DADDY'S BOY

            Let me tell you about my father.

            He’s more than a father. He’s a Dad. And more than that, he’s a Daddy. I am the oldest of three, and he has never let me forget that I was here first. My memory is long, and while not all of the ones I hold are pleasant, I now know and understand why I had to have them.

    My father worked multiple jobs when I was younger in order to sustain us. I have vague memories of him coming home, showering, eating, napping for 15-30 minutes, and heading right back out the door. I have memories of him riding a bike down Pond Point Ave in a suit because he had lost his license for too many speeding tickets. I remember my father waking up at two and three in the morning for service calls, and working weekends for the bus company. I remember some of the sacrifices he made, but not all of them.

    I remember good times. I remember how involved he was, how present. ALWAYS PRESENT. I know some of my friends didn’t have that. And I felt fortunate to have my dad involved in so much. Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Talented And Gifted, class trips, projects… so many activities in and out of school. Soccer, football, drama, writing, any interest I had. Movies, TV, music, anything.

    My dad took me to sports events. Yankees/Tigers at Yankee Stadium in 1981. Yale/Harvard. Harlem Globetrotters. Lakers/Celtics at the Civic Center. Nighthawks in New Haven.

    My dad took me to see E.T. at the Capitol Theater in the center of town was when I was 7. That experience changed my life. It gave me guidance to what I wanted to do. MOVIES. To this day, if that movie is on, I am compelled to watch it, and I always cry. ALWAYS. I even tear up when I hear John Williams’ score.

    My dad would listen to me read. I learned early and fast. He always encouraged my education. If I didn’t know a word, I was told to look it up. If I was asked a question and didn’t know the answer, he would tell me to read about it. When I spent time with him, regardless of what we were doing, he was always teaching. If he was working on one of the cars, he would hold up a part and ask if I knew what it was and what it did. If I didn’t, he would explain it.

    My dad taught me what it means to be a man, and how to do it properly. He taught me about priorities and obligation and responsibility. He told me what it means to take care of your family and those nearest and most important to you. He also taught me that not all family is blood, and that family is always the most important thing in your life.

    Our parents take care of us when we are young. They teach us and guide us. What we don’t realize when we’re that small is that we’re also teaching THEM. I didn’t understand that back then. As I watch my brother with his kids, and watch my sister prepare for hers, I also watch my parents. They look over their children with the same look of pride as a teacher watching their students as they graduate.

    My father cried at my bar mitzvah. He cried as they dropped me in North Philadelphia in late August of 1995. Each time, he embraced me tightly, held me, and looked at me as he let me go: “My baby. You’ll always be my first.”

    I’m looking forward to our time tomorrow. We don’t get much of it. When the opportunity arises, I try to take advantage of it. I wanted to take him to Alumni Day at CitiField when the Phillies played the Mets, but the schedule didn’t work out. A new opportunity has arisen, and I’m taking full advantage. Just me and my dad.