#Hi. Hello. I am in Utter Fucking Agony emotionally

[aetherose]

PGR main story 12-25...

[davidfostercomedyblog]

The Thrill of Defeat: Remembering Dad

In his later years it was rare to get a call from Dad after 6pm, as dinner was followed up with TV and (more) wine, a formulaic pair that apparently facilitates the body’s evening intention the way coffee and eggs do its mornings, even more so with age.

It took us a while, but my brother and I both eventually learned to avoid calling him after this time, lest be reminded, via the perfect storm of decreased attention span and auditory acuity, of our father’s mortality. Dad became notorious for the abruptly terminated, 40-second phone calls, that always went something like:  

“Hey son, how ya doing? You’re good? Work’s good?”

 “Yeah, Dad, all’s pretty--“

 “Okay, gimme a call this week, I love ya, goodbye.”

“Err… what? Hello?”

So to say it came as a surprise when I saw his name pop up under “incoming” on my phone at around 10:30 one weeknight last summer would be an understatement. I looked in utter confusion at my girlfriend seated next to me on the couch.

“Who is it?” she asked, her eyes big with that classic Jewish worry, unfounded terror, which has been part of what I’ve fallen in love with, probably not so ironically.

“It’s my Dad,” I said, and relief washed over her.

“Hello?”

“Heyyy, son.”

“Hey… Dad,” the skepticism in my response as thick as if he’d walked out on us when I was six and this was the first I’m hearing from him.

“I wanted to talk to you about something about myself, if you have a minute,” and terror washed back over my face. Dad was sensitive and loving, though in typical white man fashion, not much one for emotional communication. He’d smother us with hugs and kisses and recklessly screw up our hair with an affectionate hand, but vulnerable dialogue around self-awareness was not a usual part of his repertoire. “So what could this possibly be about… at 10pm (the Dad equivalent to 4am)?”

“I think,” he started, “and by all means tell me if I’m off here…” (I already presumed he was)… “Have you ever noticed about me… well, I think I may get a bit too affected by the outcome of ballgames, you know? Like the Yankees and Giants… I may get too upset when they lose. Have you ever noticed that about me?” 

My jaw dropped to an open grin as I turned to my girl. It was like Michael Jackson asking if he may have had too much plastic surgery; or Tony Montana in the last scene of Scarface wondering if he has a coke problem. 

After the Giants lost a heartbreaking playoff game to the 49ers in 2002 my mom at the dinner table chose to find the humor in the situation: “Well, at least the Jets are still in it,” she offered as a sarcastic silver lining, knowing full well that Dad hated the Jets even more than he did the Red Sox or Cowboys.

“How would you like a fuckin’ bottle of wine broken over your face?” Dad asked Mom, and the only reason we knew he was joking was his unblemished record of non-violence. Dad was a good man, but an even better Giants fan, with little to no sense of humor around losses and disappointment.

Mom laughed him off; Dad shook his head, smiling in Jack Nicholson-like madness.

“They give me gray hairs, I tell ya, son. They give me gray hairs. I had a full head of black hair before I started watching the Giants, you know that?”

Well, I would hope so. Before you started watching them you were 9 years old.

I have vague childhood memories of dinners taking on a different tone after bad losses, and more vivid, recent memories of Dad cursing out the television if the Yankees give up even one run with a six run lead, all while sitting pretty in first place in the middle of May. I guess if you could say anything for him it’s that he lived in the moment. No matter what was going on in the game or where we were in the season, Dad was invested. A missed free throw or a four-pitch walk, especially after the Yankees had just taken the lead, and Dad’s signature catharsis would appear, a right foot slammed into the floor concurrent with the same side hand slammed into the same side (bad) knee, accompanied of course by the expletive of the moment.

My brother once remarked: “What is that move? I’ve never seen anyone else with that move before.”

That’s Dad’s move.

Dad cared, not just about the Yankees and Giants, and (20th century) Knicks, but that much more about his family, his five kids, which is likely why his passion for the game(s) was so infectious. My friend, Nick Cobb, is a hilarious stand-up comedian, who does a great bit on how absurd it is to be emotionally invested in a sports event, and every time he recites it I’m reminded of how different he and I are; how different people are; and I’m reminded of Dad.

Nick’s absolutely right. It’s illogical and immature, a tad bit insane to feel such fury around a group of guys you’ve never met before scoring less points than another such group of guys just because the former group wear shirts that have your hometown written on them. It’s probably only a notch above the animalistic frequency that propagates slavery and war, and presently our preposterous presidential debacle. Fortunately sports are much more a source of integration and celebration, and although ultimately insignificant in the higher realms of spirituality, they serve a positive purpose, if in no other way as a superficial means towards deeper connection.

