A Dad Worth Fighting For

My childhood was nothing short of idyllic. I grew up in a nice house with a big driveway that I could ride my bike around, a big backyard where I played soccer with our dog, and a dad that would do anything for my brother and me. Now, it’s our turn to take care of him.

Let me tell you a little bit about my dad: He’s a champion golfer who has won the Inverness Country Club Senior Championship three times. At least, I think it’s three, but I should probably say four just in case because I will hear about it if I short sell him. He channeled his inner Larry David and mentioned wanting a plaque enough times that they recently (finally) hung one in his honor in the clubhouse. He’s owned several businesses ranging from a hot dog stand to a satellite TV installation operation. The hot dog stand in particular is perplexing because imagining him in charge of any sort of food service is baffling to me. One of my favorite stories about him is when he found what he thought was leftover chili in the fridge, heated it up, put lots of toppings on it, and ate the whole bowl before my mom came in to inform him that it was just marinara sauce. He’s not particularly observant, but he is very loving.

When I was little, he loved NSYNC as much as I did (or at least pretended to), and he watched me memorize their dance moves and put on hour-long performances in our living room at least once a week. We must have listened to “Bye Bye Bye” together a thousand times, and when NSYNC went on the No Strings Attached Tour, he took me to see it twice. We actually went to tons of concerts together, and now as an adult, I know that isn’t the norm. I’m tremendously lucky to have a dad who values memorable experiences with his kids. As I got older, my tastes changed, and he was still right there with me. Green Day’s American Idiot album was in regular rotation, and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” was his favorite song. Around that time, I decided I wanted to play the drums, and somehow listening to me bang along to that song over and over and over and over and over again didn’t diminish his affection for it. Honestly, I think it made him like it more because I found something I was naturally good at and loved. He listened to my mediocre-at-best garage band practice in his basement every single week for 6 years, and he never complained unless it interfered with college football or his favorite show, 24. The band got together to jam recently, and my dad was beaming with joy to have all of the kids back in the house.

In high school, when I casually mentioned wanting to join the marching band, he called the school and set up drum lessons with the band director. He is a man of action. If something needed to be done, especially for his kids, he always jumped to make it happen, and soon enough I was on the drumline. Being more engaged in the halftime show than the football game didn’t come naturally to him, but he was bursting with pride. Besides, he knew sports just weren’t in the cards at that point. He had coached my brother and me in tons of different athletic endeavors through the years, and neither of us had inherited his athletic ability, much to his chagrin. My dad had gone to college on a baseball scholarship. He was a star pitcher (ask him about his no-hitter), but I was afraid of the ball, and my brother just didn’t really seem to care all that much. I decided I wanted to be a catcher because it meant that I got to wear all of the protective padding, but unfortunately, I didn’t quite have the reflexes for it, and I missed way more balls than I caught. I remember roughly one million pitches flying past me and rolling to the backstop. I’d jump up and run as fast as I could to get it while he stood just outside the fence yelling, “Hustle! Hustle! Throw it to second! Throw it! Go! Go!” I don’t think I got the out a single time. We laugh about his intensity a lot now because it’s just one of many examples of how fiercely competitive he is. We finally found a good fit when I picked up basketball in middle school. I played for a church league, and he was ecstatic to be the coach. He took it ridiculously seriously. He bought a little handheld whiteboard that had a basketball court on it so he could teach us plays. He had us running sprints and setting picks. He told me recently, through a satisfied smile still lingering on 20 years later, “We were the only team doing that.” We won the league championship, and he was thrilled. He still has the team photo on his desk.

The only other sport that worked well for us was golf. That’s because he played, and I “caddied.” Caddying for me just meant driving the golf cart as fast as it would go and occasionally reading the green. He claimed I was good at it, but I think he was probably just being nice. I loved going to the golf course with him. My favorite was when he’d play with his friend Chanlee because Chanlee would get in his cart and race me from the 18th hole back to the clubhouse. My caddying was the perfect fit for us because no matter how many summers of golf camp I went to, I couldn’t hit the ball to save my life, but we were still spending long afternoons together laughing, drinking sodas, and, most importantly, winning $20-30 off of whoever he just beat on the course.

I cherish those memories now more than ever as he’s fighting Interstitial Lung Disease waiting for a double lung transplant at Duke University Hospital. It’s been gut-wrenching to watch his health decline. The day he dropped his membership at the country club because he couldn’t even go out and putt the greens anymore was when I knew things were bad. My dad was an active guy, and now he can’t even go to the bathroom without having to rest and replenish his oxygen levels.

I was devastated when the best hospital in Alabama said he wasn’t a good candidate for transplant and gave him a year to live, but my family immediately rallied because “no” wasn’t an option. Not for my dad. Not for the man who every year at Christmas writes my brother and me a letter enclosed with cash reminding us of our privilege and telling us to pay it forward. Not for the man who taught us all to never give up. So, we got him referred to Duke, and my parents moved to North Carolina to save his life because my dad is worth fighting for. He’s one of the good ones. He listens, he supports unconditionally, and he loves with all his heart.

I went to visit to help my parents get settled in their new apartment, and before I left, he told me, “If I don’t make it through my surgery, I want you to know I love you, I’m proud of you, and I want you to keep pursuing your dreams.” You’re going to make it, Daddy, because you’ve never lost, and I don’t see you starting now. I can’t wait to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with you again and have you come see me make people laugh in person. I love you.