The agreement came out of the blue while he was sitting at the dining room table and I was starting to walk down the hall. My mom (a much bigger Steeler fan than either of us) made a comment about Stewart and both my father and I said (now in stereo) that he was "terrible". We both kind of looked at each other and I really think we realized something had just happened...COMMON GROUND PEOPLE! Sure it was on the weak-armed slinger that should have been a wide receiver, but it was still common ground.
I can actually remember having conversations about how bad we thought Stewart was (oddly enough we were both right too). That is what we had to latch on to for the longest time. Sure it is silly but it was ours. Now that was not the beginning of some father-son renaissance, instead it simply provided a rest, a speed bump on the the road of annoyance.
We did not really start getting along until after I graduated college and he had been diagnosed with cancer for the second time. I think the combination of me maturing and of him coming to a realization that he would not be around much longer greased those wheels (or maybe it was just the primo pain meds he got), either way it happened.
I wanted to share one of my all-time favorite memories with you about him. It was April 9th, 2003 (thank you baseball-reference for
My father's cancer had progressed to the point where he was having a really hard time sitting down, let alone getting around. I was working in Monroeville at the time and the plan was for my father to meet me at my office. I never thought he would be able to go to the game with me, in fact I called a friend and told him I had a free ticket for that night, but there was still a slim chance my father would go. My friend hoped he didn't get the ticket, and to my surprise he did not.
My father called later in the day to get directions to the office and the night was set. Now, I should tell you I was clueless (shocking I know) about my father's condition. I knew he was sick, I knew he was in pain, but I had no idea how sick he was, not until later. I was 24, and I was stupid.
My father had his inflatable seat donut with him when he arrived. We got into my car (I miss my Alero) and made the brief drive to PNC Park. I would like to say the sun was shining and it was a very warm early April night, but I would also like to say I live Hawaii and drink straight out of coconuts, but alas, neither are true. It was miserable that night. It was a constant mist/drizzle from even before we left my office. When we got to the stadium it was cold, wet and windy. I was uncomfortable, so I can't imagine how a man riddled with cancer felt.
We got our bobbleheads and made our way down to the posh seats, which of course were covered with water. The usher did his best to dry them off, but anybody that has gone to game when it is raining knows, you are not getting that seat dry. So we sat down and let the water soak thru our pants and straight into our bones (or so it felt).
I bought several of the watered-down PNC Park hot chocolates that night, certainly not for the taste, but for the warmth on our hands. The rain started to come down a little harder as the game went on. In just the third inning I asked my father if he wanted to go, I noticed he was shifting in his seat quite a bit. He said no. The next inning I asked him the same thing, he said no because Todd Ritchie (again pitching for the Brewers, not our beloved Buccos) had a no hitter. He did say that when the Pirates broke it up, we could go. Now my memory is pretty good, but I'm not sure when the Pirates finally got a hit, it seemed like forever (I don't know that I've ever wanted a Pirate hit more in my life). Finally, somebody probably past his prime got a hit off Ritchie. I looked at my father and he said we could go.
We started up the steps to the concourse level, it took him a while to get to the top (I didn't really think about the steps when I bought the tickets). We made our way out of the stadium, I know I remember this correctly, and it immediately started to pour. It was so cold and it was so wet and he was so sick, he couldn't really move faster than a normal walk. We walked the 10 or so minutes to get to my car and by the time we got there, we were both completely drenched, cold and tired. He did not say much on the ride back to my office, maybe he was tired, or in pain, or taking in the fact that he knew he had just seen his last ballgame with his son, but we did not have some movie-type conversation about life and how to navigate it. I dropped him back off at his car and we went our separate ways.
He died about three weeks later. He was 54.
Looking back, I wonder how much pain he was in while sitting in that cold, wet and windy night. Like I've said before, I can't control what other people say or think, only what I say and think. Well in this instance, I want to think that my father wanted one last baseball game with his son. No matter how much pain he was in, he was not about to let an opportunity to give me a great memory go by. It was a pretty good gift he gave me that night (not the greatest gift, only a few people know that, and I will keep that one for myself).
He was buried with the Sanquillen bobblehead, along with a baseball signed by the kids (now adults) he coached. I still have my bobblehead and someday, when he's old enough to appreciate it, I'll give it to my son.
Speaking of my son, one of our favorite things to do, is to go to PNC Park and watch our beloved Buccos. My son will never meet my father, but he can sit in the same seats.
M
The next generation
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