More on Fathers and Sons

(This is unedited and I held back on the language, but it involves death so there is some profanity. If that offends you, stop reading here.)

Today is 9 years since I got that phone call. Its one of those calls that you know is bad when the phone rings. I was 29. I didn't know what to do or how I was supposed to react. So I cried. A lot. I can't think of too many things that rank up there with losing one's father for a man. Losing mom......losing a spouse......losing a child. Those all suck. Losing a father sucks a lot.

I know I am not the first to lose a dad in my 20s. I know I won't be the last. I get it. There are people who have dad die when they are 5, 8, 10, 12, whatever. I am sure it sucks then too. I don't know. I can only speak of my experiences and what I have learned.

We dropped off the kids and flew to San Diego. I got there and had to help out my mom pick out a casket. Talk about creepy. Casket "shopping" is absurd. Who the hell likes that crap? We had a funeral the next day. Somehow, some way, I made it through the funeral. I guess its an honor to be a pall bearer.............but I don't know. It sucks. You don't really want to be a pall bearer because it means someone close has died. After all, has a stranger's family ever asked you to be a pall bearer? I doubt it.

After the funeral, we went back to my mom's house. I had to answer the phone when someone called. They asked for my dad. It hurt so much to have to say he had died. Its one of those things that you always remember. People came and were nice. They wanted to share stories. I wanted nothing to do with it. Then I had to listen to my aunt, my mom's sister, talk about how this was a blessing, how he wasn't suffering anymore.

Don't ever fucking say that to anyone. There is someone, somewhere who doesn't think its a blessing. Maybe you do. Maybe someone else does. I swear there is someone who doesn't think its a blessing. And if you do say that, the person who doesn't find it a blessing has my permission to kick the living crap out of you.

How the fuck was this a blessing for me? I was 29. I had just graduated from law school. I had two kids - who knew two more were on the way? Worse of all, I didn't return my dad's last call to me. Yep, that's me, the fuck up who didn't pick up the phone to call my dad back when he left me a message from the hospital. Why not? Why the hell would I? My whole life, my dad had Parkinson's. He was in the hospital for all kinds of weird things, including hurting his back sleeping on a bed. Seriously. This was some stomach blockage. He was supposed to be discharged. It wasn't a big deal. Then he had a heart attack - and gone. Just like that. No chance to talk to him, no chance to say goodbye. Nothing.

We had a little service, I guess, at the retirement home. People came and talked more, hugged, and drank. It was a celebration of a guy who made friends everywhere he went. I can't think of one person who didn't like my dad.

So I think about that a lot. And this year, its my year to make September better. So maybe the guilt should be gone. Maybe its time to say it: I fucked up. I can never get that time back. Its my biggest regret in life. I own it. I did it. No one else made me. In my list of fuck ups in my life, and I have some doozies, there is none bigger than this one. I should have picked up the damn phone, dialed his number and talked to him. It doesn't matter if I had nothing to say. It doesn't matter if he wanted to ask me about his computer, which he usually did, or his fantasy football team or the fucking weather, 70 and sunny in San Diego 300 days out of the year. None of that matters. I should have picked up the fucking piece of crap phone and called him. I didn't. Its my fault. I get it.

So what have I learned? I don't know. I was out on the soccer field today. The weather was nice. Cool, a bit of sun. Green grass. White lines. And I was thinking what the hell am I doing out here? I am 38 years old. I have one screwed up knee and one on the way. I am old. I am out of shape since I can't exercise with my bad knee. I am way over matched by these 20 somethings who come out there, are faster, bigger, stronger, and younger.

But, its my connection to my dad. And its all I have left. As long as I am on the field, playing the way he taught me to play, I have some connection. At some point, it will end. I know. I can't play forever. 10 years? 12 years? Maybe less, maybe a few more.

But today we were out there playing. Last 5. I was tired. I was sore. I didn't feel so good. And it didn't matter. For 9 years, I have picked up a piece of grass, kissed it and thrown it into the air. (Yeah, make fun of it, I dare you. A guy did a few years ago in our pick up league. 10 yards I sent him on a clean shoulder charge.) Its my thing. We called last 5 and I did it again today. The other team didn't score. I could feel my dad there with me.

