When I was in elementary school, maybe 8 0r 9 years old, my dad kept me home from school one day and didn't tell me why. We woke up, went out to breakfast, then drove down to San Diego in his Chevy pick-up. We ended up in Mission Valley around noon, in front of one of those old-fashioned one-screen movie theatres that long ago were torn down to make way for Nordstrom's Rack or The Calvary Chapel, to see the very first showing of Rocky III, on opening day. Let me repeat that, in caps: MY DAD KEPT ME HOME FROM SCHOOL TO TAKE ME TO AN OPENING DAY MATINEE OF ROCKY III. That was my dad.
When I was in sixth grade and my best friend Ben Knickerson kicked me in the balls and the whole world, suddenly and without warning, looked upside-down, my dad picked me up from school and took me to see the Padres play the Astros. I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder somewhere in Poway on the 15 North, the salt of peanuts on my lips and the cadence of Jerry Coleman's voice on the radio lulling me to sleep like Frere Jacques. That was my dad.
I saw the Lawrence Welk production of "Camelot" when I was 11, after listening to the 8-track original cast recording for over a week in my dad's truck. I could handle a weedeater like nobody's business by fifth grade. I can still name the entire roster--not just the *starting roster*--of the 1984 San Diego Padres, without pausing for a breath. I know that Jameson's is better than Bushmill's, that5 Card Stud is a man's game, that a dog will always love you no matter what, that Nazi movies, Spy movies and Mafia movies are always better than Westerns, Romantic Comedies, or Serious Epics, that breakfast is the best meal of the day, and that the best way out is always through. That was my dad.
As an adult, when my father asked me a question, all he ever really wanted to know was: Is my son happy? I wish I had always said Yes. Because I realize now that was always actually the answer.
I miss my dad so fucking much.
I miss my dad.
