memory is just after we moved to West Virginia (I think I was a little under 2 at that point), sitting in the family room and rolling a little yellow football back and forth across the floor to Dad.  He taught me to throw (and catch) baseballs, footballs, and Frisbees.  I remember Dad & Uncle Art (who’s actually my Godfather, but it feels weird to call him anything else) taking me to a gym for the first time.  They played basketball, and let me play (and shoot at) the side baskets.  He assembled my first bike and taught me to ride it.  He coached my little league games, and attended just about all of my basketball games.  Heck, he’d even come out for some of the games I was just doing stats for.  He put up a basketball net at the end of the driveway shortly after we moved to Michigan, and we used to go out nearly every night after dinner and play some 1-on-1.  There were evenings when he would stand at the end of the driveway and throw footballs to Chad while I would play defense.  He taught me the importance of playing good defense, regardless of the sport.  I can’t even begin to count the number of baseball, football, basketball (college & pro), and hockey games we watched together when I was a kid.

Dad taught me a few other things as well.  While both he and Mom taught me the importance of saving, it was Dad I had to negotiate with when I wanted (or thought I deserved) a raise in my allowance.  He opened up some of his financial records to me before I had even started college and made sure I understood how (and when) to use credit.  As much as anyone, he may have started to show me that there are times to be a little more flexible with rules.  I can remember one evening during my freshman year of high school when I was freaking out about the amount of homework I had.  I had gotten home late because the basketball team (that I was doing stats for) had a road game and by the time I’d finished dinner, it was about 9:30 or 10:00.  Bedtime (yes, I still had a bedtime then) was 10:30, and I just didn’t see how I was going to get everything done.  Dad came in and said, “Look, you’re in high school now.  Do your homework, and get to bed as soon as you can.”  Little did he know that 3 years later, I’d pull my first all-nighter.  Or maybe he did.

I can still remember watching baseball playoffs with Dad when I should have been in bed (which would occasionally frustrate Mom).  But because of Dad, I saw Kirk Gibson’s home run against Eck in the ’88 Series.  We watched NC State beat Houston in the ’83 NCAA tournament final (sorry Casey, but I was pulling for Phi Slamma Jamma).  We watched Gretzky in his prime, and how much fun hockey can be when you’ve got an offensive minded team like the mid-80’s Edmonton Oilers.  I had moved back in with the parents after college, which allowed us to watch the ’93 NCAA finals between UNC and Michigan (we were both pulling for UNC).  I’m sure he can still remember me jumping off the couch and over the coffee table screaming for a traveling call on Chris Webber before the infamous “time out”.   Today, even though he’s still up in Michigan, there are games that we sort of “watch” together over the phone (thank heavens for Vonage and the flat monthly rate).

He’s been there when I needed to move in and out of dorms, buy my first car, and buy my house.  He’s there with a hug when I make it back home and before I leave again.  He’s answered my dumb questions on minor household repairs and when I’ve needed to bounce ideas off of him.  Anytime he sends me anything, there’s usually a little note in there.  

Here’s the funny thing.  He’ll probably never see this.  I’m sure Dad had no idea what a blog is, what it’s for, or that I even have 3.  But I’m sure Mom will probably tell him.  So I guess what I’m saying is…

Love ya Big Guy.  And thanks for everything.