Learning Football From Dad's Barstool

Growing up in what would best be described as a beach community, about this time of year an annual depression would set in as the days started to cool off a bit, night would set in quicker, and the back to school commercials started popping up on television. The one thing that staved off this depression for me was football season. And no matter how old I get, feeling the sand cool more each day as the sun goes down tells me not that fun time is over, but that football is about to begin. Besides, as an adult, when you work in New York City and commute while wearing a suit in 90 degree weather, and you weigh in the 250 range, most of the summer feels like one long, sweaty subway ride. Not unlike most American boys, my love for football was passed on to me from my father. But the way he did this was not your typical "Rockwell-esque" portrait. Passing on a love for sports is not always done in the manner that Billy Crystal describes tells during Ken Burns documentaries. My dad never once had a football catch with me, or any type of catch for that matter, and despite the fact that I have been obsessed with sports since I was old enough to understand what they were, the only games he ever brought me to were the Bar League touch football games where I would cheer on the bartenders and bouncers from my dad's favorite hangout, AJ's. You see my dad wasn't an athlete, and to be honest he wasn't much of a dad either. He was an alcoholic and a compulsive gambler. Those traits aren't exactly conducive to a productive marriage, so my parents divorced when I was only six years old. But while my dad wasn't exactly Steven Keaton from Family Ties, he wasn't all bad, he definitely had his moments. Also understand that despite what television or memoirs by newly sober authors would have you believe, not every alcoholic beats his kids and comes home screaming at his family until the cops drag him away. He was what is called a functioning alcoholic, educated, creative, talented in his field of work and he always made plenty of money. Unfortunately most of that money went to his never ending "Norm Petersen" like tab at AJ's and his bookie. But like I said, he had his moments. For me those moments came on Sunday afternoons. Starting when I was about eight years old we began to have our own little Sunday ritual. Sundays meant watching those touch football games then over to AJ's to watch the NFL. AJ's wasn't the greatest sports bar; few were back in the pre-Directv 1970's, so in the New York market that meant the Jets on NBC and the Giants on CBS. Maybe it was their lousy records at the time but despite this constant indoctrination I still became a Seahawk fan. How did that happen? On a Monday night in 1979 or so, Cosell's halftime highlights included a beautiful connection from Zorn to Largent, or as Cosell said "Steevve Larrgent". One brief clip and I became a fan for life. Our routine wouldn't change much over the years. I would sit at the bar, which would likely result in a call to Children's Services today but back then it was the coolest thing ever (Dad's best friend was the owner, how convenient). I would have my bacon cheeseburger and a bunch of cokes. Another perk from knowing the boss; the bartenders would let me use the soda gun. With all of the gadgets today modern day kids can't relate but trust me, in the late 70's, shooting soda into a glass was a hell of a lot of fun. My dad would sit beside me, having his screwdrivers, never anything else, occasionally some food, and while he never seemed drunk to me, he was definitely happy, He was what you would call a "regular". Forgive me for a second Cheers reference but he was a lot like the Frasier Crane character, educated, maybe even a bit erudite, who enjoyed football but whose true love was opera. Since math always came easy to me, I devoured statistics from the Sporting News and local sports pages and loved to compare teams and players long before I ever knew what fantasy sports was. Noticing this talent my Dad of course introduced me to the concept of betting lines via the classic little yellow parlay tickets that you can still find in any dive bar today. So while my classmates were memorizing times tables and starting fractions, I was comparing home and away records while trying to decide whether or not to lay the three points with Earl Campbell's Oilers against Pittsburgh (probably not a good idea, the Steel Curtain owned him.) For fun (My mom would disagree), my dad would let me pick a four or five game ticket and put up the ten dollars for my little parlay bet, and I even won a couple of times. I still remember getting the stub back with my winning picks marked; a tight wad of twenty's wrapped in a rubber band. Only later in life did I learn that my dad, who loved football but didn't really know football, would put a couple of hundred on each of the games I picked with his local bookie. On one hand I'm flattered that he had so much faith in my knowledge, but on the other hand it would have been nice if he put that money in a college fund, I may not still be paying Sallie Mae $800 a month if he had. Obviously this isn't a blueprint for raising a son, from the gambling, to the environment (I became known as the go to kid for new profanity), and simply by the fact that but for the grace of God my dad didn't wrap his mustang around a telephone pool as he drove me home after about six hours of vodka and OJs. We kept this routine up until I was in high school, when I went from loving to watch the game to actually playing it. I became a good player on a very good high school team, and made a couple of JUCO teams until my ACL snapped and I went back to being only a spectator. But those years of playing, the coaches I learned from, the teammates I played with and the memories that were created are without question among the greatest moments of my life. Looking back, it was those days sitting on a barstool with my dad that started my own love affair with the greatest game there is. And it is the reason why late August means to me that the best five months of the year are on the way. My own ritual of drafting my fantasy teams, saving up my bankroll for a few of my little parlays (still love them, on-line now, more convenient but I miss the tickets), and spending Sundays locked into the NFL Sunday Ticket, waiting for my beloved Seahawks to get that elusive Lombardi Trophy. The drinking caught up to my dad and he passed away in 1989 when I was only nineteen years old. When I think about the limited time we had together, I have very few memories of what you would call "quality time" with my father. We didn't go fishing, didn't take vacations together, and despite the fact that I was obsessed with sports, he never took me to a ball game that didn't involve the losers buying the first round afterwards. For better or worse, the bulk of the times I remember with him were in that bar, watching the game that he loved then, and that I love now. Although it wasn't the ideal way to bond with your father, there were two things about it that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. One, it was the spark for the love of a game that has become such a huge part of my life. A game that when I was able to still play it brought me friendship, camaraderie, and taught me the value of hard work and sacrifice. It is a unique sport in that it tests every limit of both your physical and emotional extremes. You can't equal those feelings when you are relegated to being "just" a fan, but it comes close at times. Like that magical day in January of 2006 when I when I flew 3,000 miles by myself to watch my team destroy the Carolina Panthers and reach their first Super Bowl. It was a feeling a pure elation that I shared with 67,000 strangers that felt like my own teammates, that's a feeling that only this game can give you. The second and even a more important aspect of our Sundays was that it was "our thing". Not my brothers', not my sister's, but "ours." We would talk about the game, share my lunch, he would ask how school was going, I would meet his quirky (nice word for drunken) friends, and he would show me off as I quoted the stats that I would be able to cite from memory. A different childhood of course, and one that I wouldn't recommend, but it does not make those memories any less special. If I am lucky enough to have my own son one day, hopefully the sport that I love will be passed on anew. A new ritual will begin and I will share my Sunday's with my son. We will watch football, I'll teach him about the game, he'll have a soda or a burger, and it will be "our thing." Just when we do it we will be on my couch and the only thing I will be having too much of will be nachos and wings.