My father loved sports and everybody loved him, a star athlete, semi-pro football player, NCAA umpire, football referee, all around sports guy, and supervisor of our neighborhood playground which made him my Little League coach. I, being an adolescent singer/tap dancing, musical theatre freak didn’t always play well with dad. Add to that fact…I was fat and couldn’t keep up. Luckily, I didn’t know it, yet.
It was the opening of
football season and at that time Little League Football had weight limits. Each
kid had to weigh in before the games. The kids from both teams would suit up
and with coaches and teammates file into a looker room at the stadium. The
official would set the poundage on the doctor’s scale, stand importantly behind
it and watch to see if the arrow moved to the top. After each player got on the
scale the official would say out loud “under” and his assistant would mark it
on the roster. That player would be good to go.
Each year I knew I was close
to the limit, dreading the arrow, stepping slowly, praying it wouldn’t move. Sometimes
it moved slightly, others, slowly moving up and down, teetering, as if knowing
it was my judge and jury, trying to decide if I deserved it enough. Eventually,
it always came to rest on the bottom allowing me the joy of playing for my
father, but that day it shot to the top. The metal to the metal made a strong
“clink.” All the men looked at my dad. It was awkward to say the least and the
look on my dad’s face made me uneasy but it wasn’t nearly as uneasy as when I
heard, “We can remove his pads.”
I did of course because nothing
could stop my desire to play and with my helmet and shoulder pads removed I again
got on the scale. It tipped a bit, slowly, but again telling my peers, “He
can’t play. Everybody, look at the fat boy,” and once more all the men’s eyes
landed on my father and watched as he lifted his hand to his face and rubbed
his chin. But this time he showed confusion.
After a few anxious moments I heard, “Jimmy, we can strip him down.”
My eyes got big and I quickly
turned to my right. My father, returning the glance, tightened his lips then
let his face tilt to the floor. Seconds later he lifted his head, stared back
at me and bashfully conveyed, without words, just his eyes and a slight shrug,
“It’s up to you son, whatever you want to do.”
Now, you might think this is
a bit melodramatic bit I shit you not, while running my first half marathon
last weekend, something happened during mile twelve. I passed a football field in front of the
Bayouland YMCA and looking to my right, knowing I’m going to complete that
thing, I thought of that maturing incident from so many years ago. My father
would have been proud.
My father instilled, “Don’t
give up”, “Finish the job”, and “Never say can’t.” I pass them on to you.
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