July 6-8, 2012

Milwaukee Brewers (38-44) @ Houston Astros (32-51)

Minute Maid Park
501 Crawford Street
Houston, TX  77002

HOUSTON (SnS) – Staggering into the All Star break after a disastrous road trip – or at least it would have been disastrous were the team going anywhere in the first place, which it is not … the biggest news for the hometown Houston Astros as they limp home to lick their many wounds running sores at the midway point of the 2012 campaign is the trading away of Carlos Lee, the erstwhile OF fixture-now 1B/immobile object, to Miami for some alleged prospects. Unlike the previous deals involving Roy Oswalt, Lance Berkman or Michael Bourn, etc., it is hard to imagine this one creating much if any uproar amongst the rapidly dwindling Astros fan base; save for the drunks fond of hopping around the outfield concourses at MMPUS on stick horses while wearing over-sized sombreros.

In other words, except for the serious fans.

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SCHEDULE
Friday 7:05 p.m. CDT (FSH)

Saturday 3:05 p.m. CDT (FSH)

Sunday 1:05 p.m. CDT (FSH)

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IF SIX WAS NINE. The other day at one point I was presented with a column of 15 or so 3- and 4-digit numbers which needed to be added up, then averaged. I reflexively began to reach for a calculator, and then some existential something-or-other made me stop myself. Was it Jesus? Maybe it was. The ghost of Archimedes? Who knows? All I know is I was suddenly overcome with the urge to add these numbers up, and then derive their average, manually. And, not having pencil and paper handy (not having had pencil and paper handy in years), I resolved to complete the task entirely in my head.

Men have thought the prospect strange
demonic scaring as they woke
from a ravishing crystalline dream
of abstract Eternities
to touch the edge of Change
where all Numbers twist and break. . .

I have this sort of idiot savant skill at basic math. I can add — or subtract, or multiply, or divide — extremely long columns of numbers, carrying over and everything, all in my head, and at tremendous speed, with accuracy. It is not a talent I developed, I just had it from the beginning, as far back as I can remember. From whence it came I can only guess.

I never was much for showing off my odd little skill, because it did not seem very remarkable to me. But my elementary school teachers began to wonder how I was turning in my tests half an hour ahead of everyone else, and getting all the questions right. Naturally, they suspected I was cheating some way.

This all came to a head in third grade, when one day my teacher gave me a big fat red “F” on a math test on which I’d answered all but 2 of 30 problems correctly, in record time. She openly accused me of cheating, and refused to even consider changing the grade. I finally told my parents about it. They went mildly ballistic, and met with the school principal and everything (I was dubious about all this, I just wanted the grade I’d honestly earned.) It ended up I had to stand in the principal’s office, in front of him and my parents, while my teacher rattled off a series of about 40 numbers at me. When she was done I gave her the sum total of the numbers, which I’d been adding in my head as she went. The total was correct. My principal was very impressed, but I think my teacher just started hating me even more.

Anyway, all the kids eventually heard about this throw down/showdown (not from me), and for awhile I was kind of a hero to the third graders at that school. Seems just about everyone hated that teacher. Anyway, not to bad thing to be, everything considered. The only reason those kids did not start calling me ‘The Human Calculator’ or something similar is because back then calculators weren’t very prevalent at all, and the ones there were approximated the size and weight of the front quarter panel on a 1966 Dodge Charger. Probably cost as much, too.

Luckily, none of my classmates thought to call me The Human Abacus, or The Human Slide Rule. The Human Comptometer kind of has a nice ring to it, but no one thought of that one, either.

I once impressed a very attractive girl with my addition skills, so much so she started dating me.

My freshman year of high school, there was this pretty girl in my class, obviously so far out of my reach I never even dreamt of taking her out. I didn’t mind standing around looking at her, though. She worked at Baskin-Robbins after school, and I happened to be there one evening when she was closing the store. She couldn’t make her cash register balance, even after numerous attempts. So I helped her quickly recount the money and receipts, and then everything balanced out as it should have. She was impressed and seemed very turned on by this, so I asked her out. Even then, I knew an opportunity when I saw one; especially one that walked right up and slapped me in the face.

Alas, a romance based on someone’s math skills is generally not destined to last very long, and this one didn’t, either. But I still remember it all with some fondness. It was the first time I realized that some of the stuff I was being forced to learn in high school really did have practical applications.

