Skip
Around
the room, I looked into the eyes of the people who had gathered. I
began to read. Now
that he is gone, I appreciate Skip’s magnum opus more than ever.
Dad’s
great work, crafted from flesh and blood, was his children.
The memorial service was a crowded affair. I looked up from my notes
at the coworkers, friends and family members before continuing.
Two
years younger than his brother and ten years older than his sister,
dad duplicated that familial pattern when he created a family of his
own. Blind to the future, but never pensive with fear, Skip was a
craftsman. Greg, my brother, was born two years after me and ten
years before our sister Catherine. All of us sculpted from repeating
patterns of DNA.
Skip
grew up in Detroit, formed from the fruitful genius of depression era
Motown. A wily southpaw, he blossomed into an amateur basketball star
in the 1950s. Blessed with grace and agility, he was a determined
competitor whose desire to win was balanced by his sense of fair
play. A fine golfer with an archer's knack for tucking his irons
close to the flag, he inspired in me a love for the game. Over some
three decades of strolling the links together, I managed only once to
outscore Skip.
I
remember how proud he was of me that afternoon as we lounged in the
clubhouse after our round. I'll never forget the respect I felt for
him as I listened to dad boast about my victory to his clubhouse
cronies. Even though I'd finally managed to best him, I realized,
that winning was meaningless unless I aspired to the qualities of
sportsmanship that my father exemplified.
Near
the end of his life when the leukemia left him feeling exhausted,
Skip’s natural nobility never wavered. There was no bitterness; no
regrets. With tender words, he emphasized how full and happy his
life had been, reiterating again and again how fortunate he was to
have had such loving and beautiful children.
During
his final days, I often spoke to him about what he envisioned on the
other side. He was vague and obtuse and generally changed the subject
toward my sister and brother and mother, reminding me that through
our actions his spirit would live on.
The
final time we spoke, I told my father things that had remained
unspoken between us since I was a child, expressing with words how
much I loved and respected him.
-You've
always been a winner, dad. You were a great father.-
He
smiled a wary smile and I continued.
-If
there's such a thing as reincarnation, I know you're going to be
reborn a star NBA point guard.-
Skip
laughed:
-Honestly,
I'd much rather come back as a golfer who wins the Masters!-
-Maybe
you'll do both, -
I
countered,
-the
first athlete to play in the NBA and don the green jacket at Augusta
National.-
Dad's
voice was weak. -Well, if I do happen to do both, you'll know it's
me.-
I
did some rudimentary math.
-Let's
just assume it takes you about thirty years to do both. That would
make me about seventy-four years old by the time you accomplished
both tasks.-
I
told Dad that I'd come down and cheer him on during the final round
of the Masters.
-And
don't forget to introduce yourself to me as the son I had from a
previous incarnation.-
-Absolutely-
I
said.
-You
can
count on it.-
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