Round Two: Happy Father’s Day, Dad

July 1 will mark 20 years since the day my dad died.

He was only 63 years old and looked great. I had just talked to him on the phone two days earlier, and he sounded great. That was a Wednesday afternoon.

By about 7 o’clock Friday evening, he was gone, the victim of a heart attack while sitting on the couch in his living room.

Toward the end of our Wednesday conversation, Dad was trying to think of something else he had been wanting to tell me, but he couldn’t remember. “Oh well,” he said. “I’ll just tell you the next time we talk.”

We never talked again.

Dad was a brilliant man, well educated, well read, compassionate, warm, genuine. He loved sports, especially football, basketball, golf and horse racing. He loved music, especially Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and anything else classic rock (he had a vast collection of record albums that took up the better part of our basement). He loved history, particularly military history. He loved animals and nature, and he often pondered the big questions like “Who are we, and why are we here?”

At Kenmore High School in Akron, Dad played running back on the football team and ran the sprint events in track with the great Bill Heideman (trust me when I tell you, footspeed in our family skipped a generation). He graduated from the University of Akron and worked for over 30 years at the Goodyear Tire & Rubber Company.

I miss him every day. I could always lean on Dad for his wisdom and knew that his advice would steer me in the right direction. His instincts were like a sixth sense. Once he was gone, I was left with the lessons he had taught to carry me through the rest of my life. In the weeks and months after he died, I could almost hear his voice in my head saying: “I’ve done all I can do. The rest is up to you now.”

Growing up, high on Dad’s “lessons list” were education and his demand that I respect others, particularly my teachers and coaches. No mouthing off, no clowning around, no attitude. If I had a bad behavioral day in the classroom, my day was going to get a lot worse when I got home and had to face Dad. There was no coddling in the Hardesty house.

Three moments in particular stand out. One was when I brought home a D in art class for an entire grading period when I was in fourth grade at Somers Elementary in Mogadore. I brought the report card home on a Friday afternoon, and the next time I was allowed to leave our apartment was Monday morning to catch the school bus. It was the only time in my life I ever got grounded. Dad was furious – in his way. He wasn’t normally a yeller and screamer when it came to my discipline, but when he did get angry with me, his face would harden, lose color, and he’d get cold, dead eyes. It was like dealing with Nosferatu.

Dad knew I was a good student, but not an all-star. So he didn’t expect straight As – he had pretty much given up on that by the time I hit fourth grade – but he didn’t tolerate Ds, either. I tried to defend myself, telling him that I was no artist and was never going to be one. He didn’t care about that. “You didn’t even try,” he said, “and that’s what disappoints me. Not trying becomes a habit in other things in life. No matter what you’re doing, you always have to try your best. When you start working someday, they’re going to expect that from you.”

I was 9 years old, and I’ve never forgotten that day. Or that lesson.

Another happened right after fourth grade, during our Mogadore H League Little League Baseball season. It was a blistering hot summer day, and I decided I would rather be cooling off at the local swimming pool in Mogadore – affectionately dubbed “the Mud Hole” because of its mucky bottom – than roasting at baseball practice. At 10 years old, I was one of the older kids on the Mogadore Giants, a starting pitcher and third baseman, and figured there was no way anyone would find out I was at the Mud Hole – and even if they did, our head coach, Dave Gasaway, would never bench a starting pitcher and third baseman.

Guess again.

Before our game the following day, I was sitting on our team bench when Dave came up to me and said he wasn’t letting me play because he found out I had skipped the previous day’s practice. My blood ran cold. I lived for those games. He was gentle but firm about it, explaining why he was benching me for the game. Then he turned toward the bleachers behind our bench and motioned toward my mom and dad. “Doug and Laura, can I have a word with you for a moment?” Dave asked.

OK, I was safe now. Once Mom and Dad found out Coach Gasaway wasn’t letting me play, they would rush to my defense and I would take my rightful place on the diamond.

I looked over my shoulder and saw concerned looks on their faces as Dave spoke to them, his hands gesturing, their heads nodding, all three of them casting occasional glances toward me as I sobbed on the bench, and then Mom and Dad went back into the stands. That was it. They were spectators, and so was I.

After the game, Nosferatu was back. “You’re lucky Coach Gasaway didn’t just kick you off the team,” Dad growled at me. “If you ever skip another practice, I don’t care what sport it is, you’re done playing, period.”

I played sports through my senior year of high school, and I never skipped another practice.

The third teachable moment that stands out came on Christmas Eve 1981 – you know, The Most Wonderful Time of the Year. I was in eighth grade, and Mom, Dad, my good friend Glenn and I had just piled into our car to head out for some last-minute shopping (and by “last-minute shopping,” I mean Dad was just getting started). Before Dad had even put the car in reverse in our driveway, I exclaimed from the backseat, “I can’t believe it’s Christmas Eve!”

Glenn, sitting next to me, piped up: “Actually, it’s not Christmas Eve until 6 o’clock tonight.” At that moment, it was somewhere around noon.

And with that, two 13-year-old boys who were more like brothers than best friends began to get into it like siblings.

“It is too Christmas Eve!” I said, my voice rising. “It’s Dec. 24. That’s Christmas Eve.”

“It’s not Christmas Eve all of Dec. 24,” Glenn countered. “Christmas Eve starts at 6 p.m.”

The car had not even left the driveway, and the kids were at each other’s throats. It was going to be a long day at the mall.

“Christmas Eve does not start at 6 o’clock,” I insisted, my voice going up another couple decibels. “It starts at midnight on Dec. 24. It’s 24 hours, just like every other day. It’s Christmas Eve right now!”

“No it’s not!” Glenn shot back.

The wheels were starting to move, but the car was still in the driveway.

“Yes it is!” I said, my frustration level rising along with the decibels. “It’s been Christmas Eve since midnight!”

“No it hasn’t!” Glenn said, his decibel level now matching mine. “Not until 6!”

There was no reaching this individual. It was like trying to reason with a potted plant – and he probably felt the exact same way.

“OK,” I snapped, “if it’s not Christmas Eve right now, then what is it?”

“Dec. 24,” Glenn answered matter-of-factly.

“That’s Christmas Eve!” I snarled at him. “It’s the same thing, Dec. 24 is Christmas Eve. If you think Christmas Eve doesn’t start until 6 o’clock, YOU’RE STUPID!!”

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.

The wheels, almost at the road by now, suddenly stopped, and Dad’s angry voice shot into the backseat: “Don’t you EVER talk that way to somebody again!! That’s embarrassing!!” He was as upset with me as I’d heard him in a long time. I was pretty sure Christmas Eve – or whatever it was – was over for me in 1981. Then Dad added: “Glenn is your friend, apologize to him right now or you’re staying home!”

I knew Dad wasn’t kidding, so I mustered up a barely audible “sorry” through gritted teeth. Christmas 1981 was back on again.

For the record, I still stand by my original position of 44 years ago: Christmas Eve begins at midnight Dec. 24.

But don’t waste your time arguing with me. I’m not allowed.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.