FROM FATHER TO SON

The young boy watched closely.
What a thing of beauty it was to see his father cradling the black, sixteen pound bowling ball, gracefully stepping forward-one, two, three, four, and ending with a final smooth left foot slide. Dad released the ball and the pins at the end of the long wooden alley exploded.

"Thats the way you do it Billy! Snap your right hand up like you're holding a suitcase or shaking someone's hand" he instructed, "And don't forget to hit that second arrow!"

Dad always made sports look so easy. Had it really been almost fifty years since that first bowling lesson?

I gently place the dog-eared scrapbook on my lap and open it ever so carefully. One must be cautious when examining precious memories, especially the ones my grandmother collected for her son. They fall apart easily.

It isn't long before the headlines capture my attention:
"JONES AND PLOPAN LEAD IN VICTORY!"
"RED RAIDERS SWAMP FOE BY 19-0 SCORE!"
"ROGER JONES IS ONLY ECORSE BOY TO WIN TWO SETS!"
It amazes me still that those faded newspaper cutouts refer to a)Basketball b)Football c)Tennis and somewhere in that scrapbook there are at least a few articles about Dad's boxing exploits. He was just plain good at everything he tried as far as sports (golfing, baseball and "fishing" included). Maintaining a steady job is a subject for another time but eventually he excelled at that too.

My friend Tony and I stand in the backcourt opposite my father who is in the process of rising up towards the sky and deftly smashing a tennis ball across a vinyl trimmed net. For a change, the ball does not appear to be moving anywhere near as fast as it usually does. I eagerly charge forward to smash it back.

Incredibly, the slow moving serve arcs softly over the net, spins upward perhaps a foot and then dribbles back to the cement. My racket whooshes forward just above the apex of the balls bounce. My Dad is chuckling.

"Dad!!! No Fair!!!" I whine in my rage filled thirteen year-old voice, "You said you wouldn't put spin on it!!!"
Not too much later, Dad hits a slicing drop shot which causes Tony to severely twist his ankle trying to return it. The match is over for this particular day and in the end we were all laughing about Dad's trickery. Besides, we knew that some of what he had taught us (the hard way) would come in handy in matches against our buddies eventually.

Not all of the scrapbooks contents deal with stellar athletic endeavors; there is a faded musical program noting a piece my father is playing (or singing); an article referring to his induction into the Marine Corp and more than a few souvenir dance booklets. Dancing was a skill that helped him win the heart and feet of my mother. He was awesome at "hoofing" it too...just ask my wife, who had several opportunities to swing dance with him before his untimely passing.

Early last month, my cousin Phil (the family historian) had asked if any family members wished to add anything about Dad, who left this world in September of 1976. We were now celebrating the occasion of his birth in June of 1923.

In addition to what I've already written, I wish to say this Phil: Out of all the "Uncles", my Dad was certainly the most well-rounded (if not the best) athlete of the entire bunch. I only wish that he lived a lot longer and taken better care of himself. There were so many stories I've missed about legendary family golf, horseshoe and other competitions I would love to have heard and Dad? Well, he never was one to brag about his own exploits. Thank god his mom kept track of some of them.

The sturdy young man with long brown hair squats and positions himself in the stance of a baseball catcher. The pitcher is his nearly fifty year old father who begins a slow windmill-like windup as he prepares to deliver the ball. This is how they played it in the Marines...fast pitch, underhand.

In the span of perhaps a second, the softball whizzes like an out of control mini-Sputnik, wobbling and dipping toward the catchers unprotected face. Instinctively, he raises his mitt.

Having saved himself a broken nose or worse, the young man removes his glove and massages his swollen, reddening fingers.
"I think thats all I want to play for today, Dad", he says. "I guess fast-pitch isn't for sissies."

That may have been the last opportunity I had to play sports with my father. We were on a bowling league (sponsored by the "Brass Collar Bar") for a couple of years. Before or after that game of catch? I can't really remember.

I do know that he was proud of me in spite of my own limited athletic skills. He took great joy in the fact that I won the high game of the season in that league and yes, most of it was due to his long ago bowling instructions.

"Happy Birthday" and thanks again Dad. I'll be visiting the scrapbook soon and marvelling anew at what an enormously talented athlete and father you were. I never got the chance to tell you in person but I have it now...I love you.

Bill.