Tribute to my Dad

There have been times in my life that I have felt sorry for my younger brother. Through the chance of birth order, I was the first born child to my mom and dad. If my memory serves me right, I was supposed to be given the name Charles Edward, after my maternal grandfather. When the time came for my mom to fill out the birth certificate she instead named me Edgar, after my dad. That is where I felt sorry for my brother in that I was the one lucky enough to have been given our father’s name. It is a story longer than I will tell here but I am actually the third in the line as my dad was named after his father, who died when Dad was still a young boy but my birth certificate says that I am a Junior.

Where to begin when I give honor to my dad? I guess the best place to begin is probably that he is one of the Few and the Proud. He was and is a Marine. Dad is not the most imposing figure physically, standing at 5 feet, 7 inches tall. Again, relying on the memory of a proud child, I believe in his Marine Corps days he was about 135 pounds. However, he had the heart of a fighter. The story I have always remembered and when I asked him about it recently, my memory did hold true. His unit was training with pugil sticks, the giant Q-Tip looking sticks that were used for training in close combat fighting using the bayonet and rifle butt. Dad was paired with the biggest guy in his platoon and ended up breaking the other guy’s hand. Apparently, this won his some points with his drill instructor which is always a good thing.

Dad wanted to fly, to become a Marine Pilot, but his eyesight did not allow it. He likely would have made the Marine Corps his career but an undetected birth defect in his spine was discovered and he had to take a medical discharge.

He then had a procedure known as a spinal fusion. It was a much more involved and dangerous operation in the early 60’s when his was done. They took part of his hip bone out and “fused” it into his spine to make it stronger. He wasn’t ever supposed to lift anything too heavy or put too much pressure on it. I remember a time when I was a teenager and we were building a wall in our yard using railroad cross-ties. I was wishing that he would have listened to the doctors, but I never saw him use the back for an excuse. (Although none of our family was very good at it, I think he even water skied a little when we had our boat.)

The thing I most fondly remember about Dad is how he supported my interest in sports. I joke around in my profile for this blog that while I did not come out of the womb with a baseball glove on my hand, my first words were probably “Play Ball!” I have vague memories of a time when I was extremely young and him showing me the proper way to hold and swing a bat.

Even more vividly though are the memories of when I was 8 years old and finally old enough to play Little League Baseball. Back in those days there wasn’t any t-ball or coaches pitch leagues. More importantly, you had to try out to make the team. I remember Dad going with me to the playground of James Bowie Elementary in Baytown, Texas and working with me so I would be ready for tryouts. I probably drove him nuts and while I am sure there must have been times when he said no, I don’t ever remember him denying me when I asked to play pitch or go practice. He would work with me on my throwing technique, give me grounders and fly balls to practice with, and then chase balls I hit during batting practice.

One of the most wonderful thoughts I have of both my Dad and Mom was how they supported my interest in playing sports. I don’t think there were too many games that they did not attend. They worked in concessions stands and joined booster clubs. And they were there to support me. There were times Dad took me to any baseball game that I wanted to go to. He took me to a Pony League game one time because I wanted to see the “older boys” play. I know it probably bored him to death but he was there with me.

There was a big sign above the concession stand at the Baytown East Little League field with the Parent's Creed.  My parents lived by this creed when supporting me.

Another of the things that I think set Dad apart from other sports Dads was he didn’t sugar-coat things. If he thought I had a deficiency, he told me. He would let me know what he thought I needed to work on, and since I had maybe just above average skills and performed better through lots of practice and a whole lotta heart, he didn’t give me a break. I remember him calling me out on a third strike when he umpired a practice game that first year of baseball. On one of the few occasions that he coached me on the field, I had to earn every position and honor. Where in some leagues I played in, if your father was a coach, you were guaranteed getting on the all-star team, even if you were not one of the better players. Not me. I knew I had to be just that little better than the next guy. Shoot, there was one time I thought for sure he was  campaigning against me during the all-star selection meeting.

To be honest, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I always knew that I was deserving of any honors I was given. Don’t get me wrong, he and Mom were my biggest fans. A long story that I won’t fully share here (as this is already longer than my normal post) goes with my first football game of the senior year of high school. I was in the hospital until Wednesday the week of that first game and Dad helped me twist the words of the doctor to allow me to suit up and play. I didn’t start as our offensive right guard but got into the game late in the first quarter and only missed about 5 plays for the rest of the year. After I got in, I played the game of my life. I blocked against a guy that would end up getting a major college scholarship and totally shut him down after he tormented our team at the start.

Now let me explain, my high school was a little small suburban school in a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. Right in the middle of the Bible Belt. And my Dad still could talk like marine when he wanted to although not usually in public. The story goes that Mom kept having to “shush” him as he cheered me on in a very colorful manner. I remember how Mom said she was so embarrassed when I made a play and Dad shouted for all to hear, “He knocked him on his A**!”

There are many more things I could share about my Dad. He became a Dallas Cowboys fan with me. The fond memories of watching Cowboys games on Sunday afternoons and Monday nights. In high school, Dad, my brother and me, would make treks from Birmingham to Dallas to see a game or two every year at Texas Stadium.

I could talk about how he has had more lives than a cat. 2 years ago, he developed sepsis. His whole body was one big infection. I remember walking into the Intensive Care unit seeing his blood pressure at 50/33 and a heart rate of around 175. I asked him how he was doing and he said that he had had better days. He ended up being in a coma for over 2 weeks. When he awoke, he had a breathing tube that he really did not like. The doctors told us they were going to have to build up his strength to allow the tube to come out. They told him what he needed to do to prove he could breathe on his own and about 3 hours later, the tube was out.

One final brag on Dad. He was always there for me with my love of sports. My younger brother though, was more into things like mechanics and loved fishing. Dad took the time to be there for Little Brother too. They would work on cars together and go on fishing trips (that I didn’t mind missing.) He was also there for my sisters’ dance recitals and all of our school plays. He worked school carnivals. He tolerated our friends.

To close, Dad is not perfect. He can be stubborn. (No comment Mom.) He has been having hearing issues for years but only recently has acknowledged it but is still not doing anything about it. There are times he seems like he is trying to win the “Crabby Guy Award”. But my Dad has given me a lifetime of memories. A lifetime of being there for me and setting an example. Oops, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention his love for the San Antonio Spurs. Even if it means sitting in a sweltering hot or freezing cold garage to watch them while he smokes his cigars.

Dad, Thanks for the memories. I don’t say it enough, I LOVE YOU!