Issue date:
May 16, 1997

My Dad Died on an August Morning

By Joseph Blocher
Charles E. Jordan Senior High School

"C'mon, son, it's no use in delaying the inevitable," he said.

The sharp sound of Dad's voice broke the cool, misty silence of the August morning. I started, and looked over at him. He tossed the football from hand to hand and grinned at me. Reluctantly, I let the sun rise on its own and ran over to join him.

For me and Dad, every Saturday meant football -- rain or shine. Ever since I could toddle well enough to go the 40 yards from one makeshift end zone to the other, our one-on-one game had been a ritual. We didn't play for any sort of record, but if we had, my win column would have been empty. In the 10 or so years we had been playing, I had never even scored on him. But that didn't detract from the game. We both gave everything on every play, and we pulled off highlights that would have been nominated for ESPYs, if ESPN had been fortunate enough to have a cameraman stationed in the backyard of 3920 King Charles Rd. But it wasn't for the plays, either. There was something more to playing football with Dad, it was ...

"Devising a game plan over there, Joseph?"

Dad's comment brought me back to reality. The sun had crested the rocky hill that could easily have been bleachers if you didn't study it too closely. It was time to begin.

I downed the ball, which somehow felt too big, and hiked it to myself. I faked to my right, but, before I could make a move, Dad crushed me to the ground.

"This is gonna be way too easy," he said as he bounced up off the ground.

I shook the ache out of my knees, and rubbed my still-not-quite-awake eyes. It amazed me that he could muster this much energy this early in the morning, while I was still stumbling around in the newborn sunlight. I tried the same move on second, but Dad was too quick. It's going to be a long morning, I thought to myself as I punted on the third and final down. He signaled for a fair catch, which left him about 30 yards to go. We faced off again. As he bent over, I noticed a streak of silver in his hair.

"Getting a little gray on top, there, Dad," I said.

"Yeah, well . . . you'd better get a good look at it now, son, 'cause as soon as I start running, it's all gonna be a blur," he said.

He cut to his left. I leapt on him, throwing my arms around his neck and trying to pull him to the ground. He dragged me four or five yards before finally toppling to the ground. I knew that my ribs would be bruised tomorrow. On second down, I went for a safer tackle and grabbed him around the knees instead.

"Learned that one from your old man, didn't you?" he taunted playfully as he got ready to punt. His kick spiraled high into the gray air, paused, and then fell to earth like some sort of crippled bird. I saw Dad rushing at me, and signaled for a fair catch.

I had nearly the whole length of the field stretched out in front of me. I rubbed my already sore legs and got ready for another certain-death drive. But no matter what, I knew I had to try. Anything less would be disrespectful to myself, my Dad and the game. I hiked and tore off along the right sideline, without the usual feint. Dad wasn't quite ready for the move, and I managed to get behind him. By the time he caught me, I was within five yards of the end zone. He crashed into me from behind with more force than I thought possible. It felt like I had been hit by a train. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and it was all I could do to hold onto the ball.

"Well, well, got a little bit lucky on that one," he said as he got off of me. "Don't let it go to your head."

He wasn't smiling as much this time. I had three downs to make the next five yards. Common sense said it was possible, but years of August mornings had taught me otherwise. I dropped back, but before I could make a cut, Dad was on me. He hit me straight on, his solid, powerful chest connecting with mine and smashing me to the ground. I held on, but just barely. Dimly, I saw him performing his victory dance, which looked something like the illegitimate child of a waltz and the Ickey Woods Shuffle. I propped myself up on one elbow and shook my head at his antics.

I had six yards to go, and only two downs left. I downed the ball quickly and backed into the pocket again. I waited for him to come at me, made him think that I would fall for the same thing twice. But just as his hand reached me, I cut crisply to my left. The end zone was a reality now. I pumped my legs like pistons and leaned forward. I could see myself breaking through. Then, out of nowhere, he flung his weight against my back and we fell to the ground in a jumble of bodies. He landed heavily on top of me, and my shoulder jutted up into his stomach. He rolled off of me, groaning. He may have been hurt, but he'd made the play -- I was still a yard short, and had only one down left.

Dad pulled himself up off of the ground with a quiet groan and shuffled over to the line of scrimmage. There was no bluster this time, no cocky toss of the head. Dad and I lined up across from each other, and we both knew that everything in the world was riding on the shoulders of this play. I looked up at him and our eyes locked. I saw the familiar competitive glint, the sharp-edged glare that used to scare me when I was younger. But behind that I saw exhaustion, and maybe even a little bit of fear.

I mouthed the word "hike," and dropped back. Instantly, Dad sprang and started toward me. I looked left, looked right, and locked eyes with him again. I knew that I could only win this game one way, and that was by going right up the middle. I planted my heel, lowered my shoulder and started toward him. We collided with ancestral, primal roars that ripped out from somewhere deep in our mutual past, manifesting some age-old ritual. Our bodies slammed together in a crash of sinew, muscle and bone. The impact nearly knocked the wind out of me, and in an instant I knew that I would never get by him. But I kept pushing against the chest that held a heart beating as fast as my own, against the arms that cradled me as a child. And they began to give way. I pushed him backward, inching toward the goal line. His body fell away, and I stumbled into the cool, wet grass of the end zone.

I rolled over onto my back and waited for something. For the applause, for the accolades, for the feeling of accomplishment, for something. Nothing came. I felt more empty than I had before. The ball rolled off my chest where I had been clutching it, and it was as if some huge weight had been lifted. I reached over to stop it from rolling down the slope, but I was too late. Sighing, I sat up.

Dad was holding the ball, head bowed. He faced the mist, in the direction of the house, with his back toward me. He tossed the ball from hand to hand, repeating the action like a physical mantra.

"Dad . . ." I ventured. He stopped tossing the ball. I sat in the grass. Slowly, he turned and walked back to me. I looked up at his eyes, and there was a look there that I could not understand. He handed me the ball, and it felt heavier than before. I could almost see a tear, I thought, but he turned around before I could see.

And with that, my dad walked off into a misty world of I'm gonna's and cool green grass. I sat where he had left me, holding the football like the precious relic that it was. I knew that I had no choice but to run with it, to always go up the middle, to ignore the talk. I would run long and hard, and then, on some misty August morning, I would give up a touchdown to a boy with much to learn about life.

I got up, went back inside, and had lunch with the man who was my father.

Each of these students receives a $75 gift certificate for books or software. Sponsoring teachers get $50 gift certificates.