The Coach

We would sit around the table, telling stories until our words ran dry. Laughter filled the air, a tear or two trying to break free. Not out of sadness. No! Out of the abundance of joy.

"You never slept. Dad would swivel that rocking chair and give me a look. I would just shake my head. Your eyes were wide open, and he would fall asleep before you did."

Another sip of wine. Another memory. Someone passed the egg biscuits around the table again. The Christmas tree lights twinkled from the other room as the kids raced around with their new toys.

I looked up toward the head of the table and smiled at him, sitting quietly the way he always did. So, I asked, "Dad, what are your Yankees up to? Do you think next year they will do better?"

Depending on the year, it was either a sore subject or a reason to celebrate. After all, he was their number-one fan. "This is a great one. Remember our game? We would spend a lazy Saturday afternoon on the couch and name each player on the team until one of us forgot. I think you let me win!"

There was a twinkle in his eye. "No, I would never do that."

Mischievous. He was playfully mischievous. "Well, Dad, I am not so sure about that! What about when we used to sneak in the closet at night and grab a can of olives when Mom went to check on Grandma? Hmmm? How many olives did we eat before she found us?"

"I don't remember doing that," he teased.

"I most definitely do. Then there is the matter of the gravy!" I proclaimed, knowing he couldn't weasel out of this one.

"Who? Me?" he asked.

"Yes, you. How many Sundays did we grab a bowl, scoop the gravy (the rest of the world calls it sauce) out of the pan, and sit at this table with the warm Sicilian bread? We didn't even cut it with the knife. We just pulled off the crusty end and dunked it in the gravy!"

Laughter all around. Everyone knew the truth. Mom always caught us! Always!

As she walked down the hallway, she would call out, "Now, what are you two up to? The meatballs aren't finished cooking, and you will ruin your appetite."

Well, that wasn't true. There is always room for pasta and meatballs.

Soon enough, it was time to pack the kids in the car and drive home. Another pleasant holiday around the family table. Sitting in the passenger seat, my mind wandered to all the years I kept the score for his baseball and basketball teams.

I even earned my first paycheck, scoring a game. Why not, I was always there and knew the rules by heart. Although, one night, I wasn't sure who to give the points to when Milan tried to score in the opponent's basket. Dad was yelling for him to turn around, to no avail.

I learned so much from watching him in action. He was so patient as he taught the team to play. It was so much more than just a game to him. It was about sportsmanship, honesty, and integrity. At the beginning of every season, he drove home to the team that their schoolwork came before the game. Winning wasn't everything unless you played for the Yankees; then his expectations were sky-high.

Dedication. He was so giving of his time. He picked the boys up before the games when their parents couldn't be there. He fretted over them. For some, he was a father figure and to others, a mentor. He built lifetime friendships.

Time passed by. Another Christmas fast approached. His breathing was labored, and we would receive devasting news the next day. We had six months to say goodbye, knowing what would soon come to pass.

One last lesson or a thousand tied together.

Strength: I didn't think I was strong enough to say goodbye, let alone be there, as I took his last breath. Somehow, I managed. I lay next to him with Mom standing there, holding his hand. I held him in my arms, letting him know it was ok to let go of this life.

I found the strength.

Sometimes I wonder what part of this fiery redhead has been molded by this gentle and quiet man. I am not quiet and most definitely not always gentle in my approach.

But it is in his compassion for others, the helping hand he always lent to those in need. That is what my heart clings to and has so molded me. From the ladies he picked up and drove to work daily to the boys he coached, he modeled how to care without conditions.

I am far from perfect; just ask those in my inner circle. That said, I know that my compassion for others is based on a foundation my father exhibited throughout his life. I try to help others by volunteering in my community.

To me, he was just dad, and I was his peanut.