The Importance of One Game

Games assume some level of importance to us all; a kids championship game; our hometown team rivalry game; our favorite college football team in a bowl game; our favorite pro team in a championship game. Ultimately these are just sporting events that we take in for our own entertainment. Sure, they can create memories with amazing plays, last second victories, and moments of bonding among friends and family. Some of us view these games, no matter the opponent, as life and death games. If our team does not win, then surely our lives will end. After all, isn't "fan" just short for "fanatic?"

But what if the game is a real matter of life and death? Is that possible? Are sports that important that they can become the difference between a flame, in one moment flickering, and in the next extinguished?

I think for the first time in my life, that answer is YES.

In an earlier post I spoke of finding out my father was on the clock so to speak thanks to cancer. He had decided to enter home hospice care and live out the remainder of his life quality of days over quantity of days. As we talked a few days before Christmas, it was amazing that at 94, despite what cancer had done to his body, his mind was going full speed. He was tired but sharp. He fought thru a ferocious cough brought on by the increasing number of tumors in his lungs. He was taking prednisone to help with his cough and to give him energy. My sister calls it false energy, but it keeps him going and keeps him on his toes.

It was from one question that I realized the importance of one game, and it came from an unlikely source. I asked my Dad, had he watched the Navy/San Diego State bowl game, which had ended with his alma mater, the Naval Academy, winning 17-14. As he sat watching the Grinch Who Stole Christmas (and trust me, some of my 11 brothers and sisters thought HE was Grinch!) he paused, and simply said no. There was only one game he cared about at this point: Ohio State vs. Alabama.

He asked me what I thought the point differential in the game would be and I said Alabama by 17. I told him Jones and the Buckeyes played a weak schedule, they had not played any worthy competition, Jones was a 3rd string QB, and the Tide would blitz him more than the Germans rolling through the French defenses in World War II. He then asked my son what he thought. My son, being more diplomatic and less secure said he thought the game would be close and that Alabama would ultimately win by a touchdown or less. He then proceeded to talk about how the Buckeyes had gone thru two quarterbacks already, but that they remained in the hunt.

My dad understands team and group dynamics. He spend World War II in a submarine, fighting the "Japs" in Tokyo Bay. He commanded a flight and then a squadron of fighters. He taught ROTC. He raised 12, yep, count 'em, 12, kids.

But more than anything, the Ohio State vs. Alabama game is a target. It is a target for life for him. He has pointed to that game. He wants to make it to that game. And God willing, the Buckeyes will win, and he'll have another target. The National Championship game, and that will become his target. His target to live.

I'm not a Buckeye fan. Surprising because I live in Columbus, Ohio. The belly of the beast that is Ohio State football. But I respect the Buckeyes. And more than anything else, this New Years Day, I want the Buckeyes to win. I badly want them to win. I want them to extend a great life. A life built of sacrifice to family, to the country. I want them to win selfishly, like all other fans. But this time, it is the importance of the game. An importance born of life. The extension of a life to another week. I want that.

I love my Dad. And for this day, and the next if possible, I want them to win. I want them to extend my Dad's life. And of that? I'll remain a life long fan.

I love my Dad, and Urban, Cardale, and the rest of the Buckeyes? Please win. Please give another gift of life. If only for a week.

A Football Family?

I used to think that my families football connection was limited to my mothers side of the family. My grandfather, Al Crook, was the center and defensive end for Washington & Jefferson's 1922 Rose Bowl team. They played the mighty California Berkley team to a 0-0 tie. To me, and to my 14 year old son, my grandfather is a mythical figure. A two-way player for W&J Al Crook was a Walter Camp All-American and played professionally for the Detroit Panthers and Kansas City Cowboys in what would eventually become the National Football League.

In my last post, I talked about the pending death of my father, who in his 90's is ready, willing, and able to enter into hospice to live a productive life in his last days. When I recently visited him, he showed me a treasure trove of pictures, some over 100 years old, from long last family photo albums. You see, my father, is trying to complete his memoirs before he dies. 

In looking at the photos, there were priceless photos of him in 1937 with his football uniform on tackling his friends. There were also photos of my Uncle Joe, who starred at Wheeling Central Catholic and later at Mount St. Mary's College as a halfback. Back "in the day" there was no distinction between schools. All were deemed to be on the same level. One can only imagine how DIII W&J would fair today against D1 Cal. It wouldn't be close. 

What caught my attention though was my dad pointing out his jersey number; 24, after the Notre Dame halfback Frank Caredio. My dad proceeded to tell me stories of listening to the Irish on the radio and how Caredio was his favorite player. He recalled how my grandfathers shirts would come with a cardboard sheet to keep the shirts tight after starching. My grandfather would take the card board and record, play by play, all of the Irish games. What I wouldn't give for a piece of those memories. You see, I always thought that football was limited to my mothers side of the family. I didn't understand that deep down, my grandfather, was raising martial men. Four sons who would serve in World War II. Three in Tokyo Bay; one in the clandestine services. Douglas MacArthur always said that if he needed a man for an important mission, he wanted a West Point football player. All four played football.

