Official Pitcher

My dad died 11 years ago today. He was 79 years old, born on Mother's Day, 1919. That's him in 1983, only about 4 years older than I am now.

He was a good guy and people who knew him say that we are a lot alike. Maybe so, but such was not always the case. Thanks to him, we came from very different backgrounds. He was one of 13 children and their family didn't have much; dad saw to it that our family had everything he could give us. He was something of a character in his early days and there are apocryphal stories told about how my grandfather wasn't too keen on this guy marrying his daughter. True or not, he didn't go to the wedding. There's another difference: I'm sure that Margie's father never had any qualms about me. [Oh, all right, maybe a few - but at least he was at the wedding!] Regardless of any in-law misgivings, we both married well.

When it came to sports, I'm sure that I was a disappointment as a kid. I wasn't much of an athlete. Whenever there were softball games on the playground, dad was always the "official pitcher" meaning that he pitched to both teams. Other kids would come to our door asking if he would pitch, and he always said yes. What does it say when kids come to ask if your dad can come out and play? I didn't realize it then but I suspect that he agreed because it was the only way I would get picked for a team.

He was a sales rep for General Cigar Company and a pretty good one at that. However, he rarely smoked cigars except when the boss was in town. The boss was Edgar Cullman, a Yale man. I say that because one of my favorite memories of dad happened one autumn Saturday afternoon when Yale played Penn here in Philadelphia. Now, whenever Yale played here in town, Edgar would fly in with his son on the corporate jet and dad would meet him and they would all go to the football game. Well, one year, Edgar's son was days (or hours) away from being a new father so I drew the golden ticket. We sat on the Yale side and, friends, I can't imagine that there has ever been so much tweed in one place before or after. Anyway, there we are sitting with the Yalies and not much is going on. All of a sudden, dad leans over to me and says, "They're gonna hate me for doing this." Hardly had these words left his lips than he jumped to his feet and yelled, "GO QUAKERS!" This made the tweed rustle for a few seconds and Dad loved it. Penn won that day so he probably also made a few bucks off of the chairman of the board. I'm sure he loved that too.

Most of the companies he called on were candy and tobacco wholesalers in towns like DuBois, St. Marys, Hazleton et al. Many of the people who ran them were minorities - African Americans, Jews, women - and this was back in the day when minorities were just starting to really stand up for themselves. They all liked dad and he liked them. He told me once that there are good and bad people in the world of every kind and color. Never judge others just by what they look like or where they go to church.

I can hear him saying this now as though it was this morning and I have never forgotten it. I may not always succeed but I try to live my life this way so, if he and I are alike, I hope that this is one of the ways.

Did we have our differences? Uh, well... yes but he always stood up for me. He was always my official pitcher. If I wasn't quite the boy he expected, I hope that he was proud of the man I became.

Thanks dad. You were right about Sinatra (but I was right about the Beatles).