We make our Dads happy...really
"Every child had a pretty good shot
To get at least as far as their old man got."
--Billie Joel, Allentown
Do all sons feel the need to achieve more than their fathers in order to please them? How many of us actually remember our dads saying that? Tragically, many of us link our own happiness to the day we finally step beyond the long shadows cast by our fathers.
At 35, I had not come close to reaching those perceived expectations. I was not an Ivy League-educated attorney with the house and family in the suburbs. I was a single, communications professional/wannabe writer who lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment. I awoke every day to go to a job I hated, feeling totally directionless. Getting as far as my old man got seemed as attainable as being elected president.
My father, you see, had achieved much with his life. At age 12, he came to America from Italy and learned English in one year. In spite of losing both parents by the age of 17, he earned a scholarship to Brown University and went on to a successful career as a civil engineer. At my age, he had three kids, a home, and laid the foundation for his professional life. How could I not feel like I let this man down?
Sure, he never actually said I disappointed him. I just sensed it in those steely gray eyes during our many “debates” about my life and career. “Why do you have to be a writer?” he would ask. I began to wonder if I ever would find something to do with my life that would please my father as well as me.
In spite of our debates, we could talk about the one thing most fathers and sons can talk about: sports. So, when he asked me if I wanted to take my two oldest nephews to a Boston Red Sox game, it was a no-brainer. Besides, if there was one area of my life where I felt I met and exceeded expectations, it was as an uncle.
I picked up my older sister's son Michael and Dad brought my younger sister's son Jared. Seven-year-old Michael was not much of a fan, but his grandfather taking him anywhere made it a special occasion. Eight-year-old Jared, on the other hand, wore his baseball cap everywhere and fell asleep to a video on the 1996 World Series every night -- and this was his first visit to Fenway Park.
We met in the concession area beneath the first base grandstand. It was a steamy Memorial Day that felt more like the 4th of July. Moving slowly with the crowd, we eased into our seats along the first base line. A long stretch of shade sheltered us on a day the devil himself would have brought a fan. How long that shade remained would certainly dictate how long Michael, the reluctant baseball fan, would want to stay.
Jared, on the other hand, hung on every pitch. He reminded me of myself when I was his age. Fenway Park was my Mecca. I pitched the 7th game of the World Series there in my mind every afternoon, tossing a tennis ball against the chimney of our house for hours. I lived for the pilgrimage my father and I made each season and now I saw that same look in Jared's eyes.
“Grandpa, did you see that catch by Nomar?” exclaimed Jared.
“That was quite a play,” replied my father.
“What did you think of that one, Michael?” I asked. “Michael?”
Apparently, the diving catch of a sinking liner by Nomar Garciaparra did not make much of an impression on Michael. Viewing the large Coke bottles above the left field wall with my binoculars, however, did.
“Good thing I brought those, eh Dad?”
My father smiled. The pride of three generations going to a ballgame together radiated from those steely gray eyes. The same eyes that had stirred my feelings of inadequacy now beamed with contentment.
Around the fifth inning, the shade drifted behind our seats, giving way to Mr. Sun. That's when the game heated up too, with the Red Sox cutting a 5-0 deficit to 5-2. It is also when Michael began asking to leave.
With the sun beating down on our faces and the rally stalled, I told Michael we would leave at the end of the seventh.
"But Michael, you'll miss the best part,” said Jared, awakening from his baseball trance.
"That's okay, Jared," said my father. "We'll tell him how it ends."
On cue, the Sox began another rally in the seventh inning. With two runners on, Jason Varitek went deep, tying the score. As Fenway rose to cheer, Michael remained seated with but one thought on his mind, "can we go?" Fortunately, he did not verbalize that request until after the Red Sox took the lead on a two-run homer by Mike Stanley a few batters later. Beaten into submission, I agreed.
As my father and Jared slapped high fives to celebrate the Red Sox taking the lead, Michael and I began our early exit.
"We're gonna to get going now, Dad," I said.
My father rubbed his hand, surprised by the force with which an excited eight-year-old could deliver a high five.
Okay," he said. “See you later. Michael, did you have fun?"
"Yep," said Michael.
“Good,” he said, knowing full well it was not true. “Take care, guys. We’ll see you later.”
I mouthed “thank you” but my father’s attention had already returned to the game and his remaining grandson.
After dropping Michael off, I reflected on the contrasting reactions of my nephews. It made me think of my first game at Fenway with my dad. The Red Sox played the Yankees and lost. For some reason, the Red Sox catcher Bob Montgomery did not wear a helmet when he batted. Most importantly, wild horses could not get me to leave the park before the game was over. Just like Jared. To see that same love of the game in him brought a joy to my heart that no six-figure salary or million-dollar home could ever match.
This rapturous feeling made the drive home seem like walking on air. Then, an even more exhilarating revelation came over me. Surely, my father experienced that same euphoria watching me watch my beloved Red Sox as I had with Jared. And if I gave this magical, wonderful feeling to my father even once, what did all of my perceived shortcomings in my career and life matter? I had given wings to the heart of the man I admired most.
Many of us place such emphasis on making our parents happy that we lose sight of what really does: our own happiness. That does not necessarily equate to wealth and social status. It can mean just being happy, even if it’s only for a moment and even if it’s something as simple and effortless as enjoying a baseball game. We have all made our parents that happy at one time or another. In my case, it just took a look from my nephew, a boy that I once was, to make me realize that I did.
Joseph D’Eramo is a freelance copywriter in the Boston area. The co-author and publisher of Recipes for the Roommate-Impaired, he writes the Statman column for SoxAppeal.org. D’Eramo, now 41 and married, resides in Taunton, MA.
