My Dad
Posted: Friday, June 17, 2011
by Kenny St.pierre
Hi Dad.
You've been gone 28 years now and will never get to read this, but I choose to write in a manner that will mimic as though you are reading this over my shoulder.
I remember as a boy the belly tickling, and how your unshaven face would force itself upon the palms of my hands. I felt a sense of joy knowing that any father who went out of his way to make his kids laugh, was indeed happy himself. For you were never a grouch.
I also recall the year you coached the All-star minor league team, and while I was playing third base during the top half of the fifth inning, with our team being no-hit, you stormed out of the dugout. The next thing I knew you had the opposing coach up against the fence and yelling at him after you had learned he put a little league pitcher on the mound. You told him, "It's people like you who ruin it for the kids." I remember you called us off the field in protest as the parents cheered you, and later explained to me that I should never tolerate cheaters - And because of you I don't.
Do you recall after you had your first heart attack, and I came home from school, thinking I was going to visit you at the hospital with Mom after dinner, but instead, as I went to hang up my coat you came up behind me with a big "Surprise." Remember how I clutched you and cried with happiness that you weren't going to die? A thing I though for sure was going to happen, and depressingly had been telling the kids at school.
Regretfully I reflect back when I, at nineteen, and growing long hair, was taking LSD, mesculin, and smoked marijuana daily, when you confronted me and asked what I was doing with my life. I retorted, "Anything that doesn't make me a loser like you." I still remember your pale white face immediately following my insensitive words. I just want you to know Dad that you were never a loser, and I was nothing more than a wise-ass know-nothing kid trying to find himself. I had become a clone of you. I believed what you believed. I repeated words you spoke. I acted as you acted. Thus I needed to find my own identity, and the only way I could separate myself from you was by insulting. I'm glad that you're looking over my shoulder and reading this, and unable to see my remorseful eyes welling up.
Remember all those fun times we had at Newport Jai Alai? When we would buy a program in the afternoon and discuss the games and teams that we were going to bet that night. And didn't they have the greatest pizza? It was a great place for families to go and enjoy an evening together. We made good use of those nights.
And what about that time your son Billy had been jumped by a group of guys at the park? I remember just a few days later as we were driving by the same park, you pulled over the car, told me to stay right where I was, got out, and confronted about a dozen punks, demanding to know which ones were responsible for your son's beating. They all ran. I want you to know Dad, because of your fearlessness, four men tried to jump me last May and I didn't back down. All four of them hit the floor. One of them is supposed to be a 4th degree black belt. I broke a bone in my right hand when I crushed one of the men in the face, but I didn't mind. I consider the break a tribute to the courage you exemplified and gave to me.
And how about that time we went to Fenway Park and watched Carlton Fisk put on a display? He went 5-6 that night with 2 homers, but the best part was the bunt he laid down in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded to win the game. Remember that? And just as memorable was the night the Sox lost to the Cincinnati Reds in game seven of the 75 World Series after jumping out to a 3-0 lead. You and I sat side by side on the sofa in shock when the Sox put a rookie on the mound to try to close out the game.
I look back on the holidays. Thanks to you and Mom our family was always together for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I remember how the two of you gleamed when brother Bob and I strummed the acoustic guitars and sang Christmas carols while the Grandkids took turns on your lap. However, you may not be so thrilled to know that these days I am no longer a believer in a higher power, but I guess that's one of those things that define my person that I longed for when I was a teen. These days I'm happy with my research and decision making, and believe you would be too.
I was at Duke's Tavern some twenty years ago, where you once tended bar, and a man walked in. After some time I got to talking with the guy and at some point your name came up. I told him I was your son. When he heard this he told me he had a story to tell me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear it, but I agreed to listen anyway. The man told me that many years earlier you and him got into a heated debate about baseball, whereas the guy threw his draft beer in your face and made his way for the door. Do you remember that Dad? He continued on and told me that he stayed away from the Tavern for awhile, but upon his return he went there with the intention of apologizing to you personally. However, and much to his surprise, you apologized to him. When he asked why you were apologizing, you told him, "For me to upset you that much, that you'd throw a beer at me, means I was more irresponsible than you were." I was thrilled to know that night that this man had the highest respect for you. I thanked him for sharing his story. These days I find myself apologizing whenever it's appropriate.
As you got older your heart got weaker. You were in and out of the hospital numerous times, but you always came home. You heart was physically weak, yet somehow it seemed to have another kind of strength to it. Something inside of it held on and I always thought it would be that way till the night we got a phone call from the hospital that we needed to be there immediately. I knew as Mom, aunt, and I drove that you were already gone, but because of your ability to hang tough all the previous times I didn't give up hope. Regardless, my hopes were dashed when I entered your room and the sheet was over your head. I burst into tears. How can my Dad die? I wondered. You were too good for death.
Dad, there are many anecdotes that slip my memory at this time, so rather than trying to recall them, I instead want to let you know what you meant to me. You had paved the way for me, yet allowed me enough freedom to carve my own trail. Your actions were always louder than your words. You taught me, words without deeds are useless. You taught me the meaning of toughness, yet you were sensitive and sensible. You were a man's man. When I was young I felt protected. I knew no one could hurt me as long as you were alive. Rest in peace
Lastly, I want you to know that I recently celebrated my 54th birthday. A birthday you came eleven days short of. I celebrated it for the both of us. I guess it's true what they say. "Only the good die young."
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Top-level comments on this article: (6 total)It's those great memories that we treasure. They make us rich in spirit and soul. Well done.Thank you buddy.
Thanks Kenny for writing this article. Don't have words to express my emotions.
You have me in tears Kenny. This was so beautifully written. I like that your dad taught you not to tolerate cheaters and to apologize when you're in the wrong. I like the fact your dad defended your brother. I like that you saw the good in your dad and appreciated what a good man/father he was. So many kids don't. Beautiful!Thanks Brianna. When someone impacts us the way my Dad did me, there are never enough thanks one can give. Unfortunately it takes many years later to appreciate what they have done.
What a great tribute to your father, Kenny, and honest, too. He sounds like a wise man who thought a lot about life and his role, so I'm sure he understood that you didn't really believe he was a loser. I absolutely love the story of how he defended Billy, and that you learned enough from him to be able to defend yourself against those men.
Lots of beautiful heart crafted words. I was amazed at the detail that arose from all of the moments you memorialized. I think you did a fantastic job. It hurt to read your article, because it reminded me of certain things. This was brave. You done good.Thank you Christofer and Jenn. I believe that all of us who write have hope that our readers can relate personally.
Lots of beautiful heart crafted words. I was amazed at the detail that arose from all of the moments you memorialized. I think you did a fantastic job. It hurt to read your article, because it reminded me of certain things. This was brave. You done good.
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