He is a good father, my dad. And father me he did.
I love using the word “father” as a verb because I believe you should trust what people do and not just what they say. Words and titles are easy. Actions are not.
And he showed me. Every single day he showed me what it meant to father.
I love that when I was little he sat next to my bed every night and read to me. I can still hear his deep, calm voice. I swear, if there was a pro sport for reading children’s books aloud, the man would win it.
I love that he always, always picked me up from… well pretty much everywhere… whether it was from my part-time job after school at Shoppers Drug Mart or from Astralight, a dance hall for teenagers in Ottawa’s East End (back in the day).
I can still remember one hot summer night in particular, 14-year-old me was waiting for my dad by the side of the dance hall when my very first boyfriend kissed me. Like for REAL. Somewhat shy (but happy) I knew I had to be careful. I didn’t want my dad to… and then I saw him. My father was literally parked right in front of us and had witnessed the entire thing. I abruptly said goodnight to Rick with a handshake and a nod.
I slunk into the car feeling mortified.
My dad said nothing.
I have never kissed a man in public without looking both ways since…
I love that my dad has never, ever, ever yelled at me. Not once.
I love the lessons he teaches me.
The man probably could have been a saint save his massive competitive streak.
I remember playing tennis with him when I was a child.
Picture it. My racquet was almost bigger than my entire body and my head barely cleared the top of the net.
I would lob the tennis ball to my dad who would gently lob it back. And so it went.
Until I would inevitably yell out:
“Let’s play for real, Daddy”.
To which he would invariably respond:
“Let’s just keep playing for fun, Mintz (my nickname).”
“No let’s play for real, Daddy” I would insist.
This would go back and forth until such time as he would ask if I was sure I wanted to play for real. I would assure him I did.
And so it would begin. My dad was gone. “The Athlete” had taken his place.
Balls were dropped short. The overhead smash was not spared.
The man would strategically place the ball well beyond my little outstretched arms desperate to tame his tennis fury.
It was futile. My dad would win.
Every time.
Which meant I would lose.
In this display of male sportsmanship, the man taught me a valuable lesson.
When it’s game on. It’s GAME ON.
I love that he is always there to cheer me on.
I remember one high school volleyball tournament in particular where I made a save that won us the game. As my teammates ran at me to celebrate, all I looked for were my dad’s eyes in the swarm.
I wanted him to be proud of me.
I still do.
The photos in this post are actually pictures I took in the condo building I’m staying at – I can imagine the loving kid hands that put stickers on the sign and helped decorate the door as a testament of their love. And while I can’t decorate a door from this distance, my words are meant to pay tribute to the man that makes the word “father” a verb.
Much love to you, Dad from Mintz in Manhattan…
