Fathers and Sons

By Mike McGann
Posted Sunday, June 17, 2007

Until six years ago, Fathers’ Day was never much of a holiday to me. That day, six years ago was my first as the father of two month-old twin babies, my son and daughter, who despite their age had already attended a Mets’ game at Shea Stadium.

Harry never managed to get around to taking me to a Mets’ game. Harry, you see, is my father. I can’t remember a time when I called him “dad,” which is good, because he never did the little things like pay child support or acknowledge my existence after age 11 that you kind of need to do to be thought of as a “dad.” Beating the hell out of me from the time I was a toddler to when he walked out of my life probably didn’t help a whole lot on that front, either.

Now as the father of two six year olds, I hope and pray that I teach them millions of things, large and small, that help to guide them through life long after I’ve departed this mortal coil. Harry taught me just three things of use: how to work on Volkswagen engines (Beetles, handy, since I own an old-school Bug), how to grill a decent steak (build the right kind of fire, and don’t keep them on one side for too long) and to root for the Mets and never, ever root for the Yankees.

I suppose the lessons on how best to exploit an eight-to-one weight advantage when beating the hell out of someone might have been helpful had I ever gone into midget wrestling, although it made it very hard to spank my kids, and I’m more thankful now that they’re beyond the age where doing so makes any sense, so I no longer have to do something so distasteful.

Harry was the family secret, the shame we did not share with others. Not only was he a world-class lousy father, he was a pretty crappy criminal. He had the gifts of a master politician (which evidently did not pass down to my generation, based on various vote tallies over the last six years) but lacked the eye for detail to be a really good con man. So he got caught. A lot. Maybe he wanted to be, I don’t know.

I don’t know what happened to him, whether he’s dead or alive, which all things considered, is probably best. I wouldn’t want him within 1,000 miles of my family, my kids. The kids aren’t really old enough to understand, but they know something.

“Your dad is a really bad man, right, Dad?” My son asked one day, in that out-of-leftfield manner six-year-olds have. “Right,” I said. “Well, I’m lucky, because you’re a really good dad,” he said. That was a tough moment to keep composure, but I hope it’s mostly true.

The funny thing, though, is that it seems likely that all three lessons from Harry will probably find their way down to Kenny, my son. He and Janet, his sister, are already passionate, opinionated Mets’ fans. Kenny is at my side most of the summer and listens surprisingly intently while I explain the arcane mysteries of grilling. Last weekend, he was at my side when I replaced the points in the Bug (to no effect, mind you, since it seems like the fuel injector is acting up).

Later this month, Kenny and I will go to our annual “just guys” Mets game, where if past years are a guide, he’ll start a non-ending monologue about Star Wars, Star Trek, Spiderman, Pirates of the Carribean and so on, only momentarily mentioning the ball game and only quiet when bribed with cotton candy. And I love every last moment.

What it proves is that even the worst of fathers manages to pass something down, and Harry certainly was among the worst of fathers. Yet, still, he gave me the Mets, which I obsessed about in my childhood and used as an escape when reality was a bit too much to cope with. Arguing whether George Stone or Jon Matlack was the Mets’ third best pitcher was a great way not to think about real life, and to avoid wondering when the next beating was going to come. Ultimately, it led to nearly four decades of diversion — and at two periods in my career, a hunk of what I did professionally.

I think all fathers, good and bad, manage to teach us things. It saddens me when my oldest stepson continues to battle with his father, a fundamentally decent man. Now, few 19-year-old males don’t have some conflict with their father, granted, but you want to reach out grab him and say “you don’t know how good you have it. Don’t ever forget that man cares — loves you. He’s not perfect, but at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.”

This is the day we honor our fathers. Most of us will give gifts, call, or spend time with dad. My kids plan to do so, I know. For the 32nd straight year, I don’t much have to worry about being a son on Father’s Day. But maybe it will offer Harry some odd comfort, wherever he is, to know I’ll probably be grilling a steak and watching the Mets-Yankees game with my kids.

Yeah, I know. It’s probably more than he deserves. Maybe. All right, it is.

But as a father myself, I now know the things Harry threw away, the things I wouldn’t give up for anything, the highs and the lows that make being a father so special and rewarding. I can’t think of anything worse than missing those things. Anything.

When I fire up ESPN tonight, I’ll know where my son is: sitting on my lap, asking me when Carlos Delgado is going to hit. Harry won’t be so blessed.

And for that, I pity him.

To everyone else, I wish a Happy Father’s Day.