My dad loved sports. My brother doesn’t. Growing up, I was pretty much ambivalent about the whole thing.
Though my father was an all-around sports fan, I should mention that my mother loved baseball. Not sports. Just baseball. She was born in the Germantown section of Philadelphia in 1915 and grew up in a time when baseball was king in America. My hometown was no exception. I’m not sure if she and her sister started out loving baseball, but I’m certain they loved baseball players. I know this because, as a young woman, my aunt fell in love and married a minor league player.
I’m pretty sure they were groupies before groupies were a thing.
I don’t know if Mom ever went to a pro baseball game, but every year during the World Series, she and her sister would be on the phone for hours reviewing every play of every game. Thinking back, I wish there had been speakerphones. I probably could have learned a lot from those conversations, not only about the game but about my mother and my aunt. I wonder if I might have heard a version of my future self.
I was born in 1946 in the same Germantown hospital where my mother was born 31 years earlier. Until I was a teenager, the only sports I heard mentioned in our house were baseball and boxing. On the Spring-like night of June 1, 1959, I remember sitting in the car with my father listening to a boxing match on the scratchy car radio. It was the Swede, Ingemar Johansson, vs. Floyd Patterson fighting for the World Heavyweight Championship in Madison Square Garden. The match was stopped in the third round giving Johansson the win after knocking Patterson down seven times. My dad was devastated. His silence filled the night air as we walked back to our house.
Seeing my father’s reaction to that loss, I witnessed my first sports heartbreak. I was 13 years old. Unfortunately, there would be many more heartbreaks to follow with me as an active participant.
So began my official entry into the often-chaotic world of Philly sports. I learned things that night that would serve me well in the coming months and years. On the most basic level, I loved being with my father. It was just the two of us sharing an exciting event – regardless of the outcome. I soaked in his descriptions of what was happening and learned to anticipate the history he sprinkled into the live action.
Even at 13, I understood my dad was willing to share his love of sports if I was willing to learn. From that night forward, I made it a point to ask him if I could watch sports telecasts with him. There’s a picture somewhere of me at 14 sitting on my father’s lap watching TV. I don’t know for sure what was on, but I would bet it involved a competitive sport.
Over the next year, we watched baseball, golf, tennis, football, bowling and, of course, boxing. Then came high school and the new world of high school sports. In 1960 Philly, football was challenging baseball to become “America’s Game”. My high school was already there. I was in the band; attendance at every football game was mandatory. During the first play of the first game, I realized how little I actually knew about the game. The Universe had a solution – JD Clark.
JD was a friendly easy-to-like trombone player. I played French horn and sat next to him at the games.
From the start, I pummeled him with questions, “What’s a first down?”, “Why are they going backward?” “Who’s that guy?”. During that game and throughout the next four years, JD answered every one of my questions with humor and friendship. At home, my father was not as patient. Interrupting sports was a sin worthy of banishment to another room. But JD and I prevailed. My love of the game grew, and I joined Dad as a devout fan of Eagles football!
I ultimately found basketball and hockey and became a member of the Four-for-Four club – a die-hard fan of all four Philly pro sports teams. Phillies, Eagles, Sixers, and Flyers were teams I could count on to show up and do their jobs. Other pieces of my life would prove to be much less reliable. No matter what, I had a “tribe;” people who demanded nothing but loyalty, even in hard times. They became my escape, my assurance that things would eventually get better.
I was with them at Connie Mack Stadium, the Vet, Citizens Bank Park, Lincoln Financial Field, the Spectrum, and the Wachovia Center.
Until my father died in 2001 at age 88, he and I could always connect via sports. My children and grandchildren knew they could count on him to come up with the answer to any sports trivia question. Before we all used Google, I remember calling him to settle an argument that was getting heated. I don’t remember the time of the call, but I know I woke him up. The question, “Dad, who was the Chicago Bears defensive lineman who also played for the Eagles?”
The answer came quickly, “Refrigerator Perry”. Then the click of the phone hanging up.
Our immediate and extended family members support many different college and professional teams for a myriad of reasons. It’s not important to this story why. What is important is our love of sports, the love of just one team, or just our love for each other. When all else fails, we can find some common sports ground to start a conversation that leads us back to each other. In an ironic twist of sports fate, my brother’s kids love sports, which means even he can talk a little sports trash if pressed.
I like to think the young woman who loved baseball and the great-great-grandfather who would watch any sport at any time are smiling and laughing at our insignificant squabbles over sports.
They know what we are still learning. When I say, “I love sports” or “I love the Eagles,” or my youngest son says, “I love the Giants,” the important words are “I love.”