So, It's Father's Day, You Say?

It's Father's Day. If you didn't know this, where have you been hanging out? And can I maybe accompany you there next year? Because it means you haven't checked your email, been on Amazon, looked at Facebook, or kept any civilized company for weeks. 

I've been reminded to buy my father a gift for what feels like months now. Spoiler alert, I didn't. I'm a real louse. 

I played ALL THE SPORTS as a kid. And my dad enjoyed watching them. For the most part. I don't think he was really keen on soccer. But he did enjoy the part where teenage girls acted like total douche canoes and knocked each other down, I imagine. Any sport where girls were proving they played just as tough, if not tougher, than the boys was his kind of sport watching. He reveled in the moments someone who wasn't well versed in competitive softball showed up to watch a game, only to witness a first basemen stand her ground and put a runner on their ass, or (even when it was his own kid) those covering home for a passed ball situations where the pitcher ate dirt and everyone waited for the dust to settle to see if her barely moving body also had control of the ball. Full contact softball, he would call it. And there was no crying in softball, either. He was never prouder than the times I'd end up with a cut that needed stitches that he would butterfly tape up between innings and watch me go back out to the pitching mound. He was a real twisted man, that dad of mine. 

Let's take a moment and enjoy this picture of him in all his glory (and I'm not just talking about the glorious mustache) with his prized all-start team that won ALL THE THINGS that year. 

He told me, when I decided to play golf in high school, that he would never come watch me play. What a dumb sport, he would remind me frequently. You hit a little white ball. You chase after it. You hit it away from yourself again. It's like you're playing fetch. Without the dog even bringing it back to you. I will never watch you play. 

He wasn't lying. He never showed up to my high school matches. Which was good. Because I gather he liked watching most of my sporting because I was rather good at most of it. And in high school - I was far from the star golfer. But the sport stuck with me. Or, I stuck with it. Major props to my one armed neighbor who taught me how to chip and putt. I still have a weird approach. But it has all come together. The solitude of the game ended up being one of my favorite parts of it. I'd never been involved with a sport where I wasn't somehow responsible for everyone's winning or losing. (Being a pitcher is stressful. There is no doubt about it.) That's also been my downfall. I learned to love and perfect my game alone. And I still have to make golf partners turn around for the first few tee offs. I get performance anxiety when I'm not golfing alone. 

Over the years I've gotten better. I can keep up. I'm not going to hold up a decent golfer. And I have to admit, there are even days I say: hey, look. I'm not so bad at this. If only my golf coach from high school could see me now and realize 20 years later, I'm free of my softball swing. Finally. But I'll still make you turn around if you want to golf with me, for the first round or two. 

I intended on taking my dad's miniature urn with me today, and forcing him to go golfing with me. Instead, we ended up in Chicago with my extended family. A trip through my great uncle's land of memories of growing up in Wrigleyville postponed my afternoon golf plans. I have to wonder if there wasn't some divine intervention happening there. Baseball. No golf. Delicious food we stuffed our faces with. And some spattering of memories of my dad when they ate a Chicago dog covered in that radioactive relish, as my dad called it. 

He would have enjoyed this day. And it's a good lesson for me to learn. Not everything works out how we want it to. My day was nothing like I had planned or hoped for. And sometimes, that's okay. Sometimes (like today) it's even better than okay. The company was good. The memories of my dad - and today - will go on. And somehow, that jerk weaseled his way out of a round of golf. Again. 

This can't last forever. Next year. I will be the victor. And I'm going to make him chase them all with me. There's no way out, Pops. Better work on your caddying skills. Because we're going to hit the ball. Then we are going to chase the ball. I'll try not to dump you out of the golf cart. But those things can be tricky, you know. 

Sorry I didn't buy you a pressure washer this year. As I did every other year. (Who am I kidding? My mom did it, I got all the glory, and a picture that looks just like this every year. I bet she hated us. Faking these surprised faces. Every year. Since he said: get me a new pressure washer. EVERY SINGLE YEAR. And she did it. And EVERY SINGLE YEAR we made this dumb face. Thank God I had a dad who played along and a mom who captured all the moments and let me steal the glory for the presents I couldn't afford but took all the credit for.) 

Thanks for being a hole in one type of dad. Even if you're only claiming the grand slam part of your dad skills. And don't worry, we won't chase a little white ball when I make you go golfing next year. It will be pink.