This coming Sunday is Father's Day. Consider that my public service announcement for the year. I've reminded you of Father's Day...now go get a gift, you procrastinating fuck.
Women may attempt to dispute fact, but science has proven that the father is 50% involved in the creation of you. Because of this basic reproductive concept, we should celebrate the hell out of them. Let's buy Dad gifts, shower him with praise, and make him feel appreciated.
Fathers are awesome, and my dad is no exception. He is a great man. I aspire to be similar. Only similar and not exactly like him. He's a little socially awkward. But shit...he's got at least 65% of his life sorted in the way I'd like to have my own. 65% of the time, he's right every time. Nice work, Dad.
I've had some fun experiences with Dad, but three stories really standout as deserving props. These are the experiences that have stuck with me through the years and possibly shaped who I am today. I've never told him, I probably never will, but since he reads the blog, now he'll know.
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Dad on Handouts
Fast food was a treat growing up. Trips to McDonalds were rare, and for this reason we cherished each visit to the Golden Arches. We craved their shitty food. The
we includes my dad. Mum didn't like to poison her children with transfat, but Dad was/is a junk food junky. Pretty sure he'd set up base camp in the handicap stall of a McDonalds bathroom and venture out only for double cheeseburgers and McFlurry keg stands.
One glorious day, while Mum had her back turned, Dad whisked us away for a trip downtown. Why? No fucking clue. And I don't care. All I can remember is the surprise McDonalds trip. Dad was treating us for lunch with some fatty food. Yippee!
But before we could make it through the door of lunchtime nirvana, Dad was approached by a disheveled man requesting financial assistance. A panhandler. It was my first encounter close up. I'd always seen panhandlers along the side of off-ramps from the backseat of the minivan. Never had I dealt with one face-to-face. I took mental notes.
Dad refused the spare change request outright. Instead, Dad offered the man a meal. The man ordered an egg McMuffin meal deal with hash browns and a coffee. Dad paid. I never forgot.
* * *
Dad on Sports
My first Portland Trail Blazers game was memorable because of one man: Arvydas Sabonis. What? You were expecting me to say my father?
Sports weren't big in our household. Our family wasn't much into spectating. Mum insisted we participate in sports which, in our formative years, translated to bunch-ball soccer, but rarely was interest ever expressed in professional play. Basketball was foreign, and before attending my first game, the only thing I knew about the sport was that tall people played it. I'm not even sure how we ended up going to a Blazers game, but if I had to guess, I'd say they were free company tickets given to my dad by some schmoozey sales dude.
Regardless, we were at the game. Dad bought us popcorn and drinks and we headed for our 300-level seats. The Rose Garden was overwhelming and looking down at the court gave me vertigo. The game started and we sat in the nose bleeds watching the players run up and down the court.
All these years later I can't tell you who the Blazers were playing or if they even won. What I can remember is Arvydas Sabonis, the Blazer big man, throwing a hissy fit and chucking his mouth guard across the court. That's it. That's what I remember. That and sharing an awesome laugh with Dad as we witnessed Sabonis's histrionics and a little piece of Blazer history.
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Dad on Camping
Dad had mandated the Boy Scouts for the purpose of living vicariously through me. That was fine. I enjoyed it. So when Dad suggested we join my scout troop for a snow camping trip and build ourselves a snow cave to sleep in, I said fuck yeah.
For people of proper intelligence, snow camping is not an appealing adventure. Fortunately my dad doesn't possess proper intelligence. Like father, like son.
The troop had rented out a lodge for a couple nights, but Dad and I ditched those candy asses. We headed straight for the nearest snow-capped hillside and dug in. We started with a doorway just big enough to crawl through, then took an immediate left turn and burrowed a cave big enough for two sleeping bodies plus gear. The whole thing took us a day to construct.
Warm sleeping bags kept us warm. Thick sleeping pads prevented the cold from creeping through the ground. Knowing our body heat would cause melt, we laid plastic down and used it as a cocoon to encase everything.
The preparation and hard work paid off. We stayed dry. We slept hard. We made everlasting memories.
* * *
Now think back. Think hard. No, harder. Harder! Wait. Too hard! OK. Just right.
You know your dad was there for you. You know he had your back. If he's still around, he's still there and still has your back. Unless you're a bastard child with a deadbeat dad, then none of this really applies. Look...point is your dad played a major role making you. At least 50%. If it was missionary, I'd go as far as to say 75%. You owe him a phone call. You owe him a beer. You owe him a meal. But at minimum, you owe him your gratitude.
So this coming Sunday, make sure you let him know you care.
Hey, Dad, thanks for fuckin'. Really appreciate it.
xoxo,
ShavedGolf