My vaunted skill at mathematics came to a screeching halt the next year. That was when I first encountered “higher math”, in this case trigonometry. Try though I might, my brain was simply not wired to grasp the more abstract and esoteric concepts of trig and calculus and matrices and whatever the hell else lay beyond that. My facility for mathematics simply went to a certain level, and then stopped cold. And that was it.

Suddenly, my skill at adding numbers was obsolete. It was, I realized, about as relevant — and useful — as blacksmithing, or alchemy.

What did it all mean? Would my youthful confidence, flowering but still delicate, be utterly destroyed? How would I cope? Well, for one thing, I was going to have to figure out a new and better way to attract girls.
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Nowadays, we are rarely asked to do much math at all. Calculators are everywhere, from one’s laptop to one’s phone to one’s watch, to spreadsheets that do everything for you. No one has to add up anything, anymore.

We are better for it, no doubt. But still, it is fun to go back and try out the old skills again, like I did yesterday. I added up those numbers, and averaged them, all in about 15 seconds, in my head. No pencil and paper, no trees had to die. It was gratifying to find my old skill intact, to know I still “had it.” I started thinking, I wish I knew where that pretty girl from the ice cream parlor lives now. I’d go over to her house and show her, after all these years, that I still knew how to turn her on. Yes.

Okay, maybe that was not such a great idea, but … Stop punching the keys on your phone or your watch or calculator. Add up some numbers in your head. Do some long division, on paper. Figure up a batting average, or an on base percentage. Set yourself free, momentarily at least, from the drowsy ease and convenience of the silicone chip.

By all means, reconnect with the numbers. Follow them. Go with them, all the way out to where the air is thin and there is no light, out to the place where the numbers twist and break.

Some people will tell you, that is the place where God lives.

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PITCHING MATCHUPS

Friday
Yovani Gallardo RHP (6-6, 3.87) vs. J. A. Haap (6-8, 4.81) – Be sure and at least lurk tonight, in the Game Zone, as GZ moderator Mr. Happy is likely to be blowing several gaskets at once. Lefty hurler Haap has this sort of effect on him. +1

Saturday
Zack Greinke RHP (9-2, 3.08) vs. Wandy Rodriguez (6-6, 3.54) – It looks like Greinke is a sure bet to be traded away to someone before the deadline. That was the thinking on Wandy, as well; but now, maybe not.

Sunday
Marco Estrada RHP (0-3, 4.31) vs. Jordan Lyles (2-5, 5.40) – Lotta runs.

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FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS. I saw a guy in a black Jaguar in the drive-thru line at the Taco Bell yesterday. I don’t know why it surprised me. It was the Deadhead-sticker-on-a-Cadillac moment, I think. Why should a rich guy be any less enamored of the ________ (fill in the blank) served out the window of Taco Bell than the rest of us proles? Also, that guy didn’t get rich enough to buy that Jag by throwing his money away; and as everyone knows, if nothing else you get more bang for your buck at Taco Bell than at any other fast food outlet. You can feed a family of four for under ten bucks with ________ (fill in the blank) from Taco Bell, provided no one gags on it. . . which they shouldn’t, unless they get one of those damn “Fiesta” burritos, the ones they put rice in. You don’t put rice in a fucking burrito, goddamn it! It should be against the law to do so, if it isn’t already.
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For a long time now, I don’t eat at Taco Bell if I can help it. I did more than enough of that when I was young. Even back then, the only time I ever really wanted anything from there was late at night when I was headed home after a long night of partying. I don’t know why that was. But I used to find myself there often enough, sitting in the drive-thru line with a lot of other no doubt similarly bewildered drunks, not even able to remember making the decision to go there in the first place. It was like my car drove itself. I would end up ordering way more than I could ever eat, and often by the time I got home I didn’t want any of it. So I’d throw the bag into the ‘fridge and go to bed. And then a week or so later I would throw it away. Taco Bell stockholders got rich off of all the bean burritos I bought back in those days, and never ate.
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The first Taco Bell built here is, I think, a Vietnamese seafood place now. That location in its original incarnation was pretty popular back in high school. It had this faux volcano thing out front, with a smudge pot stuck into the top of it, lit up. We called it the Eternal Flame, and considered it a fitting symbol of the whole Taco Bell experience. Still, most kids went there because it was the only place open after midnight where one could go if one was suffering from an onset of the munchies.

I got thrown out of there one night, by some little burrito-making dude, for laughing too much. That’s right. I was in there with a friend of mine, and for some reason everything he said to me was hilarious, and I went into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Weird.