I know. Its crazy. He wasn't there. He isn't there anymore. He can't be. But he is. And not just on the soccer field.

I know he is there when I am with my kids. I know he is there when I am in court. Sometimes, when a debt collector is really pissing me off, he is there. He is there when I am up speaking in front of a group. He encouraged me in my speech and debate. He was there when the damn Toyota Lexus won my first extemporaneous speech tournament.

He also taught me a lot of things and he is there with me when I remember those. He taught me that each generation should try to do better than the prior. Its why he valued education so much. My grandparents weren't educated. My grandfather sold toilet fixtures then worked on bombs in WWII. Then back to selling toilets. My dad put himself through school - bachelor's, masters and a PhD in pharmaceutical chemistry. I think 3 people know what that is.

(As an aside, the guy knew more about chemistry than anyone else I know. He couldn't teach me freaking high school chemistry. I barely passed. Dang good thing the teacher was 25, cute and I wanted her to think I was smart. But he could calculate present value in his head but couldn't teach me how to make H20.)

He passed on the value of education to me. Bachelor's degree, CPCU, law school. He saw me graduate. He talked to me after I took the bar exam. He never saw me sworn in as an attorney. He never had the chance to watch me practice law. Of course, there is a negative side to this. I could never have gone into business. I didn't want to have to compete with his legacy. Stupid, yes. But that is how I saw it.

Now, pushing 40, I look back and I realize its not a competition in terms of who makes more money, who has more things. He wanted me to learn from his mistakes. He was gone a lot. He traveled for business and wasn't home for more than 2 weeks at a time until I was in high school. I realize that there is more to being successful than making money. You have to figure out how you define a success and then reach for that. So while I will never have a PhD in anything, while I will never invent anything or have any patents or buy any companies, I don't need to. I realized that doing better means being there for my kids. Being around for them when they need me. Spending time with them doing things that they like - acting class, dance class, boy scouts, whatever.

He taught me that each generation also has it harder than the prior. My grandparents dealt with the great depression. My parents dealt with the cold war. My generation has Iraq, 9/11, drugs in school. My kids have issues that I haven't even figured out yet. But I could talk to my dad about these things. At first, we talked when he drove me to high school. Then we talked when I would come home from college for visits. Then over a game of pool at the retirement community. I know its my obligation to find that time with my kids.

He taught me to enjoy life. He always told me that if we got an inheritance it would be because he died before he could spend it all. I thought he was joking, but you never really knew. I remember he fired his first financial planner in San Diego. The guy was a jackass, but that isn't why he was fired. He was fired because he told my dad to stop buying diamonds. Yep. He thought my dad shouldn't buy my mom diamonds. My dad fired him. He had his toys. He went from his dream car, an 84 Corvette to a Chrysler LeBaron convertible with a 5.0 engine AND a turbo. Yeah, that thing went fast. Then a 72 Buick Skylark - that went faster. He liked his fast cars and his toys.

He passed that on to me. I don't know whether it was driving the LeBaron in high school and going way too fast, or driving that Skylark cross country with my dad and my brother. Somewhere along the way, he passed on his love of cars to me. He didn't work on them. He just admired them - and drove them. Delaware is still a blur when he and I were driving alone to a soccer tournament in the Corvette. I like my toys. I admit it. I got that from him. I realize, especially now, that life is too short. You should enjoy it. I don't buy into this idea that you should buy some $10,000 car if you really want, and can afford, the $20,000 car. Get it if you can afford it and enjoy it. I assure you my dad enjoyed everything he had and hasn't enjoyed anything in the last 9 years. He can't.

So here I am - 9 years almost to the hour when my dad passed away. I have learned that I have to go back to San Diego. I need to revisit some of those places that I enjoyed with my dad. I made some progress this year. In June, I took my kids to Nick's at the Beach, a place my dad loved, Del Mar beach, where I learned to boogie boards on Wednesday nights in the summer while he bbq'd with his friends. I visited the cemetery. I drove past my old house, past his retirement community.

And I sit and cry sometimes. Not often. I still miss him, but I have learned that its part of life. We live, we grow, we die. Those of us who live have to remember those of us who died and the lessons we learned. I am going to pass on those lessons to my kids and try to let the guilt go.

