Reprint from BDD

This piece originally showed up at the Boston Dirt Dogs website, a Red Sox-based site owned by the Boston Globe, to which I contribute from time to time. I wrote it the Friday before Father's Day.

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Father Time

From Gary Jacobs, BDD contributor

PAWTUCKET, RI | June 13, 2008 – It is, like most days here, a beautiful day for baseball. The players are playing in bright sun, though their shadows dance long in front of them. The gametime temperature is 77 degrees and the gentlest of breezes cools the foreheads of the near-capacity crowd of over 9,000. The day couldn’t possibly be better suited to baseball.

Baseball was the game I learned on my father’s knee, the first game I gave my love to. And though I learned to love hockey with almost the same ferocity, baseball is what connects me with my youth, with memories of glorious summer days with nothing to do, and with my father.

We could always count on baseball and the Boston Red Sox to provide common ground, Dad and me. In 1986 I was a willful 17-year-old know-it-all with a full-on case of cranio-rectal inversion. You couldn’t talk to me without me flying into an adolescent rage, no matter the subject. My parents were idiots and worse yet, major crampers of my style. We went nose to nose many more times than once; we came to the brink of a fistfight on at least one occasion. But we both had the Red Sox that magic season – expectations were so low for that squad that they took the city completely by surprise. And when neither of us had much to say to each other, we could always talk about baseball.

Years later, when time started taking its inevitable toll on the old man, and he complained constantly about being cold, I bought him a satin lined Red Sox jacket. He wore it constantly.

Right up until the day he died, which was last month.

And today, as I sit in the PawSox pressbox squinting from the lowering sun, trying hard to concentrate on a baseball game that I’m supposed to be covering, all I find myself thinking about is my dad, and how he absolutely adored sunny dry days like this, when baseball in the evening was a given, and the only question was radio or TV.

Like most men of his generation, my dad was far from materialistic. He wasn’t much for jewelry or trinkets of any kind. After the funeral my mother bade us take what mementoes we wished to remember him by. I took two things: an International League baseball that I got for my dad (a friend of mine actually got it for me; it’s bad form for a reporter to ask for a baseball), and his Red Sox jacket. When I took it home I discovered quite poignantly that it still smelled like him.

Much has been said about the generational nature of baseball, of how it binds father to son. And every morning when I wake up and I see Dad’s jacket hanging up, I find that it binds us still.

Happy Father’s Day, everybody. If you’re lucky enough to still have your Dad, give him a call or head over the house on Sunday – maybe talk a little baseball. -- In Memoriam, Cyril R Jacobs, 1933-2008

And Speaking of Lennon...

(news from CNN - Thanks Ted!)

(CNN) — John Lennon’s killer, Mark David Chapman, was denied parole for the fifth time Tuesday.

The New York State Division of Parole issued a release saying Chapman’s request was denied “due to concern for the public safety and welfare.”

Chapman, 53, is serving a sentence of 20 years to life in prison for the shooting death of John Lennon outside Lennon’s New York City apartment on December 8, 1980. He has served 24 years of his sentence at the maximum-security Attica Correctional facility.

Hosanna to the god-damned highest. If there was ever a stupid, senseless death, it was this one. Mark David Chapman robbed the world of a mature, wise, seasoned John Lennon and who knows what that man would have been? Almost certainly he would have reunited with the other Beatles in 1987 to do Live Aid. Whatever the case, we have missed out on 28 years of great music, introspection and a strong advocate's voice for peace.

And, closer to home, Sean and Julian lost their father. Julian was around 19; poor Sean was only 5. Too soon, too god-damned soon.

So: kudos to the State of New York for making the right decision. MDC can rot in his cell for the rest of his life and in his case, I wish I were wrong about there not being an afterlife, so that he could rot in hell. He stole something absolutely precious from millions of people.

A flaw in the system

I've shopped this question around a little bit to my friends, and none of them seem to have an answer. Some of them look at me with kind pity in their eyes or touch my arm in a show of sympathy when I ask it, because they know why I ask it.

But the question, without any further buildup, is this: Why is there such a fundamental flaw in the societal construct that the inevitable end-product of love is pain? Three months ago yesterday, my father lost his valiant fight against his own deteriorating heart and since then my life has been layered with a more or less constant underpinning of pain. Sure, there have been moments of joy - laughs and good times and the company of friends and family and new children born into this world - but when I'm alone, when I start thinking about things a little too deeply, the pain of losing my dad comes back in full force - an raw, open wound that is showing no signs of healing.