Another night I walked in there at some ungodly hour and caught the little burrito dude making “refried” beans. He had a steam table tray on the counter, into which he had dumped a couple of institutional-sized cans of pinto beans. He had a Black & Decker ½ inch power drill with a paint-stirrer attachment in it. And he was going to town. This is a true story. He was puréeing the beans with a power drill. I found that both repulsive and, at the time, extremely amusing; and I ended up laughing my way out of there again.

Since then, except for all the times I was legally intoxicated, I have denied myself the pleasure of eating at Taco Bell. My loss, I have no doubt.

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INJURIES
Milwaukee

Houston

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BEACH CULTURE. As it happens, I found myself walking alone along Crystal Beach this past Tuesday night, around 10:30 or so.

The girlfriend and I and a few friends of both of ours had come down to the beach for a couple of days, to relax a little, and celebrate Independence Day.  The rest of the crew had settled into the cabin we rented, and had begun listening to music and drinking cocktails. I intended to do very much the same. But one thing I always have to do when I first arrive at the beach – as soon as possible – is reconnect with the beach itself … re-introduce myself to the wind, and sand, and waves, and ocean. I told the others to go ahead and start mixing drinks (which, actually, they had already started doing), and I’d be with them shortly – I just needed some fresh air.

My girlfriend, Lea, is still fairly new, but she is going to be a good one, I think. She pretty much likes to be anywhere I am, bless her. But she already knows there are certain times it is better to let me alone for a little while, and that this was one of them. More than probably most people, I require – in fact, thrive on – my alone time.

So there I was, walking barefoot along the edge of the water, in a pair of canvas shorts and a Bob Marley Legend T-shirt, flip-flops in hand. I was walking alone, but the beach was by no means empty. A lot of people had showed up for the Fourth, and there were people drinking and listening to music and shooting fireworks and even a few bonfires.

Most people are laid back and friendly at the beach, probably more than in their everyday lives.  Hell, I am pretty sure that is what draws many back down there, again and again.  Anyway, a reasonable looking guy walking down the beach alone has zero chance of getting very far before being invited by one stranger or group of strangers or another to have a cold one, to stop and listen to some music, even to sit by the bonfire a bit, and join in the fun. I had several invitations on my walk that night, and I accepted every one. My intention was to go with the flow. Very much like body surfing … I intended to let the wave catch me and pick me up, to let the unique energy of the Bolivar Peninsula guide me and carry me along that night on my walk. I am sure most beaches have their energy, but Bolivar is special … partly because I have spent a large chunk of my childhood and adult life there, sure.  But the place is special, anyway. Took a direct fucking hit from Hurricane Ike, and looked like a bombed out beach on some no-name WWII South Pacific atoll. Left for deader than fucking dead. Lost forever. Gone.

And within two years, one would hardly have known there was any hurricane at all.  The houses and businesses came back, the people came back, and the unique energy of the place came back, too.  If you do not believe in miracles, neither did I. Until I witnessed this one, first hand.

As I walked along, after having stopped to talk and drink with a couple of different groups partying down on the beach, it occurred to me I had been doing this very thing I was doing now – just drifting, waiting for the beach culture to pick me up and carry me along – for nearly 40 years. Amazing. So many good times, and an endless supply of stories and anecdotes and just slips of memories.

After an hour or so of doing my thing down on the beach, I headed back up to the cabin. By the time I arrived, it appeared several rounds of drinks had already been gone through. I poured myself some Early Times over ice, and dumped in a couple of ounces of water to smooth it out. Then I went and sat by Lea on a sofa, and began to ease my way into the ongoing revelry.

I don’t want to feel this way another day, it’s killing me
I don’t want to be the one you try to mess around
I could never see the reason in the way you looked at me
Baby, you’re the one I want, so come on, ’cause I need you now

Say you will
Say you’ll stay with me tonight, girl
You won’t be sorry …

I was 22 or 23 years old, sitting out on the open part of the deck/veranda that wrapped around three sides of the beach cabin, with Diane, my girlfriend. We had been out there awhile. It was night time, maybe close to midnight, maybe after. Who knows? We’d been partying that day for hours and hours, since noon, at least. In fact, there was a party still going on at a beach house down the way – some friends of ours – and we had been there earlier. But an hour or so prior she and I had decided to come back to our cabin.

