Checking In
He was the king of nonverbal communication. In the car as a kid the conversation was minimal, and at the dinner table he spent more time giving us extended stares than eating. Although he was a quiet man, he became more talkative after a few drinks. My father was legendary for the most well timed “dad jokes” at a restaurant or during holiday occasions. Bean soup was one of his favorite things to order when we went out to eat. He would ask the waitress, “do you know how many beans are used in making your bean soup?” Inevitably the poor waitress would be confused and say, “I am not sure about that.” His cued-up response was, “well if they use more than 239, the soup will be too farty (240).” Like clockwork he would be the first to chuckle at his own joke and his laugh was like an intermittent leaking bike tire, cis, cis, cis. When mom was alive, she would never tolerate such banter in public. After she passed, dad used every occasion he could to share his humor, and we sat back and enjoyed the ride.
This week a Facebook memory popped up with a picture of my dad giving one of his most famous stares. He wore a baseball cap and it was pulled down fairly low for a man in his eighties. He looked good in a ball cap and it was rare to find him without one on. His flannel shirt was flipped up with the collar giving him some added warmth, and his glasses showed some tinting as a result of the late day sun. His face showed one part dismay as he did not like to have his picture taken, and one part parental wisdom. The details that came through the photograph were his white beard stubble, crow’s feet wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and some cracking of his dry lips. His squinting glance pierced the camera and without his lips moving I could hear the words coming out of his mouth, “you think you got it all figured out, don’t you. Well let me tell you something, you don’t know shit!!!” Dad’s parental theme was simple and straightforward. “Be on time, do your work and do it right, and stay humble.” Any time one of his three sons wandered off the path, it was a long stare that usually got us back on track. Sometimes a shaking of his head followed if we really screwed up. The disappointment we could see in his eyes was more painful than a brutal beating on our backside. My dad never spanked me, not once. I witnessed countless times his belt whacking the bottom of my oldest brother Jim’s behind, and a few smacks to middle brother John’s backside. I would like to think my intellect caused me to avoid the pitfalls that led to their demise, but most likely his fire was fading as I ran rampant through the house.
My mom passed away in 2005 and for the next 11 years my relationship with dad evolved, and our conversations became something I truly enjoyed. One conversation shortly after mom’s funeral shook me to the core. We were driving on 26 mile (I am sure headed to Lowe’s) and he made a statement that seemed to come out of nowhere. “Your mother would always say the only time that Ronnie calls is when he wants something.” I did not respond. I sincerely did not know how to respond. Still struggling with mom’s sudden death, this hit me like a hammer to the head. I thought of myself as a good son, who attended all the family functions and tried to help around his house as much as I could. That was expected in their eyes, and what was missing in their formula was a “how are you” phone call occasionally. A call to “check in” with no strings attached. I was guilty of rarely making that effort. My dad had no malice with his statement, he was simply doing his job. He was providing some feedback, some tough love, some reality, and it was up to me to decide if change was needed. It’s amazing how you can share thousands of words with a loved one over the years, and you can only remember a few. I will never forget that statement and did my best in the years to follow to make plenty of “how are you” calls to dad.
As I reflect back on my experiences with Marine City football, I recognize a common theme with almost every single coach on staff. We all had amazing dads and we would share one story after another when scouting or at a post-game celebration. The stories seemed to share a few components; accountability if you screwed up, expectations (spelled out early and often) and a relentless work ethic. “Modeling” they call it nowadays. An educational term describing a desired behavior that you witness and try to replicate. What was special about my dad is that he received little modeling as a young man. His father,(my grandfather who I never met) was an alcoholic and was not in the family picture for much of his life. My dad created his own model and I am the luckiest son in the world to have experienced its beauty. Parenting is truly one of the hardest jobs we will ever take on, and unfortunately, we see media coverage of failed parenting all too often now.
Marine City’s football success is built upon many pillars, but maybe the strongest pillar springs from our dad’s hearts, our dad’s work ethic, and our dad’s values. As Thanksgiving has come and gone, I give thanks to not only the great dads of our coaching staff, but also to the great dads of our community who continue to model for our student athletes the value of hard work.
Hey dad, it’s your son, Ron. Just checking in on you, how are you? I miss you more than you can imagine.
