Let me get this out of the way first: Some people don't like Father's Day.
Why would they, if they never had fathers in their households, either natural or adoptive; or if, because of abandonment, estrangement, or past physical or mental abuse, they harbor intense negative feelings toward their fathers; or if, as mothers, they have observed their own children victimized by either of the forgoing situations?
Anger, bitterness, and hatred toward an ex-spouse who, for whatever reason, precipitated the dissolution are understandable, and more so when festering financial wounds leave ugly scars. But if turning one's back on his offspring is intended to inflict anguish upon and extract some measure of revenge from his co-parent for being wronged, what is the price of his victory but permanent alienation? While I'm no saint, I see no point in spurning my two stepdaughters, whom I helped raise since the younger was two years old and for whom my affection remains constant, just because their mother decided she could no longer live with me.
Regarding my three birth children, one would be generous if he characterized my early interaction with them as "benign detachment." On the occasion of my first divorce, my younger son, five at the time, made the poignant comment, "I won't miss him; I hardly know him," which reverberated like the most ear-splitting alarm clock one would ever want to hear. If I was ill-equipped (or so I told myself) to assume any major single-parenting role, I did resolve to repair the damage I had done, ultimately forging solid bonds of mutual respect and love, although I claim no credit for their maturation into independent, sensitive, and congenial adults.
And all five dutifully observed Father's Day: two by text, one by voice mail, and two by hand-delivered card (but more on that in good time).
I've often wondered who buys all those seasonal insipid scribblings beckoning from drug store racks like the family planning packages only a few rows away. The male's celebratory moment emerges as an awkward afterthought -- and a crass commercial addendum -- to the female's, and indeed its inglorious history affirms this verdict. Although initially observed in 1908, three years after the official founding of Mother's Day, Father's Day was not acknowledged as such by Congress until 1972, fifty-six years after the legitimization of its distaff twin. In a rather bizarre plot twist, it was Senator Margaret Chase Smith who chastised her fellow lawmakers for having ignored fathers for half a century and "singling out just one of our two parents."
With apologies to a growing cohort of stay-at-home fathers and to feminists everywhere, honoring our mothers for birthing and nurturing us or simply for their gentler nature is grounded in a rationality hardly applicable to the opposite gender, and more easily effectuated. The sentimental greeting that evokes sighs of gratification from the former often piques twinges of embarrassment from the latter. What equivalent is there to the bouquet of fresh flowers that pierces the feminine heart? A shirt the wrong size? An unwearable necktie? A carton of fishing lures or golf balls, strictly utilitarian and by no means universal; not everyone's a sportsman. But isn't it the thought that counts?
Back before my flock had flown off to their distant careers, we actually spent many Father's Days together, not because it had any special meaning for us but merely by coincidence: it marked the commencement of a four-day vacation in Myrtle Beach, compliments of the Spring Air Bedding Company, a Schewel Furniture vendor. If we weren't en route in the same automobile for the requisite six-hour drive, we always rendezvoused at the Sheraton/Martinique/Ocean Reef Resort (the place changed names more often than a bank) at 71st Avenue and North Ocean Boulevard in time for an ethnic dinner excursion to either Fiesta del Burro Loco or Umberto's Italian Trattoria.
Surely during all that quality time the proper salutations were exchanged, but frankly I couldn't swear to it.
I'm not being judgmental. How can I be in a family where a four-generational business guarantees that the present is like the rerun of a situation comedy? Up until the summer before his death, my father was a poolside fixture at those festive junkets, effortlessly entertaining store managers, other dealers, and curious eavesdroppers with his inexhaustible repertoire of topical humor and irreverent yarns, which was always a little intimidating to me, who preferred to bury my head in the pages of a mediocre mystery. I was far less likely to have paid my filial respects to him -- by card, gift, or word of mouth -- than my children may have done to me when the occasion circled back upon itself.
This year I'm headed not south but north, toward Washington, D.C., where my son Matthew is celebrating his first Father's day, his wife Patricia having given birth to a girl, Ana Maria, just two weeks ago. JSG and I are already half way there; we spent the night in Quinton, Virginia, about ten miles east of Richmond, at the home of SPF and CAF, Lynchburg expatriates who continue to host quarterly meetings of the Book Club which JSG and her former husband have been members of, together and apart, for twenty years.