The deck on that cabin was excellent for stretching out on at night, and looking at the sky. We had dragged a couple of chaise-lounge lawn chairs out there, and had been laying back, watching intently for shooting stars. We’d only seen a couple. In late summer, August and September, one could see hundreds in just a couple of hours. But it was early July, and the action was slow. I had turned on the stereo, and a song Diane really liked came on (“Say You Will”, by Blanket of Secrecy). She reached over and put her arms around my neck. Just then, something really bright flashed by in the sky. We both turned in time to see something large and bright and moving at a very high rate of speed streak low across the shore and go several miles out over the ocean, before crashing into the water with a splash, leaving a brief afterglow.

“What was that?!” my girl asked.

“I don’t know, Jesus! But hey, can you hand me another beer?”

Diane reached over and unhesitatingly plunged her hand into the ice and melted ice water in the cooler on the other side of her chair, and pulled out a cold Miller Lite, and handed it across to me. I loved that girl passionately, for a lot of reasons. Just one of them was the way she handed me a cold beer.

Her song had ended, but she pushed the volume even higher when the next song came on, some dweeb Englishman singing about being blinded by science. But it had a good beat, I guess. It got my girl all worked up, that’s for sure. Which, in turn, got me worked up.

We quickly forgot about the celestial anomaly we saw that night. A UFO crashing spectacularly into the Gulf of Mexico just off the coast of Galveston/Crystal Beach was one thing. My baby, Diane, getting herself all worked up over some Thomas Dolby song was something else entirely. We quickly retired to the privacy of the beach cabin to enjoy each other in the way people have been enjoying each other since all the way back in the olden days, back to when Adam and Eve used to get it on, in that sub-Saharan savannah back in Africa, where we all come from.

If the sun refused to shine
I don’t mind
I don’t mind,

If the mountains fell in the sea,
Let it be
It ain’t me …

Lea looked at me and laughed. She has the most beautiful smile, and I spend a lot of my time trying, in various ways, to elicit it. Just because I get off on it so much. Luckily, it is pretty easy for me to do – for some reason, she thinks I am hilarious. I reached out to the coffee table in front of us and picked up my drink, and took a sizable sip of sweet Kentucky bourbon mixed with a little Ozarka water, and some ice. It felt so good going down, it gave me a bit of a shiver. Just then Lea kissed me in the ear; and when I smiled, our friends laughed. It’s nothing, really. Just a random moment, in a random cabin, on a random road, on a random night. Down at Crystal Beach.

Crystal Beach – the magical place where both kids and grownups come to play, and laugh, and feel good, and just let the beach culture wash them over, and – at least for a little while – carry them away. One day, when I grow up, if I ever do … I want to move down there.

And then stay.

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

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Astros win series, 2-1.

Whatever else you are doing, I implore you – get down to the beach, any beach, as quickly as you can. You will not regret it.

Kansas City Royals (29-35) vs. Houston Astros (27-39)
MMPUS

SCHEDULE
Monday June 18 – 7:05 pm
Tuesday June 19 – 7:05 p.m.
Wednesday June 20 – 1:05 p.m.

(All games on Fox Sports Houston)

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I remember the day my father was put in the ground.  There’d been a funeral earlier in the afternoon, and it was a little odd in a way.  He had died several days before, in a VA hospital out in San Antonio, and had been cremated already, as was his desire.

My brother Colin had to drive out from Houston to pick up my father, or what was left of him. By then he was occupying in a small wooden receptacle, about the size of a cigar box.  Colin took possession of the old man at the funeral home, signed him out or whatever, and then tossed him in the back seat of the BMW and headed home, back through Houston, back to Beaumont beyond.

My brother said it was a little awkward at first, riding along IH-10 with the old man in a box in the back seat.  But pretty soon he got used to it, and before long he found they’d fallen into conversation. There was a lot to discuss, because my dad had essentially cut himself off from the rest of the family twenty years earlier.  Since then my youngest brother John had maintained some contact with him.  I only talked to him twice in that time, on the phone, and I doubt seriously he had any recollection of what we discussed, or even that we had talked at all.

Colin had not spoken to him even once in that time; and out of all of us, Colin had been closest to my dad when we were growing up.  They spent a lot of time together hunting and fishing.  John had always been more distant, I don’t think by choice.  John was the youngest, five years behind Colin.  And I think my dad had pretty much lost interest in any more kids by the time John came along.