In our final meal together Dad played all his classic hits: Asking me about my career, the logistics of my upcoming week, and of course if I’d been watching the Yankees playoff games. Obviously I had, and in his final days (really his final years) sports was the only subject matter about which we seemed to still communicate on an equal plain. Because of his waning faculties coupled with a general lack of understanding of the modern business climate, I often felt unfulfilled by our dialogue around my job; like it was tedious and too surface and any time I tried to delve deeper I’d lose him, frustrated between sympathy for and impatience with my father. It looks quite difficult, growing old, but also in the words of Michael Corleone (in another of our common bonds): “It’s not easy to be a son, Fredo.”

I am my father, through and through, not just according to my mom, but also in my own moments of self-reflection. When Scott Norwood missed wide right and the Giants won Super Bowl 25 Dad spent approximately five minutes crouched over the television set giving Marv Levy the middle finger, screaming at the top of his lungs: “Fuck you, Marv! FUCK YOU!” It’s a memory most etched into my brother’s mind, who was eight at the time, presumably cowering under the living room table; and we’ve since reflected as to what the exact beef was with Marv. As far as we know, Levy was a good guy, a great coach and had never harmed any women, children or small animals. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t have known as much to watch Dad berate him through the screen on what was surely one of the best days of his life.

17 years later when Plaxico Burress caught the game-winning touchdown in Super Bowl 42 to solidify the Giants’ win and ruin the Patriots’ perfect season I sprinted out of my cousin’s bedroom (I’d been watching the final quarter in a dark room by myself while our entire family sat sanely together just ten feet away) and thrust my 180 pound frame into the air to collapse upon my unprepared loved ones on the couch. I hurt my brother’s knee, then ran into the room and destroyed my bed frame. In the days after the parade I was experiencing such severe chest pains that I had to go to the hospital. All tests were negative. I just had to calm down.

My opinion is that one of our main purposes in life is to take as much of our parents’ good as possible, and leave as much of the bad. This is a goal I think I’ve at least matured into in the realm of sports, as I still celebrate the joy of victory, but don’t as much attach myself to the agony of defeat. Whereas I once punched a gaping hole in my bedroom wall when John Starks went 3/19 in Game 7, and had to sit in silent memoriam for almost an hour when Mariano blew the save to the Diamondbacks in ‘01, I find in recent years that I have an easier time moving on.

“It’s just not worth it,” I explained to Dad on the phone. “Like, we’re so lucky to be Giants fans, and God bless us, Yankees fans - overall, we’re quite spoiled, and get the opportunity to celebrate much more often than other fans. And I have you to thank for that! So I think it’s important to keep in mind going into these games that winning is a luxury that we just can’t expect to happen the majority of the time. It’s impossible. This isn’t to be negative, but just a bit realistic in our expectations so as to better, achem… manage our emotions… you know?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Had he fallen asleep? “Dad?”

“Yeah, I think you’re right… So you have noticed that about me then?”

LOL! “Yes, I think that’s fair to say. I mean, I think it’s great, and it’s a passion you’ve passed down to me, which I appreciate, but I think it’s important to keep things in perspective. Like I may get mad at a playoff game, a win-or-the-season’s-over kind of game, but I don’t allow myself to get angry at a regular season baseball game, of which there are 162! I think that’s an important distinction.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” he responded. “I think that’s good advice, son. I’m gonna try to remember that,” and in characteristic fashion he told me he loved me, hung up and was gone, all before I could fully reciprocate: “I love you.”

Nevertheless I believed him. I’d spent years trying to convince him to eat healthier, to drink less (alcohol) and more water, and really never got through. But one five-minute conversation on a random summer weeknight and I suspected it was actually transformative. It was less than two months before he passed away, and it might sound silly, but I wonder if it wasn’t one of the last lessons Dad had to learn before moving on. Everything about it was just so odd, the timing in relation to his death, the timing of the phone call and energy of his response.

Like anyone who’s lost a parent, I think about Dad often, but especially after Yankees wins, which was always the best time to catch him, in good enough spirits to occasionally generate a call doubly as long, even multiple minutes! I realize I miss sharing that with him. I miss being able to connect with him, as after certain games I still observe my mind’s kneejerk reaction: Call Dad – but I can’t anymore. I’m so lucky, so grateful, to have had the father I did for as long as I did, whose good was so good, and bad was at worst just sort of hilarious, and promise to do my best to continue to celebrate like a fool, but also to not adopt his move of the foot slam/hand into knee slam. That’s Dad’s move.