I remember waking up, I was about 13 or 14 years old and this was the
day my dad had promised me it was going to be, yes, this was the day
we were going to play together. We're going to throw the football back
and forth. And I was super excited. I thought that in my bed, and I ran
down the stairs and I saw my father where he always is.
His ankle is chained to the desk, but as I got closer, I knew something
was wrong. It was like a good, I could feel there was a heaviness in the
air and I started to get nervous and I went, dad, you know, yes. I went,
um, you're ready to go play. And the weirdest thing happened is he
turned, he looked at me and I felt myself shrinking down and he stood
up.
And this shadow cast over me and he goes, do you have any idea what it
takes to put food on the table? Do you think that this roof just puts itself
there? Money doesn't grow on trees. You know, one day you're going to
have to work hard for money. Now get out and play on your own before
I put you to work.
and I never asked him again. I don't have one memory playing with my
dad. Not one. The only way I connected with him was when he was
working around the house doing the chore. I'd say, dad, can I help you?
I'd hand them the needles or I'd hold the measuring tape because the
only way he never, once he never came to my hockey games, he dropped
me off in the car and stayed in the car.
All the other parents were tying the skates. I was there alone. I would try
to score as many goals as I could so I could go in and tell him I score the
winning goals. So he'd want to come and look. And every day I
remember winning honors in school for, um, academic achievement.
Looking out in the crowd, can you see my dad?