I Blame My Father

I blame my father for getting me hooked on sports – even though I never met the man until I was nearly three years old.

You see, my father spent the first two-and-a-half years of my life stationed in France during World War II. He was assigned to a bomber squadron with the Army Air Force and flew missions over Germany on a regular basis. After the war ended and he walked thru the front door for the first time in my life, my mother smiled and said:

“Barry, this is your daddy.”

I ran from that man. I hid behind a living room chair and cried out loud.

“That’s not my daddy.”

You see, in my three-year-old world, my daddy was a framed photograph sitting on the mantle – maybe six-by-nine inches tall. My daddy wore an Army uniform – just like this man. But my daddy didn’t have a mustache – like this man.

Plus this man stood six-feet-three-inches tall – and not six-by-nine inches.

My mom and dad put their heads together.

He went upstairs and shaved off that mustache. When he came back down, he crouched on the floor in front of me while my mother explained the difference between a photograph and a person made out of flesh and blood.

From that day forward, my dad and I developed a special father-and-son relationship to make up for the time we lost – and that relationship lasted for as long as he lived.

Unemployed

My dad found himself an unemployed school teacher with a wife and child to support.

With little opportunity in his hometown of Nanticoke, he sought employment elsewhere. To do so, he relocated to Collingdale – 100-or-so miles to the south, in the suburbs of Philadelphia – where he found a job teaching school.

He rented a room in a boarding house on Cherry Street for the first year and commuted back and forth on weekends to spend time with us. The second year, my parents bought a home in Folcroft and we moved.

Locker Rooms, Football Fields & Basketball Courts

Soon thereafter, the school appointed him as the athletic director – and just that quickly – locker rooms became my home away from home. I was four years old and my dad used football fields and basketball courts as my day-care.

Players walked around in jockstraps and put on their uniforms. Coaches gave pep talks. Players went onto the field or onto the court – and I witnessed everything as it happened.

By the age of ten, I ran water buckets onto the football field during timeouts, cleaned mud out of cleats with a tongue depressor, and stuck smelling salts under noses. I observed players up close in the midst of battle and saw the dirt and blood and bruises on their sweaty faces. Like a sponge, I absorbed everything the players said and everything they did.

During basketball games, I stood under the basket during warm-ups and tossed the balls back onto the court so players could keep shooting. I handed out towels during timeouts and listened to the coach instructing his players. I folded players’ jackets when they ran onto the court and handed the jackets back when substitutes replaced them.

I learned about winning and losing – and that both were vital parts of life.

That was my introduction to the world of sports and, by now, you should understand why I blame my father for getting me hooked.

Happy Father’s Day to My Daddy – he would’ve been around 104. Too bad you weren’t here today because you could’ve gone to the Phillies game with your son, your grandson, and your great-grandson – and gotten one of those nifty Hawaiian shirts.

Keeping your spirit alive.