A memory parade

This past week, I spent a lot of time questioning my dad’s fathering skills. I’m
talking about the two black holes in my memory where the 1980 Phillies and 1983
Sixers parades should be.

There should be an image, vivid and bright, of me sitting on my dad’s shoulders
and cheering as Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, and Tugger go past in slow motion. I
can feel the tears of joy rolling down my cheeks, though it probably would have
been my dad’s cigarette smoke stinging my eyes.

And surely, I would never have forgotten Dr. J’s god-like hands blotting out the
sun as they waved back and forth, again in slow motion.

But I don’t have those memories because my dad hates parades. It’s a combination
of not liking drunks and extreme temperatures and some long, drawn out affair
about a sewing needle, the Cub Scouts, and some mandatory July 4 death march.

They’re all excuses, I told him, and he should be ashamed that he robbed me of those
moments. I made a vow that all three of my children would bask in the glory of
the 2008 Phillies if they won it all. I would burn the magic of collective joy
into their brains and they would always associate the Phillies with dad or at
the least, a day off from school.

Somehow, I found myself alone yesterday at 11:15 a.m., running across the Ben
Franklin Bridge with sweat beading up on my back and a few miles to go before
Broad and Tasker, where I promised my editors I would be when the parade
started. I thought I head my dad laughing at me, but I was light-headed

Just minutes earlier, any remaining ties to a perfect day were severed when I
kissed my 2-year-old son’s head and slammed the car door in his face. He had his
Word Series shirt on, the Phillies cap passed down from his brother and sister
atop his head, and the pockets of his jeans were stuffed with Daily News
business cards in case I lost him.

And I just left there with my wife.

It pains me to say this, but he was not my first option anyway. He wears
diapers, can’t walk very fast, and requires a level of awareness I’m never ready
for, hence the business cards in the pockets.

His older brother, the Headless Horseman, decided late Thursday night that the
Halloween party at school was a better . . I didn’t let him finish. Halloween
comes and goes I told him, but sports glory is a rare and wondrous thing that
may touch your life this one time and possibly never again.

Then I threatened to punish him if he didn’t go.

“Fine,” I said. ‘You’re going to regret this for the rest of your life.”

Alice in Wonderland, my daughter, gave me a certain look when I said “well, at
least your sister is going.” Her crystal blue eyes seemed to be saying “Daddy, I
love you to death but I’m about to break your heart in a million pieces.”

She bailed on me, like her older brother, for education and cheap candy.

So it was up to the little guy, Charlie Brown, to seal this parade in a glass case for me and help me put in on the top shelf of memories.

But then I saw people walking away from the train station near my house. They
were shaking their heads in disgust. They were on cell phones and throwing their
hands in the air.

“It’s a two-hour wait just to buy a ticket,” some random guy said when I rolled
down the window and asked what’s up?

From that point on, I was driven by pure desperation and that’s no place for
kids. My wife says he called for his “daddy” as I bounded up the stairs to the

bridge.

Hopefully, he won’t remember any of it and the Phillies will simply repeat the
title. The other two kids only have themselves to blame. My dad hopes I never
forget it. He also made me promise to mention that he offered to pick me up
after I crawled back over the bridge.