Today, my son is the only one in a family of 12 boys and girls to play high school football. I played four years of high school football; my son is the last of his line. I hope that he will learn the same lessons that have been passed from generation to generation. For, just as my father and uncles fought in WWII, so did I fight in the Global War on Terrorism, earning a Bronze Star, just as my father did over 60+ years ago.

You see, America, football is important. It's vitally important, to the future of our nation. Building physically and mentally tough young men is the life blood of our country. Football, has an important role in that. 

9/11 The Day I Found Out My Father was Dying

September 11th has a lot of significance to many people. It is synonymous with Pearl Harbor Day, as FDR so famously said, "a date that shall live in infamy." The day terrorists stuck the United States and brought down the twin towers. For others, there are special birthdays, an anniversary, or just another late summer day.

For me, September 11, 2001 changed my life forever. An infantry company commander at the time, I deployed for Operation Noble Eagle less than a month later, and just over two years later, deployed to Iraq. But September 11, 2014 changed all that. As I left the middle school where I was teaching, I perused my gmail, and found a note from my sister. My father had received the results from an x-ray. His cancer had spread through his blood stream to his lungs. A previous x-ray hadn't caught the spots, and he was at Stage 4. My father has less than six months to live.

This isn't a eulogy; after all, my Dad is still alive.

My Dad is not unlike many of his generation. At 95 years young, he's largely anonymous. His generation was born after World War I, lived through the depression, fought in World War II, and led the nation in the Korean War, Vietnam War, and Cold War. He smoked for probably 50 years. He can still get behind the wheel of a car, has all of his faculties in tact, and can mow the grass if it comes right down to it. For the first time ever, he marched as a Veteran in 4th of July Parade this last summer.

Dad was a career Naval officer. A three year graduate of the Naval Academy, he went straight to the fleet and Tokyo Bay as a submariner where he served under the command of Medal of Honor recipient then Capt. Eugene Fluckey. Fluckey later brought Dad to the Naval Academy to teach tactics to the Midshipmen. When he left the Navy, he and my mother had eight sons and daughters. One year after he left the Navy, I was born, number nine, and soon followed another three, bringing our family to 12. I think we lived what would be considered normal lives. On our street were two other families with 12 and 13 kids. We went to church as a family, sat 14 at a table for dinner, made our beds before breakfast, and cleaned up our rooms before we went anywhere. He was a strict disciplinarian. We said yes sir, no sir, yes ma'am, no ma'am. If our mother called out to us, and we answered "what" we could expect corporal punishment for showing a lack of respect for our parents, let alone an adult. We were well behaved, and well mannered. 

My older brothers often ran afoul of Dad. I recall that in his early 60's, one of my brothers challenged him, and ended up on the floor with the old man, and in a head lock. Later, in his early 70's, another brother challenged my Dad, as teenagers do, to a fight. My Dad jumped off the porch, and dropped him with one punch. I learned an important lesson from my older brothers: don't mess with Dad. Dad worked hard. Following his Navy career he road the crest of the military industrial complex, working on the design of jet fighters, the Space Shuttle, and the M1 Tank. We had a boat, and he taught us to water ski. He taught us to fish, taking us on trips to Lake Erie. We learned to build airplane models, pick the pee vines out of hedges, and experienced the right of passage of having your Dad give us a crew cut. Old scrapbooks at home feature pictures of Dad cutting the heads of seven boys, all with tears in their eyes! 

He had the foresight, in the 60's, of purchasing a video camera. He captured the most important moments of our lives; birthdays, haircuts, parties, holidays. Our Christmas videos are infamous; 12 kids streaming down the stairs to a bevy of Christmas presents and joy. They are amazing treasures. We couldn't talk at the table until we were 13. After dinner, Dad encouraged us to "plug in" and we sang songs much to the delight of our siblings and mother. Dad was strict, and loathed mental errors and not doing the little things. But when we made big mistakes, errors in judgement, he was disappointed but calm, reassuring in love, offering wisdom and lessons learned. 

My Dad raised us well as young men. My sisters were given no less quarter than us boys. Their suitors were scrutinized, but welcomed. When my late sister decided not to marry on her wedding day, we celebrated nonetheless and enjoyed a memorable day and evening of singing and dancing, with my Dad leading the way. It was up to us to learn the lessons, to remember our faith, to live a moral life, and to raise our families as we'd been raised. Some of us fell short. But Dad has never judged us. At times he's been frustrated by our choices, saddened by our failures, happy with our joys, proud in our achievements. 

Me? I haven't finished learning from Dad. He taught me lessons I failed to heed. I've stumbled often without his guiding hand. I failed to seek out the wisdom and guidance I needed from Dad. I tried to go it alone, forgetting the tie that binds a father and son. There is a tendency to try to race the clock in times like these. I won't. Dad has his mind on a few bottles of the best scotch money can buy. He'd like to parachute, and I'll try to find a few paratrooper friends of mine and a Navy Seal and together we'll make the jump with him. And I'll continue to learn from him, from afar, and not race the clock. He'll be taking his time. He's got nothing to lose. He's lived a good life. And I'll miss him. I've still got lessons to learn. I'll take my time right along beside him.