I miss you dad. I love you dad. I know someway, somehow, you are up there and looking out for me. I appreciate that and I hope I make you proud. I love you.

On birthdays and aging

Am I better off dead?
Am I better off a quitter?

With apologies to The Script. Birthdays are odd. I recently had one. It was my first since my mom passed away. Odd that it got to me a bit. She hasn't called me on my birthday in 5 or 6 years. She just hasn't. We weren't that close. I loved her. She loved me. We didn't talk on birthdays. Heck, she didn't call me on Fathers Day. Why? Because I wasn't her father. Odd, but that is how we were.

So it felt odd on my birthday. She wasn't there. Not that it was different, but it was different. It felt odd. It felt strange. My wife did a great job making it a good day and I did my best to make it a good day. But it was off.

Getting older sucks. I am now pushing 40 - closely. 40 seems old. Not old like I need to go to a nursing home. But old like are my days on the pitch numbered? Am I going to be able to run anymore? I know I can, but it hits me as odd that time is passing me.

I have been more nostalgic lately. I have thought back about my childhood, about growing up. When I was getting frozen yogurt, or frogen yozurt as it was called at Penguins when I was in high school, I heard a song that my parents used to listen to. I was 14. We were driving to Las Vegas. It was my first trip there. Circus Circus.

And I have been thinking about the future. With apologies to Live: I don't need no one to tell me about heaven/I look at my daughter, and I believe. I see my kids and I see a future. I see Brooklyn, my little miracle. I see Miles, he was born after my dad passed away, but he is my dad - or as close as possible. I see Kyle, my mini-me, who doesn't share my DNA, but I now know how I frustrated my parents so much.

And I see Tyler. He missed my birthday. For the first time since 2000, I didn't have my first born with me. I miss him. I love him. And he wasn't here. And it sucks. It sucks beyond words.

It was an interesting birthday. There was good - it was better than in the last several years. But it was sad, my mom was gone and Tyler wasn't with me. I think, though, that this sums it up best:

Every memory of walking out the front door
I found the photo of the friend that I was looking for
It's hard to say it
Time to say it
Goodbye, Goodbye
Goodbye

Yeah, I have those photos, and even the ones that aren't on paper, aren't on the computer, they are in a place where they can't be destroyed by water, by fire, by a crashed computer. My mind. I still see my birthday party at McDonalds. I still see my first birthday with Tyler. Those are the memories I will remember as my 30s end, my 40s begin.

And despite what those sports guys say, my soccer days aren't over yet.

On Soccer

I played my weekly soccer game today. Its nothing formal. Just a group of guys (sometimes women, but not often) who get together on Sunday afternoon and play soccer. It may be 3 on 3 or 4 or 4 or 10 on 10. We play with small goals and no goalies. Its a pretty diverse group ranging from late teens to over 50. I was thinking about soccer while we played.

Its such a simple game. You use any part of your body other than your hands (and arms) to get the ball into your opponent's goal. Each goal is 1 point. Its not like tennis with scoring that makes no sense (Love, 15, 30, 40 - apparently they can't count) or football (try explaining the scoring to someone who has never watched the game before - not rocket science, but you can score more times and still lose). Its easy. Anyone can play. Unlike baseball, you don't need special equipment. We have played with a ball and bags for goals. Its a simple game.

And it affects your life. I grew up playing soccer. I still email and correspond with some of those guys. We are friends on facebook and we share memories of growing up playing. Remember that time Dean dropped me on my head? We had the shortest team I think ever for our age. And, I am not sure I was the shortest - Adam may have been shorter. We had birthday parties together - I threw up on Jeff's dad's boat. We spent a lot of our childhood together. Those are some great memories.

And it stays with you. My "new" soccer friends are a diverse group. White, black, yellow. Some are old, some are young, some are tall, some aren't. Okay, I am the not tall one. Some of us are nice, well, most of us are nice, some are complete assholes. Really, just 1 guy. Most assholes play with us for a week or two and realize that they don't fit in so they stop coming. We like that. Some are Americans, some are from Ghana, South Africa, Mexico, Canada.

We have celebrated good times with each other. The birth of my baby. Engagements. Weddings, graduations. I have watched some guys grow up from high school kids who may have been a bit awkward to college guys who could run like the wind to married guys or engaged guys who are responsible, productive members of society.