To get at least as far as their old man got."
--Billie Joel, Allentown
Do all sons feel the need to achieve more than their fathers in order to please them? How many of us actually remember our dads saying that? Tragically, many of us link our own happiness to the day we finally step beyond the long shadows cast by our fathers.
At 35, I had not come close to reaching those perceived expectations. I was not an Ivy League-educated attorney with the house and family in the suburbs. I was a single, communications professional/wannabe writer who lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment. I awoke every day to go to a job I hated, feeling totally directionless. Getting as far as my old man got seemed as attainable as being elected president.
My father, you see, had achieved much with his life. At age 12, he came to America from Italy and learned English in one year. In spite of losing both parents by the age of 17, he earned a scholarship to Brown University and went on to a successful career as a civil engineer. At my age, he had three kids, a home, and laid the foundation for his professional life. How could I not feel like I let this man down?
Sure, he never actually said I disappointed him. I just sensed it in those steely gray eyes during our many “debates” about my life and career. “Why do you have to be a writer?” he would ask. I began to wonder if I ever would find something to do with my life that would please my father as well as me.
In spite of our debates, we could talk about the one thing most fathers and sons can talk about: sports. So, when he asked me if I wanted to take my two oldest nephews to a Boston Red Sox game, it was a no-brainer. Besides, if there was one area of my life where I felt I met and exceeded expectations, it was as an uncle.
I picked up my older sister's son Michael and Dad brought my younger sister's son Jared. Seven-year-old Michael was not much of a fan, but his grandfather taking him anywhere made it a special occasion. Eight-year-old Jared, on the other hand, wore his baseball cap everywhere and fell asleep to a video on the 1996 World Series every night -- and this was his first visit to Fenway Park.
We met in the concession area beneath the first base grandstand. It was a steamy Memorial Day that felt more like the 4th of July. Moving slowly with the crowd, we eased into our seats along the first base line. A long stretch of shade sheltered us on a day the devil himself would have brought a fan. How long that shade remained would certainly dictate how long Michael, the reluctant baseball fan, would want to stay.
Jared, on the other hand, hung on every pitch. He reminded me of myself when I was his age. Fenway Park was my Mecca. I pitched the 7th game of the World Series there in my mind every afternoon, tossing a tennis ball against the chimney of our house for hours. I lived for the pilgrimage my father and I made each season and now I saw that same look in Jared's eyes.
“Grandpa, did you see that catch by Nomar?” exclaimed Jared.
“That was quite a play,” replied my father.
“What did you think of that one, Michael?” I asked. “Michael?”
Apparently, the diving catch of a sinking liner by Nomar Garciaparra did not make much of an impression on Michael. Viewing the large Coke bottles above the left field wall with my binoculars, however, did.
“Good thing I brought those, eh Dad?”
My father smiled. The pride of three generations going to a ballgame together radiated from those steely gray eyes. The same eyes that had stirred my feelings of inadequacy now beamed with contentment.
Around the fifth inning, the shade drifted behind our seats, giving way to Mr. Sun. That's when the game heated up too, with the Red Sox cutting a 5-0 deficit to 5-2. It is also when Michael began asking to leave.
With the sun beating down on our faces and the rally stalled, I told Michael we would leave at the end of the seventh.
"But Michael, you'll miss the best part,” said Jared, awakening from his baseball trance.
"That's okay, Jared," said my father. "We'll tell him how it ends."
On cue, the Sox began another rally in the seventh inning. With two runners on, Jason Varitek went deep, tying the score. As Fenway rose to cheer, Michael remained seated with but one thought on his mind, "can we go?" Fortunately, he did not verbalize that request until after the Red Sox took the lead on a two-run homer by Mike Stanley a few batters later. Beaten into submission, I agreed.
As my father and Jared slapped high fives to celebrate the Red Sox taking the lead, Michael and I began our early exit.
"We're gonna to get going now, Dad," I said.
My father rubbed his hand, surprised by the force with which an excited eight-year-old could deliver a high five.
Okay," he said. “See you later. Michael, did you have fun?"
"Yep," said Michael.
“Good,” he said, knowing full well it was not true. “Take care, guys. We’ll see you later.”
I mouthed “thank you” but my father’s attention had already returned to the game and his remaining grandson.
After dropping Michael off, I reflected on the contrasting reactions of my nephews. It made me think of my first game at Fenway with my dad. The Red Sox played the Yankees and lost. For some reason, the Red Sox catcher Bob Montgomery did not wear a helmet when he batted. Most importantly, wild horses could not get me to leave the park before the game was over. Just like Jared. To see that same love of the game in him brought a joy to my heart that no six-figure salary or million-dollar home could ever match.
This rapturous feeling made the drive home seem like walking on air. Then, an even more exhilarating revelation came over me. Surely, my father experienced that same euphoria watching me watch my beloved Red Sox as I had with Jared. And if I gave this magical, wonderful feeling to my father even once, what did all of my perceived shortcomings in my career and life matter? I had given wings to the heart of the man I admired most.
Many of us place such emphasis on making our parents happy that we lose sight of what really does: our own happiness. That does not necessarily equate to wealth and social status. It can mean just being happy, even if it’s only for a moment and even if it’s something as simple and effortless as enjoying a baseball game. We have all made our parents that happy at one time or another. In my case, it just took a look from my nephew, a boy that I once was, to make me realize that I did.
Joseph D’Eramo is a freelance copywriter in the Boston area. The co-author and publisher of Recipes for the Roommate-Impaired, he writes the Statman column for SoxAppeal.org. D’Eramo, now 41 and married, resides in Taunton, MA.
posted by Joe D' at 7:06 AM
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