I know tomorrow is mother’s day, but I promised a two parter on Pops… poor timing, but a good message!
My sisters and I are very blessed. We have not only an incredible mother, but an incredible father, as well.
I don’t know how to describe my father in a way that honors him to the extent he should be honored. So hopefully an excerpt from a story I wrote in 2002 suffices.
Context: My Dad and I used to play racquetball all the time. This story chronicles our many racquetball games - and, most importantly, our last one.
from the beginning of the story:
We always play on the fourth court, Papa and I. Now that I have a car I meet him here Wednesdays after school. It all started when I was eight years old and busy filling a suburban quota: beginner’s tennis. We still have a picture hanging in our bathroom of me in ready-stance, blond hair plastered to my head and a look of intent concentration tensing my face. That was most likely day one. Papa was picking me up from yet another tedious lesson, where the instructor would leave me for drinks in the club house while I was forced to contend with the ball machine. After being pelted by my eighth tennis ball, I decided that was enough.
later on....
I watch my Papa step onto the court, the way I have watched him for years. First he does an embarrassing Richard Simmons pacing back and forth across the ulterior wall- then, stopping where I previously positioned myself for my own stretches, he starts bending his knees and jumping a little, finally stretching a right arm to the ceiling.
Papa is a sports prodigy. His presence commands an intimidating and calm fear in his opponent; his decided steps trample smooth and firm on any chance of my ever winning. But his true genius derives from the psyche- ultimately he is a pleasure to play with. He gives compliments where compliments are due, insists on handicaps when needed, willingly offers tips of counsel to the middle-lower class of sports. He played me when I was eight- an eight year old flopping around the court, thinking slamming into the four walls is humorous- and never once did he raise his voice or grope his neck in frustration.
“I think your gonna beat me today Charlie. You want to serve first?"
He has said this for ten years now, almost in precisely the same way- an optimistic tone rings in his voice, only a little strained by years and years of victory.
“Nope, you can serve. You might need the advantage, old man”.
He just grins and takes the center. I watch my father, still fit and healthy at 49, bend his back with perfect ease- never checking his form, as I do, he can feel his form, like we know how to breathe. His eyes squint, accenting his crows feet- smile marks from too many belly laughs.
He beats me at the first game 15-11.
“Good game Robin Bobin, lets go get some water”.
I walk behind him down the hallway, trying to step where he steps, just once snagging his heel.
“Water grande” he says to the bar tender. She laughs, I turn pink.
I pivot on the high chair, ready to rattle off the anti- public corny jokes lecture, but instead I say,“Dad how come you have never let me beat you? I mean, you would think that a father would at least cater a little bit to an eight year old. But you never even let me gain a point, not one.”
“Let you win? But you can win. I won’t let you win if you already can win. And if there were no chance, we wouldn’t play.”
Swinging my legs from the high hibiscus chair, sipping a grand water grande, I loved my father. The feeling storms through you, like charging horses and you just love and love until your body slackens and can not endure more emotion. His belief in me extends past racquetball, extends into my marrow, so that all of me knows and all of me believes too.
So I kissed him on the cheek and said:“Thanks Pops. Lets go back and play some more.”
The next game I won, so the score was 2-2. Now this isn’t a marvel: I have been somewhat successful in coming back the second game for about two years now. It is the third game that always gets me, the third game that I can never win.
Sprinting across the court, chasing after a little blue ball, I knew the game would be close- he was trying to run me out. True, I had him running also. But the shots he was giving me! In racquetball, a key shot is close to the corner, extremely low, so that it can smack the ground in half a second and erase whatever chance you had to get there. At one point I actually tripped trying to make a shot, hitting my head against the right wall.
“Good try!!”
The boisterous comments bounces back to me five times over. Enraged, I decided to show him a good try, as I rubbed my throbbing temple.
Before I realized it I had him. It was as quick as that, and suddenly I found myself closer to the end. Here I was- ready to serve, 14-13, me. So many times I wanted this, but now that I am here…. If I beat him- he is centered behind me, I can hear his breathing- I beat him. And if I beat him, I will be able to beat him; will he be angry with me? Will this ruin casual Wednesdays, racquetball Wednesdays, our days? It might make things awkward between us- my fears ate through my mind like a virus.
But I am my father’s daughter: I have his heart. I arched my back and hit the ball with every last sliver of force I could find- the shot was perfect, just like he always taught me, to the corner and quickly down. I win. I won.
Slowly, I turned around.
“Ah you got me. Good game Robin, great game. Lets go get some frozen yogurt.”
He looked older to me. His white hairs seemed to be charging in a mad race to take over his skull, and his crow’s feet were pronounced and saddened. I noticed the mild hunch of his shoulders, the wrinkled skin hanging on the backs of his hands. I wanted to hug him, to jump on him like when I was little, to let him tousle my hair and call me Charlie.
But I didn’t. As he walked to the back wall’s door, I saw his reflection in the court's window. I realized his eyes were wet, a sad smile dancing on his lips.
But I guess, eventually, we all beat our fathers.