I was basically the opposite.  As the oldest son, I’d been doted upon, even spoiled a little, maybe.  My dad had big plans for me.  The only problem was, I was nothing like him.  And while I loved him – he was my dad – I didn’t really like him, as a person.  I mostly thought of him as a sort of combination between some tragic figure out of Shakespeare, and a buffoon.  Not really a Falstaff, though he certainly had Falstaff-ian qualities.  Anyway, I loved him, but I did not like him very much; and I did not often take him seriously at all.  At times, as a kid, I used to wonder who my real dad was.  Not this guy, couldn’t be.  As my dad began to face the realization that his anointed firstborn didn’t idolize him, and really didn’t want much to do with him – around the time I’d hit my teens, I think – he began distancing himself from me, slowly but surely.  I could feel it.

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PITCHING MATCHUPS
Monday
Jonathan Sanchez (L) 1-2, 5.93 vs. J.A. Happ 4-7, 5.33

Tuesday
Luke Hochevar (R) 3-7, 6.27 vs. Wandy Rodriguez 6-4, 3.35

Wednesday
Vin Mazzaro (R) 3-1, 2.57 vs. Jordan Lyles 1-3, 5.50

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My dad had nearly died three years before.  He’d had a heart attack or something, and had fallen into a coma.  His doctor called each of my brothers and I, and broke the news.  “Get out here as quickly as you can,” he’d said.  So we did.  At the time John and I lived in Beaumont, so we’d set out, picked up Colin in Kingwood, and headed west to San Antonio for our first brotherly road trip in many years.

One would think this trip would have been far more somber and reserved than some of our storied excursions of the past – an alcohol- and drug-fueled crime spree to Jacksonville Beach, FL back around 1978 comes to mind; or any number of drunken forays into South Texas and Mexico, back when that sort of thing was still a relatively safe recreational activity.  One would have thought the prevailing mood for this one would have been more quiet, and reflective.  But, it wasn’t.  Oh, there wasn’t as much out-and-out substance abuse as in the old days; but as we moved west out of Houston – around Katy, I guess – we gradually eased into the dynamic that had always defined the interaction between my brothers and I … sarcastic and humorous, sometimes roughly so; general smart-assitude; and an all-purpose attitude of “fuck it” toward all life’s big and small questions, and pretty much everything else, as well.  We were headed out to San Antonio to watch the old man die, and we were laughing and having a great time, the whole way.

We went to the VA hospital as soon as we got into town, and there the mood became a bit more somber.  My dad was in a private room, lying still in a bed with railings all around him, hooked up to a gazillion tubes and wires and shit.

The old man was what you call your ‘Black Irish’, and he had maintained a full head of jet black hair into his sixties, at least.  But when I saw him in bed in a coma that day, he was 74 years old and half dead, and he’d gone entirely gray.  It was shocking to me.  It had been years since I’d seen him at all, and the mental picture of him I’d been carrying around with me was from his younger, better days.

An interesting sort of dance went on whenever my brothers and I were in that hospital room that week.  Usually a doctor or a nurse would hover on the periphery, probably studying the complex family dynamic playing out in front of them.  After looking at my dad the first time, I tended to stay on the opposite side of the room from the head of the bed.  I guess I’d seen all I wanted to.  John mostly stood at the foot of the bed, and looked down at the old man with a perplexed look.  Colin stood at the head of the bed for the most part, talking to my comatose father, dripping his tears down onto the old man’s bedsheets.  Colin had been closest to my father in our youth, and the most estranged from him in our adulthood.  Many years ago, my dad had drunkenly called his house several times and left some really nasty messages on the answering machine for Colin and his wife and children; and my brother finally just wrote him off.

Now he was obviously the most affected of the three of us at the old man’s condition.  When I thought about that, it made sense to me.  But it did not make it any less sad.  I think I will remember the image of my forty-something brother, leaning over the bed rail and talking animatedly to this nearly lifeless shell of our dad, crying and showing it pictures of his children during various stages of their childhoods … I think I will remember that for a long, long time.

We hung around out there for several days.  The VA doctor, a really nice guy, insisted there was no way my dad would emerge from the coma.  His heart and lungs were kaput, there just wasn’t enough left to sustain him.  But my dad just wouldn’t die; and eventually the real world of families and jobs beckoned us back to home.  So we left the old man on life support, with instructions to unhook him when it appeared to be truly pointless not to.  It was about a week later that Colin called and said they’d disconnected the old man from life support, and a few hours later he’d emerged from his coma and started barking orders at the VA staff.  Then he called Colin and asked him to come back out and pick him up and take him to his house in Medina.  Colin did, and my dad lived three more years, smoking and drinking and doing legal consulting.  He didn’t change his lifestyle at all.  I think he was on bonus time, grace of God time, and I think he knew it.  So why fucking clean up his act now?  I guess I could understand that sort of logic.