Having been welcomed by the three other couples with open arms -- once I demonstrated the my intentions toward their beloved JSG were entirely honorable -- I now cherish their friendship and am grateful for their good taste in works of substantial literary merit, including this month's selection, The Boys in the Boat, by Daniel James Brown, the inspiring story of the 1936 University of Washington rowing team and its "epic quest" for an Olympic gold medal.
The Club has temporarily (we hope) taken on a new name: Boot Club. Just moments after JSG and I arrive Saturday evening, here comes WBB traipsing through the front door gingerly but loudly, his left foot and leg encased up to the knee in a hideous black velcro and plastic contraption known as an orthopedic boot and designed to immobilize an injured ankle. I know all this because I'm wearing the same corrective device on my right limb; in fact it was Dr. WBB himself who took one look at my swollen black-and-blue disfigurement a week earlier at Oakwood Country Club, muttered something about the Ottawa rules to determine the need for imaging, and said, "Marc, I think you should have that examined -- by a professional."
As if on cue, the same words erupt simultaneously from the bystanders: "What happened to you?" Or, "That will teach you to put your foot where you shouldn't." Or, "You just got a new car; you must have been kicking a few tires."
No, I was at the Wild Horse Pass Hotel in Phoenix, Arizona, for a board meeting of the North American Home Furnishings Association. I'm still on east coast time, so I'm up at 5:30 AM for my daily workout. Anticipating the worst where daytime temperatures soar to 105 degrees, I call the spa to see if it's open, and get a message that its hours are 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM -- a baneful error of omission, since no allusion is made to the adjacent 24/7 fitness room I stumble upon (literally) the next morning.
I wander down to the lobby, and am directed out a side door toward what I eventually discover is a narrow concrete path bordering a picturesque man-made creek that meanders through the desert for about a mile-and-a-half. It's cooler than I thought, pleasant enough for two complete circuits, about six miles.
Unfortunately for me the architects of this course were more focused on its aesthetics than its practicality and safety. The pavement is about an inch higher than the ground level, the treacherousness of which is compounded by a decorative but superfluous roundabout. At exactly 1:40 into my run I bend into the first curve, my foot slips off the edge, my ankle twists violently, my knee scrapes a hard surface as I fall on my extended arms, and daggers of fire explode at the point of trauma.
I'm hobbled, but pridefully undaunted and persistently stubborn; no annoying sprain is going to slow me down. I limp along, testing how much weight my damaged extremity can bear, gradually increasing my speed until, after about thirty minutes, I'm able to jog -- four miles -- with only minor discomfort. Along the way I learn the true meaning of dry heat: minimal perspiration but maximum dehydration, which is blessedly alleviated by a strategically placed water fountain (and kudos to the cursed designers for that foresightedness).
Alas, the relief is only temporary. Back in my room the pain counter-attacks with a vengeance, disabling me until noon, and only mildly responding over the next four days to the recommended regimen of ice, compression, elevation, and ibuprofen (the "rest" component of the equation I of course ignore) until I finally surrender to the good doctor's advice.
The x-ray is conclusive: I have a fracture of the fibula, which sounds (and looks) worse than the reality; if it had occurred one centimeter higher, I would be in a cast and on crutches (which by the way Urgent Care foisted on me upon my initial diagnosis, at a cost to my company of $45, since we're self-insured, and which I returned in disgust when I found out I wouldn't need them -- to no avail, since the insanity of our health care system dictates that medical equipment is non-refundable). Instead, in the words of my son Matthew, who's well-acquainted with term not only as a fellow baseball fanatic but also as a fantasy player, I'm on the DL (or disabled list, for the culturally illiterate) for four to six weeks.
As for WBB, he's not sure exactly what his ailment is, only that he incurred it either while riding in a cart, lining up a putt, or swinging a golf club, another reason why I quit that dangerous game years ago.
Sunday morning, as the club's four couples (minus one spouse) enjoy CAF's famous egg souflee, perfectly-ripened fresh fruit assortment, and bracing black coffee, only WBB volunteers a potential Father's Day happening: one of his sons may be in Lynchburg when he gets home. SPF and CAF have two children in the Richmond area, but their weekend has been saddened by the premature death of their son's brother-in-law, whose funeral they attended yesterday, and they haven't mentioned any other plans, nor have RTH and BTH.
