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8/14/2019 I Owe My Father an Apology
http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/i-owe-my-father-an-apology 1/2
I owe my father an apology for now I realize he wasn’t out to get me in my youth
but rather struggled to support me. All the years of his stern lectures while I simply
wanted to enjoy being an athlete. I branded him hateful and someone that saw only
negative in what I did. In retrospect, I was too young and devoid of wisdom to know that
he acted out of love and in the fever brought on by watching a child play a sport.
This clarity of mind occurs as I travel over the Wando bridge cutting through thefirst rays of light on a Saturday morning. Sipping on a warm cup of coffee, I am taking
my daughter to meet her teammates as they prepare to play a basketball game. We chat
about trivia as her legs nervously twitch. When she admits to the nervousness, I almost
cry. Like my father, I am feverish with excitement as it is clear to me she enjoys this
game. She loves being part of a team. A team that is quite good (as of Saturday, they
had won three games and lost one).
As she leaves the car, I watch her interact with her ten year old teammates. They
are giddy and chatty like we expect fifth graders to be. You would never know that
within an hour, they would morph into ball hawking fiends accepting nothing but a win
for themselves and their coach. Don’t grow up I plead internally! I want her like this
forever. I wished the same when she was three yet it did not come true. Now I want tohug her but know this would be mortifying and would create indelible embarrassment.
So I tell her goodbye and depart for the game. Alone with my thoughts for the
twenty minute drive, the butterflies are afloat in my stomach for there is nothing, nothing
like watching your child compete in a game they love. She better hustle. I pray she
scores a basket. I ask that she not get hurt. It’s all about fun. I warn myself (my wife is
at another child’s game) to not yell too loud but know that the admonishment is futile.
Horror! I can’t find the gym. I get a great tour of Summerville as I try to follow
the directions from Mapquest. Twenty minutes to tip-off and I’m not there yet. Forget
stress from work or from a water damaged house. Being late to your daughter’s
basketball game breaks out a cold sweat and anxiety cured by no pill. The inevitable stop
at the gas station allows me to arrive as the team begins to take lay-ups.
At the moment, I am the only parent in the bleachers. There is a chill in the air as
the heat has not warmed the cavernous building. I worry about her not having a shirt
underneath her jersey. She will surely catch cold though this is the furthest thought from
her mind. The pony-tailed team talks and laughs as the call to order begins. The world
becomes balanced as a girl once goofy catches a pass and seriously cuts to the basket for
a right handed lay-up shot off the correct foot.
The other team takes the floor to the oblivion of our team. Me, I am studying
each girl. The tall ones. The fast ones. The good dribblers and shooters. I am playing
the game in my mind simulating what my daughter will go through. I hope she will
always be in the right position on defense and will grab each rebound with two hands
before passing to an awaiting guard. I remember it’s just a game and take another sip of
coffee.
Game time approaches as more parents arrive. Soon, I am joined by other
nervous fathers and mothers who broke their late, Saturday sleep to sit on hard, cold steel
seats comforted only by the love of the team and instant, dull coffee from the concession
stand.
My daughter jumps center for she is tall for her age. As she stands at center court,
her eyes are bulging. My heart is thumping. She raises her right hand in anticipation of
8/14/2019 I Owe My Father an Apology
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