A dad who did it all
Father’s Day rekindles fond memories of the man who always figured out a way to help
Father’s Day comes every year, but this week, for the first time, I found myself reminiscing about sports days gone by, pondering my favorite sports memory involving my father.
It was due to a query posted by Jean-Jacques Taylor, an award-winning columnist and friend who hosts a radio show in Dallas.
Not only had I never been asked that question, I was unable to put a single memory atop the list. There are too many from which to choose; too many to share here. I was blessed. Ollie Solomon and I had a special sports relationship. He was responsible for much of what I learned about sports as a kid, nourishing my obsessive passion with the blood and sweat of a dedicated dad.
Bats, balls, gloves, books, magazines, rides, homemade television antennas … whatever was needed for me to enjoy sports, he figured out a way.
When basketball became my true love, he often ran up the electric bill by cranking up the air conditioner in the gymnasium at the church where he worked as a janitor. While he was vacuuming the sanctuary, buffing the floors in the fellowship hall or cleaning classrooms, the gym was mine.
Because of a decent-sized backyard, we usually had one of the better basketball courts in the neighborhood at our house. All dirt, but smooth. One glorious summer we had full-court runs in our backyard.
My dad found a rim in a trash heap, welded it back together, cut a backboard out of a huge door he picked up somewhere, hung it, painted the square on it, and we were good to go end-to-end.
When I finally got to middle school and could play on a team, he drove me to every game. Every. Game.
Always made the time
Maybe because I was the genius who tried to cross the street by myself when I was 3, and was almost killed when I was hit by a car, Daddy decided he would be my sole source of transportation.
He also ran a Uber-like system for kids in the 1980s, pretty much dropping classmates off on demand. Hop in the truck, get a free ride home.
My dad made the time to be at every game, but unlike so many parents I have seen, he never once found the time to rip my coach or question team strategy.
He never yelled at a referee. He never bad-mouthed one of my teammates.
When we lost or I played poorly, not a negative word.
If I made only one shot in a game, he’d say, “That was a good shot you made there, boy.”
That time I hit the gamewinning jumper near the buzzer, a shot so sweet that it earned a headline in the Chronicle the next morning, he simply said, “That was a good shot you made there, boy.”
If I made 10 shots, but committed 15 turnovers and we lost by 30 points — if you never faced the Kashmere press, don’t judge — he simply smiled and said, “You made some good shots there, boy. Them fellas were tough, weren’t they?”
And he chuckled. I do miss that laugh.
The only time he ever criticized me after a game was when I got ejected for fighting in high school. I came up swinging on a guy, who stood at least a head taller than me following a hard foul. It was dumb.
“You’re supposed to be out there playing basketball, boy, not acting a fool,” he said as we drove away from Delmar Stadium. “You lucky you didn’t get your behind whooped. And you’ll be lucky if I bring you back over here.”
I got lucky. He brought me back.
I often think about my father as I try to channel him in raising my two daughters, who I first spent extended time with around three years ago this week, at the beginning of the adoption process.
I tried to be like him, a man of few negative words, when I coached them on a coed soccer squad this spring.
Our Red Wolves went unbeaten.
Despite having never coached soccer before, I am either the best to have ever done it or was fortunate enough to have a talented group of great kids who made me look good.
There was more drama in getting out of the house to go to matches and practices, than there was at the games. I pretty much have to deliver a fiery monologue to get my 9-yearolds anywhere near the car at go time.
Mentally manhandled
My father’s method of getting me and my little brother in the truck to go to a game? “All right, let’s go.” This rookie dad gets mentally manhandled by these girls regularly.
Me: “Didn’t I tell you to pick your clothes up off the floor?”
Daughter No. 1: “Yes, but you didn’t say anything about socks.”
Me (pointing at the backseat of a messy SUV): “Does that look like the place where you throw trash?”
Daughter No. 2 (looking at the backseat of an SUV piled high with her and her sister’s trash): “To me? Yes.”
So, as you might imagine, I won’t be writing a book about having mastered fatherhood anytime soon.
But as a son of one who was pretty good at it, I wish more parents approached their kids and sports like my father did.
He didn’t have to break me down to inspire me to give my all on every play. He didn’t have to belittle me to make me want to play better. He didn’t have to question my heart for me to want to rip the heart out of my opponents.
Whatever is needed for your kids to enjoy sports, figure out a way, but do so in a way they really do get to enjoy sports.
That’s what I want for my two athletically-gifted and competitive children, who almost made scoring goals look easy this soccer season.
Hopefully, years from now they’ll have too many sports memories with Daddy to pick a favorite.
And on Father’s Day, they will reminisce, and note that whether it was one of many, the only one, a game-opener or a game-winner, I applauded every shot.
And I was there to applaud … every … day.
Like the grandfather they never met.