Which leaves JSG and Abba (see below) setting the navigation system in his hardly-broken-in Hyundai Genesis (in sophisticated black, a first for me) for 1820 Clydesdale Place NW, Washington, D. C., and a rendezvous with its 2009 silver twin, a baby-shower gift to Ana Maria's parents, so she will have plenty of room to stretch out her miniature frame, a luxury not available in their former vehicle, a Mini-Cooper.
The naming of grandparents prompts almost as much speculation as that of the child, who in this case will be quadruply confused by the presence of a step-grandfather and an Aunt JSG. Envisioning my own "Grandpa" and "Papa" as being older than I am at this life-event (a gross misconception, since they were both much younger), I rejected both titles forthwith, and racked my brain for something clever, different, and less age-specific. I considered first "Marc" -- as if the infant and I were already business partners -- which morphed into "Daddy Marc" -- which had an incongruous ethnic connotation -- before settling on a word exhumed from my religious school graveyard: "Abba," the Hebrew translation of father, not to be mistaken for the 1970's rockers who brought us "Dancing Queen," and unbeknownst to me until today a clear echo of abuelo, the Spanish designation of my Dominican grandfatherly alter ego.
I've been an "Abba" for a year already, my first granddaughter, Lia Elisabeth Foster, having celebrated that milestone on June 3rd, one day prior to the arrival of her cousin. Through the magic of instantaneously transmitted videos, we've watched her every progression, as if she were a block away rather than in Ithaca, New York. Now she scoots across the floor like a slippery pet, walks her plastic four-wheeler from room to room until stymied by an insurmountable riser, and shakes, rattles, and rolls to her Dad's dextrous guitar strumming -- a wholly different person from the 8 lb. 7 oz. infant we cradled a week after her birth. (Thank heavens the aging process slows considerably as one moves into his later decades.)
And I thought she was tiny. If I employed the old football carry with some trepidation, imagine my apprehension anticipating the hand-off of little Ana Maria, who weighed in at a feathery 4 lb. 15 oz. Her mother's pregnancy has been closely monitored for the past six weeks after ultrasound revealed that the fetus was smaller than normal, a condition known as intrauterine growth restriction. As Patricia was not in any high risk category, the likely cause in her case was an undiagnosed placental or umbilical abnormality. According to my son Matthew, when the fetus is not receiving sufficient nutrients through the placenta, blood is directed toward the more critical head and brain so they can develop fully, while the abdomen doesn't keep pace.
As long as the baby's weight and movement remained at acceptable levels, their physician's recommendation was to deliver her by caesarian section at a gestational age of thirty-nine weeks -- which was done on the night of June 3rd. Ana was whisked to the nursery (much to the chagrin of her mother who didn't see her for about twenty-four hours), poked with a few needles, and actually lost a few ounces before it was determined that she could not retain formula and was switched to breast milk. She made a swift recovery, passed a rigorous series of examinations, and was released from the hospital after a one-week stay to take up permanent residence in her decorative and eclectic pink and white bedroom (crib furnished by Pottery Barn, chest and table by Ikea).
Her cries sound vigorous enough as we knock on the door a little after noon, surprising a family that puts on a game face despite a lack of sleep; I told Matthew we were coming but apparently failed to confirm the time. Patricia is nursing Ana, who, in a ravenous effort to make up for lost time, is on a two-hour feeding schedule, which leaves interval rest periods of only one hour for Mother (and Father). She's just increased her cc. intake -- which requires breast-pumping and consumes more of Mother's precious waking minutes -- and is well on her way to her goal of gaining one ounce per day.
How to describe our princess when she makes her royal debut -- other than beautiful. I'm always grateful that my progeny over two generations have borne hardly any resemblance to me, as I'm sure they are also. Lia Elisabeth is a mirror image of her father, now and thirty years ago, and upon first glance Ana seems to favor (at least to me) her magisterial maternal grandfather (with black hair replacing the gray fringe horseshoeing his bald pate). With a little coaxing, she flickers her blue eyes at us, but a smile is too much to ask for at this stage.
