Nov. 20, 2014
My apologies to RJ Bell and the rest of the Pregame community for not being involved these past few days in the forum and for not providing my weekly Thursday NFL Overrated/Underrated Injury report.
But my head hasn't been right. My spirit lags. It's not from going 2-6 on my last eight plays and having a stone cold loser on my strongest Canadian Football League play of the season, although I feel damn lousy for these non-acceptable results.
But in the midst of trying to work my way back into a winning streak, I received a message that knocked me to the canvas: My father was dead.
It was through my father I acquired my love of sports. We were extremely close, but lived far apart. He was 91 and had two great women in his life - my mother and then after she passed a close personal friend. It doesn't get much better than that.
We grew up in Wisconsin in the 1960s where life for me was about three things - getting good grades in school, studying Judaism and following the Green Bay Packers. I only was good at one of them and it wasn't school and religion. My grades were lousy and I was nearly booted out of Hebrew school for sneaking a biography of Bob Cousy inside my overstuffed prayer book. I followed Moses Malone more than Moses.
I was good, though, when it came to knowing the Green Bay Packers, which cut me some slack with my dad. Going with him to Packer games during the Vince Lombardi era is among my most cherished childhood memories. I could have made a lot of money if I was a gambler back when I was 13 when at a Packer game I noticed Bart Starr clutching his arm during pregame warmups. I pointed it out to my dad, but he said don't worry Starr would play. He didn't, though. Backup Zeke Bratkowski played. The Packers still were able to win, but the total went under.
When I was just a little boy - and this is going back to the real early 60s - I was asked an important question by my parents: Who is the greatest Green Bay Packer of all-time. If I got the answer right I would be allowed to stay up and watch the entire Chicago Black Hawks game on WGN instead of just the first two periods.
I didn't know the answer. It was too early in Bart Starr's career to say him. Brett Favre had not even been born yet.
Just as I was about to give up, a bus drove by our house with a billboard on it saying buy a car from Don Hutson Chevrolet. Hutson had opened a car dealership in Racine, Wis., my hometown. So I blurted out Don Hutson. Correct! My parents were astonished I had even heard of Don Hutson. I got real lucky on that one.
I got lucky another time thanks to my dad. He had grown up in Michigan and was a huge fan of the Detroit Tigers. His favorite all-time team was the 1934 Tigers, who ended up losing the World Series to the Cardinals in seven games. He had scrapbooks of the team and players. Hank Greenberg was his hero, a true mensch who battled anti-Semitism as much as Jackie Robinson dealt with prejudice.
My dad told me the story of how he was in a barbershop during that time with the Tigers game on the radio. Greenberg hit a dramatic home run to win the game and a customer jumped out of the barber chair screaming, "How about that God Damn Jew"!
All of this came in handy in ninth grade geography, my final class of the day. I was looking forward to quickly getting out as soon as the bell rang to go play baseball with my good friend Ray, a transplanted New Yorker. However, we were caught passing notes back and forth. I was arguing that Bill Russell still was the best center in basketball while he stubbornly maintained Willis Reed was now better.
Our teacher, Mr. Seeman, happened to be a huge sports fan who would find any excuse to keep the two of us after class just to talk sports. This was a perfect opportunity to nail us. So he did. Sadly, we watched the rest of the class file out after the bell.
Please we asked Mr. Seeman let us go, too. We want to play baseball. He struck a deal with us after I had bragged I could name the starting lineup of every World Series team, (which there was no way I could do).
OK, he said then name the starting lineup of the - 1934 Detroit Tigers.
What a break.
Quickly I rattled off catcher Mickey Cochrane, first baseman Hank Greenberg, second baseman Charlie Gehringer, shortstop Billy Rogell, third baseman Marv Owen, outfielders Goose Goslin, Jo-Jo White and Pete Fox with the two best starting pitchers being Schoolboy Rowe and Tommy Bridges.
Ray and I quickly passed through a stunned Mr. Seeman and headed out the door to freedom and the ball fields.
Later in life, my dad moved to Stockton, Calif., where he was an executive for Goodwill. He soon became a huge San Francisco 49ers and Giants fan. He loved visiting Las Vegas, making his little square $20 sports bets backing some huge favorite usually Joe Montana's 49ers. One of his great pleasures was venturing to the old Stardust sports book late Sunday night to watch in person the Stardust Line radio show hearing two of his favorite Las Vegas sports authorities, Dave Malinsky and Arne Lang.
My dad was so passionate about sports he called his girl friend (soon to be my mother) out of the class she was student teaching to tell her that Bobby Thompson had hit a home run and the Giants won the pennant. The Giants win the pennant. The Giants win the pennant.
In the end, a combination of undergoing dialysis, dealing with heart problems, trying to rehab a broken hip and being unable to eat being fed through a tube became too much. My dad wanted to keep living. He never quit. He caught a fever last weekend and his body no longer had any resistance left to fight it. He passed away Monday. His suffering is over now and he's in a good place. He got to see the Giants win another World Series. Thank you Madison Bumgarner.
If you can, give a hug to your parents. Don't just tell them you love them, by why you love them. It matters.