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Early Memories of My Father |
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"In every persons life there needs to be a caring, nurturing, encouraging friend."
The earliest memory I have of my father is one of me as a young boy
holding his hand by his two last fingers as we walked together. His
hands seemed so large that his fingers were all I could actually grip.
He always took me with him to ball games even at my young age. I will
never forget that.
As I grew older I remember dad and I listening to high school
basketball games together on an old transistor radio. I would
make a list of player's names on a piece of paper and keep track of how
many points each would score as the game went on. Too small to
stay awake for the whole game, I always fell asleep before the game
ended. When I would wake up in the morning I would find the score
sheet lying next to me. The score sheet would be filled out with
the final score on it completed by my father before he carried me to
bed.
My father was a bread delivery man. I remember the times when my
father would stop by the house in the early morning on those cold days
when I was home from school over Christmas break. I used to ride
on the floor of that bread truck as he delivered the bread to the
stores. I don't know if those old trucks even had heaters but it
didn't matter. The smell and warmth from the bread that had just
come from the bakery ovens would make my mouth water and keep me warm
both at the same time.
I high school I became very interested in athletics. My father
would attend all my games. My junior year something special happened.
It was in algebra class during the spring of the year. Football season
was long over. We had done well last season - qualifying for the
playoffs for the first time in school history. I wanted us to do even
better next year, my senior year. Then the idea hit me. I didn't wait
till after school. During my lunch break, I drove over to a print shop
and ordered business cards with a simple, direct prophesy - "BOONVILLE
PIRATES -- 1974 STATE CHAMPIONS!"
When the cards were printed, my teammates and I distributed them all over town.
Teachers pinned them to classroom bulletin boards. Merchants taped them
in store windows. Pretty soon those cards were everywhere. We worked
hard at getting the cards all over town. There was no escaping them,
and that's what we wanted. We wanted our goal to be right in front of
us, for all to see, impossible to overlook, no matter where we
went. Although we faced skepticism, it only served to strengthen
our conviction to make our dream a reality. Our school had never won a
state title in any sport - we were determined to change that history.
By the time football practice started in late August we were focused.
There was a sense of urgency that made us a close team. From day one we
gave more in practice, paid more attention to detail as we executed
assignments sharply. With our goal imprinted in our minds and hearts --
"BOONVILLE PIRATES -- 1974 STATE CHAMPIONS!", we marched through the
season undefeated and stepped into the playoffs with a sense of destiny.
The first playoff game matched us against a powerhouse team that was
riding a 28-game winning streak. We knew we were in for a fight, but as
the intensity of the game increased, so did our determination. We won,
pulling away in the second half. That win brought us to the brink of
our goal, a match-up with the defending state champions for the title.
We went into preparing for the big game with the same intensity and
focus we had shown as a team all season. Then it started to snow. A
huge winter storm blew through the area. School was canceled; roads
were closed; transportation systems shut down. Still, somehow every
member of the team made it to the school gym and we practiced for the
biggest game of our lives in tennis shoes.
Our coach received a phone called before practice the day before the
game telling us that state officials were thinking of canceling the
game and declaring Co-champions because of the severe weather. We were
asked if we would accept such a decision. "No way", was our response.
This was our year. We were not going to get this close and not take a
shot at the title.
That night my father came to me and sadly announced that he would
not be able to attend the game. He had to deliver the bread to
the stores and the site of the game was over a three hour drive from
his route. He vowed to listen to every play on the transistor
radio. Consumed with the anticipation of the game I acknowledged
his comments without fully noticing his regret.
The next day as game time approached I couldn't help thinking about my
dad. As we arrived at the stadium we found the field buried in
snow. The goal posts stuck out above a six to eight inch blanket
of snow. Someone asked if snowshoes would be allowed as legal
equipment. Undaunted we dressed for the game and began our warm-ups.
Frustration grew as both teams struggled to a scoreless first half.
Slip, slide, fall down, dropped pass, missed blocks, fumbles were all
either team had accomplished. There was a growing sense of urgency that
time was running out on our dream.
In the locker room at half-time, Coach Reagan reminded us of all we had
been through to get to this moment. Then he reached in his pocket and
pulled out the card. Right there in front of us once again was our
vision. "Do you want this?" he said. That is all he needed to say.
As I lined up for the second half kickoff I happened to looked up and
noticed a blue and white bread truck pulling into the parking
lot. Dad had delivered the bread and driven over three hours to
see the second half of the game.
Playing conditions were as tough the second half as they were the
first, but our determination won out over the playing conditions. We
scored 34 points in the second half on the same field we couldn't score
any on in the first half. Our year-long dream became reality. To this
day I still have my card.
Years later I had become a teacher and coach. Early one morning I
was awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing at 5:30 A.M.
As I struggled to answer the phone I'll never forget the sound of the
sheriff's voice on the other end telling me that my dad had just been
killed in an automobile accident on his way to work. Cattle from
a nearby farm had broken through a fence and wandered onto the
highway. Being a dark, rainy morning my father never saw them as
he came over a ridge. The impact spun the car sideways in the
highway before a semi-trailer collided with it. He was killed
instantly. As I listened to the story I could hear my heart beat in my
ears. I hung up the phone devastated.
For long time after that things really didn't matter to me. I
went about my life but I really didn't care. It felt as if my
heart had been torn away and in a sense it had. I went to
work. I still taught school but I was just going through the
motions.
One day I was on the school playground supervising a first grade recess
when a little boy walked up to me. As I looked down at him he
reached up and grabbed my hand by my last two fingers - just like I use
to do to my dad. In that moment my father came back to me.
In that instant I realized that even though my father was gone - he had
left me something behind. He had left me his smile. He had left
me his compassion. He had left me his heart. When that little boy
touched my hand I realized that all these wonderful gifts that I had
loved so much about my father could be passed on to others. In
that moment I understood the meaning of the word heritage.
I now spend my days passing on that heritage to my 8 year old stepson
and 3 year old son; a heritage not only about fathers, sons and sports.
A heritage filled with love.
- Tom Krause - Copyright 2005
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