She's rather elongated, like her father, all 6'2" of him, whose hand is almost large enough for the baby basketball palm. When I remark on how mature she looks, he politely reminds me that she lacks the four pounds of chubbiness that usually puff up her peers. JSG and I pass her around (JSG holds her the most), coo, ooh, and ah, rock her gently (she's already asleep), try to look natural for a few photos, and then dispatch her to bed.
We relax in the proud parents' cozy apartment, snack on cheese, crackers, dip, and soda, and catch up on current events. Matthew has been informed that he will soon be promoted to the editorship of Inside U. S. Trade, the public policy publication where he has been a reporter for the past three years, after being hired from a pool of over two hundred applicants. His job has taken him to Zurich, Brunei, Bali, Peru, and Singapore to attend international trade commission negotiating sessions and to Capitol Hill many times to cover Congressional hearings and press conferences; his insight, preparedness, and deceptively winsome manner have earned him a reputation as an investigative journalist to be wary of.
His wife Patricia, a native of the Dominican Republic, formerly worked for a private elementary school specializing in bi-lingual education, where she taught classes and helped design the curriculum. She's taken an indefinite leave of absence in order to care for Ana and to make sure she hears (and eventually speaks) as much Spanish as English. Regardless of their flavor, Ana is guaranteed to be inundated with words, as Patricia, always spontaneous and genuine, is never reluctant to share her thoughts and emotions.
Further brightening up the gathering, in a shimmering green dress, is Patricia's mother, Josefina; on loan from her husband Dr. Don Julio back in the DR and a trained physician herself, she has been an invaluable coach, consultant, cook, cheerleader, and companion during these hectic days. Ana is not her first grandchild, but she is the first born to her own daughter, says Patricia, an important distinction and the rationale behind her indispensable presence. Josefina's English is rudimentary, but her innate charm, effervescent smile, and subtle elegance are readily apprehended and equally expressive.
Matthew lives in Adams-Morgan, a gentrified neighborhood enhanced by several nice shops and restaurants. To give Josefina some relief, JSG and Matthew walk -- while I hop along behind -- three blocks to an Asian deli to order and carry out some sandwiches, including a tuna that's one of the best I've ever tasted.
Josefina likes soccer, which is why the living room's fifty-inch television (a gift to Matthew from his film editing/producing brother David) is tuned to that day's World Cup match between Argentina and Bosnia-Herzegovina, although some concession is made to intermittent channel switching to check the score of the Nationals-Cardinals baseball game. While Matthew has become an avid fan of his hometown team since settling there five years ago, Patricia's sympathies remain mixed; her family's loyalty has resided with the Cardinals ever since Don Julio's residency at a St. Louis hospital years ago.
I rarely watch sports on television, so why should I pretend any interest in a game I (and most Americans) deem a total bore, although, as one who despises football as mindless violence inflicted by one behemoth on another, perhaps I should pay more attention to those lithe, tireless, fleet-footed athletes dancing up and down the field with a ball between their legs and their hands tied. I asked a friend and former youth coach for some elucidation, and he told me I may have glimpsed the best player in the world: Argentinian Lionel Messi.
I can always claim my eyes were glued to Ana, and thus they missed Messi's winning goal in the sixty-fifth minute. "Picking up the ball with Bosnian players blocking his path, he played a one-two with substitute Gonzalo Higuain and then embarked on one of his trademark runs across the area, leaving defenders flailing in his wake before slotting a low shot in off the post." The final score was 2-1, so it's one of the three highlights (although I guess serious followers would include the twenty-five or so missed shots in that category).
America's sudden infatuation with soccer has erupted like an early summer romance and is destined to dissipate just as quickly -- for reasons easily comprehended: the World Cup has dominated the air waves; its only competition, baseball, is in the summer doldrums, a quietude exacerbated by the mediocrity of the pastime's stellar franchises, the Yankees and the Red Sox; and Team USA is still standing, having reached the Knockout Round. In my view, it is the nationalistic or patriotic nature of the tournament -- rather than the game itself -- which has elevated it to the level of a World Series.
