Why we Love Dad

by George Schroeder

This article was posted on the internet version of the The Register Guard Newspaper. Eugene, Oregon.

06/20/09

8:19pm

OK, so this is actually why I love my Dad. And I wrote this column a year ago—but hey, this is a blog, and what’s more Eugene than recycling?

We always read about the guys who get it wrong. I’m thankful my father got it right. Maybe your dad did, too. If you can, make sure you tell him today how much you appreciate him.

Happy Father’s Day. Here’s the column:

***

All of the gifts had been opened, and the boy was unhappy.

Ungrateful too, because there had been many gifts. But unhappy. Because that Christmas, the 11-year-old had really wanted only one thing.

Then his father pointed to an envelope, hidden away behind the tree. Inside: two tickets to the Sugar Bowl.

You’re wondering what Christmas has to do with June, what a bowl game has to do with anything. On Father’s Day, when we give Dad a shirt or a tie and let him slip out for a round of golf or time to fish, with no honey-dos to hold him back, it’s worth reflecting on what he’s meant to us, and why.

Too often, pop culture depicts fathers as clueless, nonessential personnel who inhabit the house but live in a different orbit, out of touch with their kids and family life. Maybe the caricature is based in reality, but I suspect many of us had another experience.

So often, sports is the connection between fathers and children.

Our fathers taught us to play ball, and to love sports. They took us to their games, then followed us to ours. We played catch, and now we play golf, and maybe we’re able to communicate through a shared passion.

We hear about the dads who threaten the umpire or fight with the other parents or curse at their kids. We rarely notice all the guys quietly doing things right.

Coaching their kids’ soccer teams. Teaching them to throw and catch and keep their eyes on the ball. Taking them fishing, or hiking, or just out to the ballgame. Spending time with them. Investing in them.

So this is about a boy and his dad. And you probably know this story. You don’t remember when you became a fan of the Ducks or the Beavers, but maybe you recall your first trip to Autzen Stadium or Mac Court, or Reser Stadium or Gill Coliseum.

Same here. I can’t tell you much about my first college football game, except I was 5. It rained. The Hogs won.

And I was with Dad.

Just like a few years later, when he paid too much for those Sugar Bowl tickets and we traveled to New Orleans, just the two of us, to watch Arkansas play Alabama.

We drove south on two-lane highways. We stopped and ate at a Chinese restaurant in a small town near the state line. I kept my eyes peeled, hoping to see alligators on the Louisiana roadside. It was an adventure.

The Hogs lost. Afterward, as the ‘Bama fans celebrated Bear Bryant’s last national championship, we wandered down from the Superdome stands and onto the field.

And here, an admission: I was wearing one of those hog hats. Famously ugly, red plastic things, ridiculed by other teams’ fans. For a goofy kid, it was a source of pride, even after the loss.

So I was crushed when someone snatched it and ran off.

I looked for Dad, but he was gone. He chased after the college boy — all the way to the other end of the field — recovered the hat, and put it back on my head. A few seconds later, another guy grabbed the hat. Dad ran him down, too, and got it back.

The point is this: I don’t remember anything about the game. I vividly recall how Dad rescued my hog hat. I’ll never forget how it felt to know he could. Or what it meant to know he did.

Another quick memory, frozen in a photograph. The kid is driving to the basket. In mid-air, he’s decided to pass.

When the yearbook came out, I thought the photo was cool. Now I grimace at the too-short shorts, and the ugly shoes, and also the poor decision-making — this should be a layup, not a pass.

Funny thing, though. I’m prouder than before, because of something I didn’t notice at first: a guy in the background, standing at midcourt, holding a camera. He’s out of focus, but I know exactly

who it is.

Because he’s always been there.

For many of us, the connection continues with our own kids. The coolest thing is, I’m taking mine to games, building memories, forging that bond. I’m teaching them to throw and catch and keep their eyes on the ball. To keep trying, never quitting, even when things aren’t going well.

I keep hearing myself repeating the things my father told me, lessons he taught me.

So Dad: Thank you. And just so you know, the hog hat is safe. Your grandson has it.

(Originally published Sunday, June 15, 2008)