Bill OBoyle: Dad is with me always
Jun. 19—I know, it's Monday, the day after Father's Day, but I didn't forget about my dad.
How could I? It's not possible.
My dad and my mom formed the best possible team for me to be a part of and I will always cherish the time, albeit all too brief, that I had with them.
I will never forget my dad and the way he lived his life. He was faced with much adversity and he overcame it all. My dad led by example and I will always remember his courage, his compassion, his tenacity, his patriotism and his spirit.
And, of course, I will never forget the way my father walked.
Dad started out with two good legs, then he lost his right leg — amputated above the knee — after he stepped on a land mine in Northern France in World War II.
That big wooden leg required him to walk with a very pronounced limp, but it never slowed him down. He worked every day, he volunteered in the community, he socialized, he danced, he drove his car, he lived life as "normal" as anyone."
Check that — dad was far above normal — he was exceptional.
When he returned to Plymouth, I'm told he was still the same fun-loving guy he was before he left, a bit mischievous and always looking for a good time.
He worked at Leslie Fay for almost 30 years before he had a stroke and had to retire.
As clear as I can still see him walking with that limp and that wooden leg, that's surely not all I remember about my dad.
I remember his love of sports — the Yankees, football Giants, Knicks, Rangers, Notre Dame, Plymouth's Shawnee Indians, the Wilkes-Barre Barons basketball team, and many more — even Joe Paterno's Penn State Nittany Lions.
We would leave Friday afternoon for New York City — me, my mom and my dad, along with dad's sister, Aunt Betty, and Uncle Joe. There was nothing like a weekend series at "the Stadium" — especially if the Red Sox were in town. Such great memories of staying at the Yankee Motor Lodge and meeting Mel Allen, Phil Rizzuto, Tony Kubek, Joe Pepitone, Clete Boyer, Johnny Blanchard and more.
We also traveled to Philadelphia to see the Phillies play great teams like the San Francisco Giants with Willie Mays and Willie McCovey and Juan Marichal. And the Atlanta Braves with Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews and Warren Spahn. And we went to Pittsburgh to see the Pirates and Roberto Clemente, who was second only to Mickey Mantle in my dad's book.
Looking back, I realize these trips were all for me. Dad wanted me to see these players in these games. I know now that being there all those times made my dad feel good just because I was there with him.
Even when he asked me on a Friday night, when the Yanks were trailing the Red Sox by two runs in the 8th inning, if I wanted to stay or leave. When I looked at the score book, I realized my idol, Mickey Mantle, wasn't due up until fifth in the 9th. I said, "Let's go. Mickey won't bat again and we have three more games to see."
So we left. When we got back to the motel, the first thing I heard was Aunt Betty, perhaps the only bigger Mantle fan than me, screaming in the adjoining room. "The Mick" had hit a three-run homer in the bottom of the 9th to win the game.
I still recall my dad sitting on a chair removing his wooden leg, laughing hysterically. He wasn't mad. He didn't yell at me for leaving. Like he always did, he savored the moment.
That's why I think of him every day. I think about the times playing catch in our side yard. I was a big kid at 11 and 12 years old — 6-feet tall. He challenged me to throw as hard as I could, so I did. Sometimes I knocked him over. His response? "That's it, throw it hard."
Constant encouragement, that was my dad. When I played basketball or baseball, his advice was this: "You can't hit what you can't see." In other words, keep your eye on the ball and the basket.
I was lucky to have a genuine American war hero as a father. His patriotism was embedded in me. We always attended ceremonies for veterans, and he always made sure I stood at attention. Remembering those who gave the ultimate sacrifice was mandatory in our house. My dad always told me how if it weren't for veterans, we would be living in a very different world.
"You wouldn't be running to Golden Quality for a CMP if the Germans won the war," he once told me.
As a kid, I wondered what he meant by that. Now, I know and that's why I thank every veteran I meet for their service. And it's also why I love CMPs so damn much.
My dad was always there for me — in the stands at my baseball games, my basketball games and at all the practices. He watched, but he never complained. He never questioned any of my coaches. He always taught me to respect my teachers and coaches.
And I learned about love from my dad. I knew he and my mom had a special relationship from the beginning — they each had a bad leg and neither were in any way hindered by their disability.
But it was when my mom took sick that I saw love up close. I saw the expressions on his face, the holding of hands, the tears. I saw the devotion of nightly visits to the hospital and weekend trips to Philadelphia to be at mom's side. I listened when they talked. I heard the conversations of two people in love. I saw them holding hands.
I remember it all like it was yesterday. And even though all those yesterdays are gone, my dad is always with me.
Happy Father's Day.
Reach Bill O'Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle, or email at boboyle@timesleader.com.