Why on earth was love architected to end, invariably, in pain? The Tralfamadorians, Vonnegut's benign aliens in the brilliant "Slaughterhouse Five," had a much healthier attitude towards death: a shrug of the shoulders and the words "So it goes." Would that I could compartmentalize my feelings towards my father's passing so ably!

It's not just the death of a parent, either. Every time love ends, pain begins. Ask the owner of a pet; ask a jilted lover. Anywhere you have love, beware; soon there will live pain.

Lennon was wrong. Love does in fact die - and it turns into something pretty goddamn dark.

OK, I have an honorary nephew too

It was recently pointed out to me that there's another child in my life who, although not related to me in any way, is nonetheless a special kid to me and thus deserves mention here.

My pals Smitty and DB have a child, a boy of now 10 named Evan. I hope I don't overstate the case here: To Ev's point of view, I'm the single coolest adult he knows. Sure, there are adults whom he holds more dear than me: his parents, his Auntie Carm (Marcella, for those long-time readers of this little yukfest) for example - but I'm the coolest.

Why does he think this? Because he is SMART. Also because I can make sponge balls disappear out of my hands, do card tricks, play guitar, swear like a sailor in front of him, all the cool things that kids appreciate.

But one of the most important things I do that makes him think I'm cool is this: I treat him like an equal. Since the day I met him I've treated him like a thinking being, never talked down to him, never treated him in any of the conventional ways adults treat children. If he has a question I explain things to him as one adult would explain things to another, and if it's a challenge to understand that, that's cool too. He walks away with a concrete understanding of whatever it was we discussed.

In the last few years, as his sense of humor has grown, he has shown an uncanny ability towards imitation, accents, and the same sort of goofy, stupid humor that anyone who knows me, knows how much I love. HE makes ME laugh now. He's told me jokes that have made my heavy rotation.

So, although not a nephew, he's a damn fine kid, who I'm glad to know. And kid: if you're reading this, get off the goddamn computer and do your homework.

Knieces and Knephews I have Known

I was asked recently, what with all the hoopla surrounding young Piper's debut, if she made me a first-time Uncle. Not hardly; I have nieces and nephews in the double-digits:

FROM SISTER-IN-LAW CHRISTY:

I have two nieces and two nephews. Ashley, the oldest, was still a baby when I first met her. Our very first day together I was tasked with changing her incredibly stinky diaper. However, she has recently learned the art of pooping on her own, having graduated high school this past month. She's smart, despite her having picked up smoking, and hopefully the future will be bright for her.

Next down that line is Cody, who in his adolescence has grown from boy to man so quickly that the last time I was over their house he was napping on the couch and I swear to god I heard his bones creaking with growth.

They have a younger brother and sister, Seth and Alexis, who despite only seeing us once a year, inexplicably love their Aunt Vicki and Uncle Gary. They are around 6 and 4, more or less, and are just the cutest things in the state of Ohio.

FROM SISTER-IN-LAW LAURIE:

My nephew Cory is now pushing 20 - employed and with a license and EVERYTHING! I've watched his interests move from Ninja Turtles and Megazords to ... to ... well, whatever the hell he's into now.

FROM SISTER-IN-LAW BARBARA:

Barb and her husband Brian have three of the most well-behaved children I've ever met. It really is remarkable; they still have that special exuberance that kids have but never at the expense of being disrespectful or destructive.

One evening we were over the house and their youngest, Jacob, asked his mom if he could have some yogurt. Upon getting approval, he got one out from the fridge, grabbed a spoon, and set to eating. When he was done, this five-year-old child, without being asked or reminded, rinsed the yogurt cup and lid and threw them away, rinsed the spoon and put it in the dishwasher. His sisters, Brooke and Brianna, are no less polite, charming, and delightful to spend time with.

FROM SISTER-IN-LAW JAN:

Bryon just graduated college - COLLEGE, for heaven's sake! - and has just become a dad for the first time himself, to a beautiful baby boy named Evan. I guess that makes me a great-uncle. Yeesh.

Despite hating the Red Sox, Bryon is another great example of a good kid who grew up to be a good man. He's going to be a great Dad.

FROM SISTER-IN-LAW CHRIS:

My brother Eric has a 12-year old daughter, Natasha, who, despite her best efforts not to let it show, just loves her Uncle Gary. Despite having a heaping helping of Jacobs genes, she looks enough like her mom to be pretty. Actually I see a lot of my mother in her, especially her head of curly hair.