When he fell sick again and was put back in the hospital in San Antonio, it was a few days before we found out.  This time the VA staff there waited until he was dead for sure, before calling family out again.

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INJURIES
Kansas City

Houston

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There was a surprisingly large turnout for the funeral. At least, I thought so. My father had at one time been a well-known and well-thought-of attorney in town, specializing in maritime and railroad law.  But he’d eventually imploded – personally and professionally – and had been gone from Beaumont for thirty years. Still, a lot of his old colleagues turned out, and as most of them usually did when I bumped into them around town, they fell into telling stories about the old man in his glory days.  Groundbreaking legal ploys he’d come up with in service of his clients, pioneering defense strategies and shit.  His big clients back then were the Mobil Oil foreign fleet, and Kansas City Southern, among others.

There was one case I heard about more than once, where a seaman had been washed overboard off of a Mobil tanker, and his family had sued for millions, for wrongful death. My father used a defense strategy that included a rogue wave theory, and got a zero verdict. I don’t think it was even proved at the time that rogue waves actually existed – this was the mid-1970s – but the old man apparently convinced a jury they did.

In an interesting twist, it turns out during the trial, against their own attorney’s wishes, Mobil had offered a low-ball settlement to the plaintiff’s attorney, who turned it down. Following the trial, the plaintiff’s family found out and sued their attorney for malpractice.  He hired my father to defend him.  Which he did do, successfully.

Anyway, there was a nice turnout for the funeral, but by the time we got to the cemetery, it was mostly family.  My brother had handled most of the arrangements, and I suppose to save money, he arranged for a military funeral.  My father had served in the army during the Korean police action.  Anyway, there was a color guard, and a 21-gun salute, and “Taps”, and a local guy who played bagpipes, I guess in honor of my father’s Irish heritage.

It was nice and all; but the whole time I was feeling it was all vaguely bogus. The old man was very un-military.  He’d served all right – and for years, when we were kids, he let us think he’d been on the front line, dodging bullets.  But he wasn’t.  He never even left the U.S.  He was attached to an entertainment unit out of Fort Benning, I believe.  He produced radio and TV shows for the Armed Forces Network. The thing is, my dad wasn’t particularly upset when we found out the truth. He had a sardonic sense of humor about it all. And out of all the eventful things that happened in his eventful life, I doubt if his military service was even in the Top 50 on his list of most interesting or impactful occurrences.

But he’d got free medical treatment out of it, after he got sick, and now a full-blown funeral.  I suspected that somewhere, he was smiling about that.

The whole ceremony had been somber and respectful.  Then, between the second and third volley of the 21-gun salute, in the silence, we all heard the loudest and most profane expletive imaginable ring out clearly, from the military guard.  It turns out that one of the gunmen had a hot cartridge eject from his rifle and hit him in the eyeball.

“Jesus Christ!  Motherfucker!” the guy yelled out, clearly.  None of us knew what had happened, and I was startled at first. But it occurred to me right away it was kind of humorous, this profanity injecting itself into the quiet of the ceremony. I turned around to make sure the sheer shock of it hadn’t caused my Aunt Helen to go into cardiac arrest.  It hadn’t; but in the process of checking, I caught a glimpse of my brother John, who was looking down at the ground and sniffling. One might have thought, in the context, that he was suppressing tears; but I knew better.  He was trying not to laugh out loud, and I turned away quickly before our eyes met and we would both lose it.  Then I glanced over at Colin, and he was already looking at me. And that was it. I started laughing; so much so eventually, I really was in tears. At that, both of my brothers, and some of their kids, then a couple of my uncles, started laughing, too. Pretty soon, most of the funeral party was … and I knew, for damn sure, the old man was loving it, wherever he had ended up.

Thankfully, the color guard guy wasn’t seriously hurt. Afterward, he handed me the flag from my dad’s ceremony tri-folded, and he’d stuck some of the cartridges from the salute into the folds of it. I apologized for the laughing at his expense, and explained in short-hand how fitting his profane outburst had been, and I thanked him for it. I think he was relieved at our reaction, and said if he’d known my dad, he would probably have liked him. I told him that, yes, he probably would have.