We have shared tragedies. We lost a member of our group several years ago. In a touching moment, we had a moment of silence and then some folks said some prayers. We put up a bench in his memory and, once in a while, when the game is right, you can see something and think "There's Troy again."

Its a unique game. Its the beautiful game. When its played well, there is nothing like it. The sound of a clean, crisp pass. The ball whizzing past your head on a perfectly hit cross. The sounds of a team cheering a goal. People running up and down the field, looking like its chaos when, if done right, everyone knows exactly where he is supposed to be.

Then there is the bad side of soccer. Primarily youth soccer. Parents who yell constantly knowing nothing about the game. Coaches were insist on running drills from the 1970s. Leagues where politics are more important than the teaching of the game. Organizations trying to put other organizations out of business and not realizing that its about getting people to play the damn game. That is for another night.

Soccer brings people together like nothing else. Take a walk by a park where there is a soccer game. Bring some cleats and ask to play. They will let you play. Its who soccer players do it. We are a community. We accept others, even if they talk funny, look funny or just are funny. We teach the game to new people. We want to see everyone get better and enjoy the game.

The soccer community is a pretty special place. I want to thank my friends from my childhood for those memories of a lifetime. And my current soccer friends for memories that will continue on as we play the beautiful game.

September

I was driving today when Green Day came on the radio. It was "Wake me up when September ends." It was my theme song for September. Was being the operative word.

You see, September sucks. When I was little, I always looked forward to September. It was the month school started and despite me being a crappy student, I liked going to school. At least, I think I remember liking going to school. I enjoyed my classmates. I think I enjoyed my teachers - or some of them. September was the start of the regular season of soccer. We had practices and tournaments in the summer, but the season kicked off in September.

As I got older, September took on new meaning. September is the month that we had a baby reclaimed from us. We met the birth parents just a few days before the baby was born. A few days after, we brought the baby home. Then, the worst phone call I have had in my life, and I have had two phones that my parents have died. I still remember that day. Vividly. Its one of the three worst days of my life.

Then, a few years later, my dad passed away in September. He was in the hospital for something minor and left me a voice mail. I didn't call back because he said he would be home in a few days. He never made it out of the hospital. I got the call from my mom that he had passed away. We had his funeral a few days later.

Oh, and these were back to back days on the calendar, even though they happened in different years.

Then, years later, my daughter was born. 09-09-09. Yep, my 9 baby. September got a little bit brighter. It still sucked at the end of the month, but at least the first 10 days were fun. (Lets not forget Sept 11.) What is better than your child being born? It ranks up there with the my wedding, the days I met my boys (who were all adopted [not are, as in its something still going on, but were as in it IS done]). So who can hate a month with a child's birthday, especially a child who, at least according to the doctors, was a one in a billion?

Today I had court. I had a rough night sleeping last night. Court went well. But I knew I was putting on a face for everyone. For today would have been my mom's 71st birthday. This day in 1940 she was born. And like my daughter was medically impossible, or so we were told, my mom wasn't supposed to get pregnant and yet here I am. She passed away less than 6 months ago. And I was doing fine. Or at least faking it well enough that no one knew. Then a commercial came on the radio for hospice. My mom died while in hospice. (Does anyone not die in hospice?)

So it made me think more. September sucks. I miss my mom. We were never the closest mother and son. But we were mother and son. We didn't talk much, or enough, especially in the last few years. But we talked when it mattered. That last conversation is something I will never forget and anyone who wants to tell me that it doesn't matter has never had that conversation. You know, the one where you know its the last time you are going to see someone alive and you say those things that you have thought but never said. Those might be the most honest conversations we ever have in life.

And as I sat and thought, and as I sit and write, I realize that my mom wouldn't want me to sit and mope for a month - or half a month. Sure, I can miss her today. I can miss my dad on the anniversary of his passing. But that's it. Two days. September should be good. The fall is coming. Soccer gets started. School is in full swing. Its a reminder of the cycle of life. Its a reminder of the good things in life. Fall colors.........pumpkins.......apples...........the smell of fresh cut grass.........rain.........

So for me, its not Wake me up when September ends. Its wake me up when September comes. Here is to a new month, a new attitude and a new approach. And thanks Mom. There are always lessons you can teach.