Fathers deserve your affection

In the summer of 1986 I made the Little League all-star team.

I was the happiest 11-year-old in Newcastle, Wyo.

But my joy turned to misery when I never got off the bench during the all-star game. I never wanted to play baseball again.

Later that night, my father, who was on a business trip, called me from his hotel room. When he heard my whimpering responses to his questions, he didn't call me a crybaby. He didn't tell me to stop whining and to act like a man. Instead, he told me that everything would be all right.

My father, whose goal was for me to become a man, understood why I was upset. After all, he knew how intense and passionate I was about baseball because he had been my Little League coach in the past.

He said, "Keep your chin up; I love you and I'll see ya soon." And that's all it took for me to smile again.

Less than two months later, my twin brother and I were staying with my uncle when he woke us in the middle of the night. His somber face and the sobs emanating from the kitchen told the story: my dad was dead. At 38, he'd died of a heart attack.

My hero, my idol, my coach was gone. I would never see him again.

The next few years were rough, but I managed to survive. Remembering our conversation, in which my father had told me he loved me, hurt. But it also helped me through some of the rough times.

My mom, finding herself alone for the first time since she was 15, eventually remarried.

Seeing my mother with another man was almost as difficult as it had been to see my dad's expressionless, cold face on that hot day in early August as he lay in a casket. I treated my mother's new husband badly and used my father's death as justification. Every time we disagreed, I shouted, "You're not my father." Still, I was lucky.

My stepfather never tried to replace my father. His only crimes were loving my mother and providing a home for my family.

Now, whenever I see or speak to him (which isn't often enough), I apologize. I tell him that I am sorry about how I acted when I was a teen-ager. He knows I'm sincere and he insists that I owe him no more apologies, but I feel I do.

I never realized how lucky I was. I was given a second chance with my stepfather, whom we call "Pops." I took him for granted for many years.

Now, with Father's Day rounding third base, I reflect on how lucky I am. Now when my stepfather, Don, tells me he loves me, I get the same wonderful feeling inside that I felt when my father told me the same thing after my all-star game in 1986.

Not everyone is as lucky as I am. Not everyone who loses a father gets a second opportunity to experience a father's love — counting my fabulous father-in-law that's a triple. But there are those who are at odds with their fathers. There are those who haven't spoken to their fathers for years. Well, I promise you, it isn't worth it. Call your dad this weekend.

No argument is worth losing your relationship with your dad. You never know when a phone call from him or a conversation over a peanutbutter and jelly sandwich with him will be the last. Guilt is 10 times worse than grief.

If your parents are divorced and you are still angry with your dad about that, get over it; life is indeed short. If you have a stepfather, call him on Sunday, too. The more Father's Day cards you have to send, the better. If you have to sign more than one, consider yourself blessed.

Eventually I hope to be receiving Father's Day cards. When I do, I can only pray that I was half as good of a father as the two men who have shaped me. One, who is gone but not forgotten and the other, who I didn't appreciate until I reached adulthood.

Happy Father's Day, Pops. I love you.

Keith Thomas is a senior in the School of Liberal Arts. He can be e-mailed at editor@purdueexponent.org.

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