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PROMOTIONS

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My sons took me out to eat for Father’s Day.  They said we could go wherever I wanted, and I opted for a sandwich and salad from a local deli. It was cheaper than some fancy place, and I was fine with it. I was trying to take it easy on them, for one thing. Their mom had just had a birthday, and made them take her to Carraba’s for steak Marsala, or something like that.

The Father’s Day meal was fine but, really, I could not even tell you what I ate. The best part of it for me was just watching my two sons. I get an inordinate amount of joy, just from seeing how they move through the world with such ease and style.  They are different – the 19-year-old is outgoing and social, and always has a million things on his agenda. The 15-year-old is more reserved, and introspective. But that is deceptive, in a way – he shares his brother’s ease and comfort in social situations, and he has many friends.  I like to think they both do so well because they are secure, and comfortable with themselves. Both have complex senses of humor, and a fine eye for the absurd, and are quick to laugh in most situations.

I look at them with enormous pride.  Neither is perfect, but I wouldn’t change anything.  And I can hardly take all the credit for the way they’ve turned out, but it is Father’s Day, and you know what?  I am taking some credit.  They are easily the best thing I have ever done, or ever will do. My friends and family say that whenever they come up in conversation, my mood brightens noticeably. I don’t doubt it at all.

I recently took a picture of the two with my phone, when we were out eating somewhere. I sent it around to friends and family, and by far the predominant response I got was that my boys together very much reminded everyone of my brother Colin and I, when we were the same age.  It was uncanny, they said. My best friend, who has known me forever, said it startled him when he first saw it. “It’s you and CJ (Colin), all over again,” he said.

I started wondering if my father ever looked at my brothers and I with anything approaching the amount of pride and joy I have when looking at my sons. My brothers and I had and have a similar sort of interaction with each other as my boys do – sarcastic and sometimes rough humor, a lot of laughter, a sense of the absurd. I wonder if my dad ever looked at us and thought, Damn, I did good. I love the way they are. And I’m taking credit, dammit, whether I deserve to or not.

I wonder if he ever thought that about us. We judged him harshly at times, when he was alive. I can’t speak for my brothers, but sometimes I feel like it is only now that I am beginning to give him a break, the benefit of the doubt. I wonder now if he loved us more than we thought he did. More than we knew, or were able to know.

Several weeks after his funeral, John sent me a .jpg of the plaque that had been placed on my father’s grave. Just a small brass plate, flat to the ground, with his name, dates, and a brief record of his military service.  That’s it.  All the craziness and achievement and sadness and pain in his life, all the eventfulness, all of it … reduced to a 6 x 8 plaque lying flat on the ground, in a cemetery full of eloquent stones. If someone happens upon that plaque and reads it, they will have absolutely no sense of who or what my father was, what he achieved, how spectacularly he failed. They will have no idea.

I remember being a little sad when I received that picture from my brother, realizing just how quickly my father had been reduced to almost nothing, in death. For some reason, as I sat watching my own two sons at lunch, after awhile I thought a little bit about the ashes of my dad, lying almost unknown under their little plaque, out there in the graveyard somewhere. The thought that no one would know what he had once been made me a little sad. But today it hit me what the greatest sadness was. My old man has been gone five years now, and already I can hardly remember him. He is receding from me, quickly, and at some point I’ll only be able to grasp a memory I have built in my mind, second-hand. I won’t be able to really remember him at all.  My own father.

These two boys of mine don’t know anything about that. They are full of the joy and excitement that comes from being young, and having everything in front of them. Including, right in front of them, a dad who loves them immensely and takes tremendous, ridiculous pride, just in the kind of people they are turning out to be.

I don’t know what my greatest fear has been up to this point, in the lonely hours when I am alone with myself, and have to face my fears. Perhaps it has been a fear of failure, or the fear of inadvertently and irreparably wounding someone I love dearly. I don’t know … I do know what my greatest fear will be, from now on. I will fear that one day my boys won’t be able to remember me. That somehow, when I am gone, they will lose a sense of me, and of who I was, and of how much I loved them. I’ll fear that one day, they will set off to find me, maybe on a Father’s Day in the distant future.  They will search for me, and search for me, and then eventually give up; realizing finally that I am forever gone, lost and adrift on a tiny brass plaque, out in a vast sea of stones.

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Astros win the series, 2-1.

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