Somewhere behind that big screen another major event is transpiring, but no one in our little group, except me, knows about it or cares. It's the final round of the U. S. Open, a Father's Day fixture. The present site, Pinehurst, N. C. stirs deep memories, I remind Matthew. Fifteen years ago he and I were not far from the spot where Payne Stewart sunk a fifteen-foot par putt to assure himself the championship, although I depended upon Matthew's enviable height to observe and then describe to me that final stroke. Vijay Singh, Phil Mickelson, and Tiger Woods were all in contention, and we managed to catch a few distant sightings as we dashed from hole-to-hole in futile pursuit of the leaderboard, pausing occasionally to marvel at every ball-striker's length and accuracy, which cannot be conveyed by electronic medium.
This year's edition is handicapped by the absence of any comparable drama. Woods is recovering from back surgery, Mickelson faltered early, the other presumptive heirs to the links' mantle of royalty, Adam Scott and Rory McIlroy, have dropped out of sight, and a German named Martin Kaymer has virtually lapped the field by tee time Sunday. I'm not enamored of Woods, not because of his unsavory escapades, which no one is immune from, but because his television persona, other than when he is stalking birdies, comes across as humorless, repressive, and aloof. But there's no denying he brings to professional golf an essential charisma which makes all his Opens and Masters worth a gander -- and half a dozen rating points -- mainly because he enters every one as the odds-on favorite and remains so until all hope is lost.
Satellite surfing during our four-hour ride home confirms what has been as inevitable as my navigation system's misdirection through a congested Georgetown: it's Kaymer in a rout, widening his five-shot lead to eight over two anonymous Americans, Erik Compton and Rickie Fowler.
It's only a minor diversion from the main attraction: the live broadcast of the New York Yankees at Oakland A's baseball game, commencing at 4:05 PM, just about coinciding with our departure. I've been a devoted Athletic supporter ever since I read Michael Lewis's Moneyball soon after its publication back in 2003 and long before the film version made Billy Beane, the team's brilliant general manager, a household name -- a love affair I documented on this web site in April 2010.
The book recounted Beane's success in producing consistent winners with bargain-basement budgets by employing revolutionary statistical analysis. More recently, as other executives began co-opting his methods for evaluating talent, Beane, like all geniuses, has reinvented himself: trading for or signing as free agents players the market undervalues (like Warren Buffett in a different arena); leveraging their splits in platoon-oriented lineups (where left-handed batters are inserted against right-handed pitchers, and vice-versa, because of their situational superior performance); disdaining long-term contracts not only because of their cost but also in order to retain the flexibility to reshuffle his cards; and assembling rosters with the versatility and depth to withstand the rigors of 162-game seasons. The results have been remarkable: the best composite record in the Major Leagues since Opening Day 2012 and a 2014 first-place team that boasts a .609 winning percentage and a positive run differential (the excess of runs scored over runs given up) of 130, more than twice that of the runner-up.
Today's game is a template of all those components functioning to perfection. On the mound for the A's is thirty-year-old Jesse Chavez, who, when Beane purchased his contract from Toronto in August 2012, had been owned by four different teams since 2004, pitching to a 5.86 ERA in 152 appearances, all but two in relief. Adding a cutter to his fastball, change-up, and curve enabled him to become the long man of the A's bullpen in 2013, and an outstanding spring training earned him the third spot in their rotation after two mainstays, Jarrod Parker and A. J. Griffin, succumbed to Tommy John surgery. He's posted five wins against four losses with an ERA of 3.04, and his team has won all four of his no-decision starts. "We just thought he was a guy who had never really gotten a chance," says Beane.
Chavez doesn't disappoint. In six innings, he holds the Yankees to five hits, one walk, and one run, and strikes out four.
Meanwhile the A's break out the heavy bats. They're facing a left-hander, Vidal Nuno, so Manager Bob Melvin, Beane's on-field surrogate, has penciled in his right-handed hitters, including Craig Gentry, who singles in the first behind leadoff specialist Coco Crisp, and catcher Derek Norris, who in a surprise move is batting clean-up. Melvin's cunning pays off; Norris homers, driving in Crisp and Gentry ahead of him. (Beane obtained Gentry from the Rangers during the off-season in exchange for slugging prospect Michael Choice, while minor-leaguer Norris came over in 2012 in the deal that sent star hurler Gio Gonzalez to the Nationals.)
