Graduation Day

Drew got his degree yesterday. He had some bumps along the road, but he dug in, worked like hell (the way he always does) and brought me to the edge of tears watching him walk up in the procession to the stage. Every day I think about it and every day I cannot fathom how incredible my children are. How far they have come, how they have managed to not just survive but overcome some really low points at critical times of their formative years. I regret every nano second where I was so wrapped up in my own emotional depths that I was physically present, and always "provided" but was so distant that I have to thank them for propping me up and getting me through those times. Maybe that's why it's so emotional now, and maybe why I'm so damn proud that I feel like bursting. Add on to all of this a soon to be "third" child, Vicki, Drew's fiance who has been so good for him that I can't thank her enough either.

Andrew, congratulations on your degree!!, Kate, Andrew and Vicki, thanks for making me so proud and for reminding me what it is to be loved.

Full Circle

I found, when growing up (which, of course, would imply that I've grown up when really I'm still in the process), that my relationship with my father was complicated, bordering on the mysterious. As a toddler and pre-teen, he was everything, we'd play catch, we'd swim, he would, as much as his hideous shift work bus driving schedule would allow, spend as much time with me as possible. When I discovered golf at the age of 13, he took it up about a year later. We spent a lot of time together in cars, in the pre-dawn hours, driving to various golf courses where we'd joke, play (badly most of the time) and again, just spend time. I still remember vividly his shot at the 14th hole at Clearview in Queens. It was a par 3, he had a favorite club, a five iron he bought from Korvettes sporting goods department, not knowing when he bought it, it was from a woman's set of clubs that had been broken apart to sell, he loved using that club. He hit the tee shot as well as hit anything, it majestically sailed into the air and we heard it plunk down against the bottom of the flag. As luck would have it, it plunked "out" not in, and even when he removed the flag, the ball stayed out of the cup, cheating him out of what would have been his only hole in one ever. We all laughed, (gave him a 2 on the scorecard), and continued on.

He is also responsible for my love of baseball. I remember watching  him play in a bus company softball league as a very young boy, with a glove the likes of which you can only see at Cooperstown now, (and boy do I wish I had held onto it over the years). I also remember the night he came home from work,came to the park where I was playing (I believe I was 8 years old at the time) and showed me the two tickets he had for a Yankee game. I was glowing. We only had black and white tv so when I got to the stadium and we finally saw the field in full color, my eyes flew open and I don't think, ever closed. (to this day, when I listen to a game on the radio, THAT is the field that is in my mind's eye). He allowed me one souvenir, I chose a Yogi Berra pin with a ribbon and a "bronze" bat and ball hanging from it. (THAT I still have!!) and we watched every inning of a 5-0 Yankee loss where Luis Aparicio, the shortstop of the from then on hated Orioles stole bases at will from my beloved Yogi, and seemed to single handedly  take the game from the Yankees. After the game we walked out on the field (well, I was floating over it), past the monuments and out the Yankee bullpen. (you were allowed to do that back in "the day"), and took the D-train home.

High School and College followed and put fissures in the relationship. So very much time was wasted with disagreements. Far too stupid and far too many to list here. My children then came along, and with them, a renewed closeness. He was the grandfather that everyone would love to have. He helped me buy then paint my first house, sleeping on the floor for a few days so he could do the work while I was at work. He was diagnosed with lung cancer in early 1993, the victim of very bad HMO medical coverage that had missed it much earlier we found out much too late. We had the opportunity to spend time that spring, though by then his oxygen tank was his constant companion. I will never forget our last walk together, about an hour or so around the local streets in Trumbull, joking, reminiscing, settling all business that seemed to have gone unsaid for a ages.

I will also not forget saying goodbye to him as he was in a coma in Calvary Hospice in the Bronx, he seemed to be hanging on and after a while I just said to him, "it's ok to go if you want". We got the call about 8 hours later that he had passed.

Now as my own children age and make me more proud each day, I see what all the hub-bub is about. I never got the chance to tell him I understood and I appreciated all that he put aside for me because I don't think I ever really understood it myself until it was too late. "I was young and I didn't know what to do when I saw your best steps stolen away from you", funny enough the Bruce song that came on the radio ("Walk Like a Man" is the title)  as I was driving to the funeral home to make his final arrangements. It still gets me 17 years later.

Dad, thank you, I love you, and I'll always miss you.