It was my pleasure to educate Tasha on the realities of bedtime ("It's not for you - it's for your parents so they can have some quiet time after you go to bed. Use this fact and it can be the first thing you can negotiate away").

She's a pretty typical 12-year-old; she does a lot of text messaging, doesn't care much for schoolwork, and -- oh, that reminds me. Hey! Tasha! Stop screwing around and get your grades up. Will 20 minutes of studying kill you? If all your friends jump off a bridge would you too? Do you live in a barn? Don't make that face, it'll freeze that way.

Anyway, those are my nieces and nephews, and I love them all - especially the ones that love me.

Peanut, Redux

I decided this entry deserved its own, er, entry. So while it's still part of the previous entry, now this entry has its own, uh, entry.


**SHOCKING NEW UPDATE:** Peanut is Peanut no more. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you Miss Piper Lily Grace Jacobs. From Proud Papa:

Piper [is] a lovely musical name that we both find rings nicely, and is also a tribute to my recently departed and much-missed father, who was (among other things) a master pipefitter. And yes, she has two middle names. We like them both, so we gave them both to her to do as she pleases with them.

So welcome, Piper. I plan on calling you PJ, partly because I like it and partly because it will so plainly annoy your mom and dad. Stay strong, kiddo.

Uncle Gary

Yesterday, my brother Ross and his wife Tara (maybe I should reverse the billing on this one, but no matter, no matter) had a baby, a beautiful baby girl (name TBD).

She came into this world a bit earlier than was forecast; Tara developed pre-eclampsia and they had to remove her (her pre-natal name was Peanut; let's go with that) from the soup in which she was curing. So although 7 weeks premature, Peanut debuted at 18 inches tall, weighing 4 pounds, 6 ounces. The delivery was Caesarian; so since she was "from her mother's womb untimely ripped" she has the requisite qualifications to kill MacBeth, should the need ever arise.

Tara seems fine; I have not been able to speak with her since every time I call she's either asleep or getting poked and prodded. Peanut's one-minute APGAR was 7, her five-minute was 9, so for being so teeny she is in reasonable health, although she's in the NICU and will be for some time to come. She's breathing on her own and Rossy held her last night.

I am a mix of emotions about this. Of course I'm deliriously happy for Ross and Tara; it seemed their destiny to bring a tall child into the world. I have every confidence that she'll be raised well, will be indulged yet not spoiled, and will, despite her inevitable tallness, not have the requisite coordination or athleticism to undertake any athletic endeavor. Her Aunt Vicki and I will love her, fight over her, beg her parents to take her for weekends. I will teach her her first swear words, pull quarters out of her ear, tell her the first dirty joke she will ever hear. Her parents will roll their eyes behind her back at the things I will tell her, but I will not care. In short, the Uncle Machine is revving up nicely. Peanut will not want for an extended family of love and kindness.

What she will lack, however, is one of her grandpas, and that hurts me right now. Regular readers of this space know that my Dad passed about two months ago, and more's the pity. Of his death my brother wrote "I grieve that my daughter will only know my father as an abstraction." That's certainly a pity - Peanut will be born with 3 out of 4 grandparents, but that's easy enough to bear: It was my situation and of the many things that bother me these days, that ain't one of them.

No, like most grief, this is a selfish emotion. Over anything else in the world, my father loved his family, loved having his family around him. To have another granddaughter to hold - to add another member to the small, small club that is the Jacobs clan - would have given him great joy, at a time in his life where joyous moments were a little hard to come by. So it's not without the requisite lump in my throat that I can think about Peanut- she looks like her parents, which means that the shadow of my father dances around her ephemerally. And that's no bad thing; as time passes I'll be grateful of the reminder.

Anyway, this is a time of celebration, of joy, and I'm going to do my best to feel joyful and celebratory. Peanut: your Aunt Vicki and I love you very much, and can't wait to meet you in person. I hope we're a big part of your life. God knows you'll need someone smart to talk to every once in a while.

Congratulations, Ross and Tara.

**SHOCKING NEW UPDATE:** Peanut is Peanut no more. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you Miss Piper Lily Grace Jacobs. From Proud Papa:

Piper [is] a lovely musical name that we both find rings nicely, and is also a tribute to my recently departed and much-missed father, who was (among other things) a master pipefitter. And yes, she has two middle names. We like them both, so we gave them both to her to do as she pleases with them.

So welcome, Piper. I plan on calling you PJ, partly because I like it and partly because it will so plainly annoy your mom and dad. Stay strong, kiddo.