October 11, 2002:
I lost my father that year, too.
San Diego, early '70s. South Clairemont Recreation Center. The grass at the east end is more level; that's where the local kids play football. It's a weekend: your dad is visiting.
It would more strictly accurate to say I discovered he'd been missing for some time. Called him from San Francisco with my new address and phone number: didn't live there anymore. Had been gone long enough for the number to be reassigned.
Sometimes it's fun when he visits. His kids are nice, his wife is nice. But there's an edge to him which is dangerous. Critical, sarcastic, unforgiving. He'll insult you if you make a mistake, and his insults have that jugular instinct you learn to fear.
Sent a letter to his last address. Returned: not here.
Visits are always the same. Touch football, ice cream. Rarely it'll be bowling instead, if the field is wet. He's a fine athlete. But, he does not like to lose.
I knew the name of the company he worked for. Should say, of one company he worked for. Remembered him saying he worked for two, selling industrial hardware. Each would have fired him if they'd known he also worked for the other. It's interesting he'd put that kind of energy into doubledipping, instead of finding a more lucrative career.
There's a certain fascination to watching him play. Stops short of physical abuse but, plays hard. Runs hard, moves hard, throws hard. A natural athlete, grace and precision. Plays with nearly the same intensity he'd display if competing with adults.
When I called, the VP of Sales remembered him. Maybe. But, it was years ago. Long time gone. Sorry buddy.
The amazing thing is that he's never dirty. The kids'll end the game with ripped knees and grass stains. He plays in white slacks - white slacks - and they're spotless at the end, as they are at the beginning, as they are always and ever will be. You wonder if he carries a supply of spotless white slacks to change into if a football scuffs, or something spills. No: he simply doesn't get dirty, as if he's got some kind of force field or magic shield that protects him.
I called Information for all the Southern California prefixes. No listing.
The neighborhood kids are very patient and helpful. It would be exaggerating to say they enjoy these visits. They tolerate them because they're your friends. Teams are divvied up in the usual way. Most of the time you and your bud Craig lead the opposing team. This is because you practice together, and have a lot of clever strategies which somewhat offset your dad's natural skill. It's often you and Craig and the other 14-year-olds on one team, Dad and the younger kids on the other. This time it's a smaller group. Just Dad's family, Craig, you, two or three others.
Thought perhaps his kids would have their own listings. Called Information asking for them. No luck.
You're on defense. Dad huddles his team. You and Craig don't need to huddle. You look at each other and nod. You point to the places your teammates should take. Everybody's ready. Hike! Craig blitzes. He's fast and wiry: the only one who can match Dad's coordination. He forces Dad to dance and dodge for a few seconds.
You have your half-sister covered. Half-brother breaks free, runs deep. Their mom, on the sidelines today, cheerleads, "Go! Go!" Dad spots him near the end zone: he throws the bomb. It's a perfect pass, a perfect spiral, perfectly on target. Half-brother sees it. It's in his hands. He's all alone. It'll be a touchdown! But ... no. Hits him square in the chest, with enough force to knock him down.
Even asked my mom if she'd heard from him. She would have said so herself, of course. Futile idea.
Sparks of white-hot anger fly from Dad's eyes. With a dark snicker he says, "College material."
This is one of the enduring images of your childhood. Nine-year-old half-brother, bloody elbows, walks slowly across a field of short-mown grass, shoulders bent toward the ground, as though carrying a weight too heavy for his young years to bear.
I gave up.
Your eyes flash with suppressed anger. Not anger at your half-brother. You and Craig exchange a private glance beneath lowered heads. The teams prepare their next play.
Truth be told, my main purpose in contacting him at that moment was to hit him up for money. Yet when I found him gone, I felt rejected, and concerned, and - what's a good word for it? Lonely.
Lake Jennings, east of El Cajon, Southern California. Early '80s. Middle-aged man with tight-permed gray hair sits on a folding chair, drinking beer. There's a lot of pain in his eyes. His wife has left him. In response his tight-wound spring, coiled all his life, snapped. He broke down, was institutionalized briefly. Now he's on the usual meds. They keep his emotions flattened enough to cope, but there's no joy in his days.
Has a buddy with him, to fish and drink beer, and tell stories of the faithlessness of women.
You see him only once again, with his new young wife and baby daughter. They visit San Diego, and you force him to eat Chinese food for the first time in his life. He looks uncomfortable.