The snippet I heard is "the Royals are down to seven All-Star starters," and the thought was "finally, someone making a lick of sense."
Uh, no.
Uh, no.
The snippet I heard is "the Royals are down to seven All-Star starters," and the thought was "finally, someone making a lick of sense."
Uh, no.
0 Comments
Dear Dad, How in the world did I wind up a sportswriter after all these years? It's certainly a long story, isn't it? But the more I think about it, the more I realize you'd not be surprised I wound up here. You always knew I could do it. Your grandsons are to that point where they ask a lot of questions about the games we watch. Back when I was their age I'd walk in the room and ask "what's the score? " You finally got fed up enough to say "look, they'll put the score on the screen in a few minutes. Until then, just watch the (dang) game!" Thanks to modern technology, the questions are more like "what does 2nd & 7 mean?" I think of you every time they ask those questions. We listened to a lot of Royals games on the front porch. So when you came home muttering to Mom about needing to write a radio commercial for the hardware store we all worked at, I asked if i could try. "Sure, what the.." Never mind. We know what you said. About an hour later, I came back and read you my commercial. Then I read it again while you timed it. It had everything you wanted in it, and came in at 29 seconds. You looked at Mom like "wow, the kid did it!" Two weeks later, listening to another Royals game on the front porch, after the bottom of the seventh, with the Royals leading the Rangers 5-2, you sushed me for the first time ever for talking during a commercial. I mean, c’mon Dad; you trained me to talk only during the commercials. Then I listened, and as I recognized the words you just smiled, and 29 seconds later you told me "you really ought to be a writer." That fall, my math teacher (a high school classmate of yours) had been in the store and you showed him some stuff I'd written. He told me he thought I should be a writer, too. I smiled and told him "is that like the biology teacher telling me I should be a butcher?" That night, you met me at the door, trying to look mad. "I got a call from your school today. Seems like you need to learn to take a compliment!" Anyway, I didn't pursue writing much after high school, and together we figured out running a hardware store wasn't all that different from running a fast food restaurant. You supported whatever decision I made, as long as you could be convinced I’d thought it through. I didn’t say you always agreed; we know better than that. By the way, I always appreciated your commitment to learning, Dad. And man, did you get smarter as I got older. When I went back to school and decided to pursue writing, all you said was "well, it's about dang time." I sent you clips of things I got published, and when I came home to Kansas I saw where you'd stashed a lot of them in your truck. I wondered if you’d be showing them to your friends. By the time I got this gig, you had moved on from this life. But when I told Momma all she could say was "oh, your father..." She didn't need to choke out the rest. You always knew I could do this, maybe even after that dream had been suppressed, mutilated, beaten, flushed and otherwise set aside. I wish you were around to tell me you told me so, but that's really selfish on my part. Your pain is no more, and you're in a place where you don't have to ask your oldest son "do you have any idea what time it is" ever again. Now, sometimes, I take your grandsons with me when I live the sportswriter life. When I do, it's like you're there, too. They still ask a lot of questions, but the oldest one used the information gathered to write a paper in class on which high school has the best popcorn. A chip? We’ll see, but I’ll admit I’m working on it. It seems a little hollow to say "thanks for everything, Dad," and you'd probably be a little put off that I wrote to you in the paper. It's the best way I could think of to really show the love and appreciation I feel. Well, the good news is at least it's not another tie I found on the clearance rack. Happy Father's Day, Dad. We all love you more than words could ever say. Love, Mark |
AuthorChristian, son, brother, husband, dad, and full-time sports writer in Indiana. Archives
February 2019
Categories |