In the second inning Kyle Blanks, whom Beane acquired just days ago from the Padres, hoping to catch more right-handed lightning in a bottle, singles, as does veteran free agent signee Nick Punto. Crisp homers, plating three more runs, and the rout is on. The A's will score four in the fourth, before Chavez and four relievers surrender five to the Yankees, including homers by Carlos Beltran and Brett Gardner, the latter off the much-maligned Jim Johnson. Beane was willing to pay Johnson the astronomical sum (at least for the A's) of $10 million to close games for him, based on a two-year resume of 101 saves for the Orioles -- a grievous miscalculation. Johnson has been abysmal, having lost his control, his ability to get anyone out, and the respect of the Oakland faithful, who greet his every windup with merciless boos.
It's a slight blemish on an otherwise glorious afternoon.
And what Father's Day would be complete without an NBA Championship Miami Heat vs. San Antonio Spurs match-up? I doubt I've watched more than fifteen basketball games since December -- four or five involving UVA and the rest professional, but this one intrigues me. The Spurs are obviously on a mission to redeem themselves from last year's Game Six collapse, when an errant free throw and a missed rebound cost them the Ring; they embarrassed the Heat back in Miami in Games Three and Four by a combined total of forty points, and can lock up the title with a home court victory tonight.
The small-market Spurs are the indoor version of the A's; while the Heat, the Lakers, and the Knicks soak up the glamor and saturate ESPN's nightly telecasts and talk shows, the pesky Spurs continue to fly under the radar, to foil the best-laid plans and the pundits' predictions, and to demonstrate supremacy -- despite the presence of a dominating superstar, someone in the mold of Lebron James, Kobe Bryant, or Carmelo Anthony. After all, isn't Tim Duncan over the hill, Manu Ginobili injured or inconsistent, and Tony Parker's jump shot a bricklayer's nightmare?
The mastermind behind this well-oiled machine is former general manager and incumbent coach Gregg Popovich, whose eighteen-year tenure is the longest in any major American sport and astonishing when one considers that only three of his NBA colleagues have held down their jobs longer than four. A Beane doppelganger, Popovich possesses the same preternatural ability to capitalize on players' strengths while minimizing their weaknesses and to create elite roles for unheralded journeymen.
Witness the flourishing of Boris Diaw, the doughy Frenchman waived by the lowly Bobcats in March 2012 whose insertion in the starting line-up in Game Three keyed the Spurs' subsequent surge; of Marco Belinelli, the "non-descript Italian jump shooter" who's emerged from obscurity to become a deadly three-point assassin; of Danny Green, the Cavalier cast-off who, from his two-guard position, is an important cog in the team's fluid offensive scheme; and of Kwahi Leonard, whom Popovich swiped from the Pacers on Draft Night 2011 and has since nursed from defensive stopper to half-court scoring threat, the face of the franchise, and final round MVP.
Mature and well-spoken from the day he burst upon the scene, Lebron James promptly established himself as best in the land, and one of the most popular. But when he renounced his Cleveland roots and decided "to take his talents to South Beach" -- to join forces with Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh in a Holy Triumvirate -- he tarnished his image as an underdog bearing the burden of mediocre running mates and suffered a precipitous fall from grace. As the Heat race to an early sixteen-point lead (whittled down to seven by the end of the first quarter), who in the country is rooting for them, other than a few million frenetic Floridians?
The initial storm subsides, and the Popovich choreography asserts itself. Pinpoint passes find the open man. Duncan and Diaw command the low post or Parker unleashes the fast break. Waves of reinforcements roll in from the bench, demoralizing the Heat, who have depended on too few soldiers for too many minutes over too long a season. Four of the fresh legs belong to Ginobili and an upstart named Patty Mills, who drain threes like dart-throwers puncturing bulls-eyes (and finish a combined eight for fourteen from behind the arc). Leonard's all over the court, grabbing ten rebounds and extending his amazing streak of accuracy by hitting seven of ten shots.
James exerts a heroic effort, pouring in thirty-one points, but he can't do it alone. The final score is anticlimactic to another thorough dismantling of the humbled defending champion: 104 to 87.
It's been a long, satisfying day, filled to the brim with friends, family, and, yes, frivolity. My cup runneth over. What better postscript can I offer than the words of the card still propped on a file cabinet in my office and signed by two tiny footprints no bigger than my little finger: "For you, Abba, up to the top of our family tree, comes a great big hug from itty-bitty me. Love, Ana Maria, Matthew, and Patricia."
