I can remember so many things about my dad, but certain memories are blurring more and more with passing time and my slowly creeping age. He left this earth at the age of 52, suffering from what we have finally surmised to be a cerebral aneurysm. I just remember going to school one snowy late March morning and when I came home my mother blurted out, "Daddy's dead." Totally unexpected, forever soul-shattering. I am more than four decades down the road from that day today, but I miss him each of those days.
I grew up in a baseball loving home. The Sox were the family's team of choice and I often wonder what my dad would say if he knew that I have bled Cubbie blue since that first season after he was gone. Wonder what my dad would say, hell, wouldn't Freud have a good time with that? We went to any and every game we could manage to get to, whether it was little league, high school, college, semi-pro or pro - we had a family friend whose son was working his way up in the Sox organization. Block Stadium in East Chicago was my playground. Already uber-aware of the nuances of the game, I was allowed to wander until the day I believe I was in the deserted stands in far right field when I head a familiar voice boom, "Kimberly Sue!" Don't know what the fuss was, I knew how to duck a foul ball.
One of my mother's relatives was entertaining guests from Scotland. The gentleman just happened to be a sportswriter, so it was asked if we would accompany him and his wife to a major-league game. Mind you, this was the mid-60's, when I had to put a dress on to go sit in the box seats along third base of the old Comiskey and try not to dirty my dress and socks too badly with my peanut shells. I remember sitting 3 abreast with my father, then the sportswriter, then me. Behind us were the ladies who were chatting, although my mother had a keen baseball eye. By the 7th inning stretch, the gentleman from Scotland thanked my father for driving him to the park and allowing him to be seated next to an all-American authority: me. Looking back, I'm embarrassed. Punk kid shooting off her mouth playing know it all. Then, I thought I was a real diplomat for baseball.
And then came hockey season - I could recite the Blackhawks' roster by rote. Daddy and I watched every game we could on Channel 9 and he taught me, again, the finer points of the game. If the team played on an occasion when he wasn't at home, by golly if I didn't maintain a written narrative of the game complete with icing calls, face offs, and just who fought with whom.
But then he was gone. I managed to watch the '69 Cubs on summer vacation from school while my mother was at work, but all other interest in sports in the family home was verboten.
That's why the Blackhawks winning the Stanley Cup tonight is a double-edged sword for me: my #1 hockey buddy isn't here to debate the finer points of the game, and then I find out today that my hero from the 60's Hawks, Stan Mikita, has dementia and no memory of his glory days. Our youngest granddaughter is here for a visit and she endured one period of a game the other night because she used to play soccer and she got the gist of it all. But when I get involved in a playoff series like this with the Hawks, I still miss my dad's voice pointing out the intricacies of the game to enhance my enjoyment. I sat in a local pub the other night and was screeching at the top of my lungs (and that's loud) for the goalie to get back into the crease, and these mere babies in team jerseys looked at me like I had lost most of my marbles. How can that old woman know hockey? Does she know hockey? What's this crease thing?
I smile. I've forgotten more of what Daddy taught me about sports than most of them will ever know. G'night, Daddy. Love you. Go Hawks!
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